At the cross

Adapted chapter from Mary, the Mother of Jesus
By Wendy Virgo

A few days ago he had ridden into the city on a donkey to shouts of ‘Hosanna!’ Crowds had thronged the street waving palm-branches and had flung their cloaks in the road for the donkey to step on. It was like welcoming a conquering hero!

 

I had been waiting for this to happen all his life, believing that one day he would emerge from obscurity onto the centre stage and take his rightful place as King.

Arrested

Then I heard that on Thursday night he was arrested. Jesus and the Twelve had eaten the Passover together and then gone to a garden called Gethsemane. Roman soldiers had burst in and hauled Jesus off to the High Priest’s palace. He was dragged before a hastily convened meeting of the Sanhedrin who condemned him to death on the grounds of blasphemy and sent him to the Roman Governor. Pilate, reluctant to embroil himself in what he saw as a local and cultural issue, sent Jesus back to Jewish authority, this time to King Herod, the governor of Galilee who happened to be in Jerusalem. Herod was fascinated by Jesus and questioned him at some length, but Jesus said nothing. So he was sent back to Pilate.

A crowd gathered in the square outside the praetorium and Pilate offered to release to them one of two prisoners: Jesus or a convicted murderer called Barabbas. The fickle crowd now seemed to have adopted Barabbas as their hero and shouted his name. Pilate asked,

‘What shall I do with Jesus of Nazareth?’

‘Crucify him!’

I stood as one turned to stone, numb with horror. Crucifixion was reserved for the worst felon, the most savage form of slow death that depraved minds could devise. Why should they hate him so? I tried to find him. There were people everywhere, pushing and shouting. It was all so different from the happy atmosphere a few days ago. Now there was an angry mood, people shouting aggressively and stirring up a frenzy of blood-lust.

Humiliated

And then I saw this tattered object stumbling up the steep stony street. A crude crown of brambles with wickedly long thorns had been crazily rammed onto his head, and tufts of beard had been pulled out, leaving raw patches. His robe was soaked with blood, and over his shoulder was a huge beam of wood that weighed him down and thumped along on the ground behind him. I was looking for my strong, noble son. I expected to see him walking calmly, dignified in the face of this indignity, this outrageous injustice. There was still time for him to declare himself! Then, as he drew near, I realised with a sort of shocked wonder that this broken, bleeding thing, so full of pain, so humiliated, was none other than my son!

We were swept along with the crowd to the place of execution outside the city wall known as Calvary. Two crosses were already set up with criminals fastened on to them.

Surrounded by a raucous, contemptuous mob, we stood there, a little distance from the three crosses. I remember John holding my arm tightly and saying, ‘Mary, you don’t have to see this. Let me take you away.’ I shook my head speechlessly. I could not look, but I could not leave.

And now the sky was thick with dark clouds and a chill wind was whipping around. I heard the ringing clink of iron on iron, and heard the soldiers grunting and heaving as they hauled the horrible cross upright. There was a nasty ‘clunk’ as it fell into place. I shuddered, imagining how that must have jolted his poor battered body.

Crucified

The other two criminals were shrieking and cursing, bystanders were yelling abuse, soldiers were shouting orders; and others who loved him and believed in him were there too, weeping as though their hearts would break. Suddenly, above it all came a voice I knew so well.

‘Father! Forgive them! They don’t know what they are doing!’

The horror of it all swept over me; the unutterable pain he was enduring, the humiliation of hanging there totally exposed, the hateful jeering of the onlookers, the indifference of the Roman soldiers callously gambling for his garments with dice, the blood, the moans from the two robbers; all mingling with the grief of shattered dreams, the despair of dead hopes.

Faintly I heard a conversation between Jesus and the others being crucified. One was mocking him, calling on him to save them. The other rebuked the mocker, saying that they deserved their punishment, but Jesus had done nothing wrong. Then I heard Jesus say, ‘Today you will be with me in paradise.’

Still I couldn’t look. I pulled my veil down over my face and stood in utter misery, tears dripping down, as scenes from his short life flashed through my mind. Those hands, once so soft and tiny which I had held and guided to hold a spoon and tie shoe-laces; that had grown strong and skilful with the lathe and chisel; that had been laid on sick people and made them well – now gashed and splintered, with big nails bashed through them. I couldn’t look.

Those feet that used to kick above his head in the little crib, that ran around the paths and hillsides of Nazareth, that walked mile upon weary mile getting sore and blistered as he preached in Judea and Galilee, now also nailed and bound to the cross.

I heard him draw breath after rasping breath, struggling to get the air into his lungs that were labouring to work in that unnatural position, so that he was continually forced to push himself up in order to suck in some air, and to shudder and groan with the pressure on his tortured arms wrenched nearly out of their sockets. I tried telling myself it was all a terrible dream. How could I look? I couldn’t.

Into my dark misery came his voice. Hoarsely, with a throat parched and dry, he said, ‘Woman.’ Gently John led me nearer to that dreadful thing. ‘Woman, behold your son.’ The words came thickly, slowly, painfully. Then to John he said, ‘Son, behold your mother.’ I was speechless that at such a moment his thoughts were for me. Me! He knew that as the mother of a crucified one, I might suffer shame and loss. So he consigned me to the care of this beloved disciple.

The Sacrifice

Overcome with gratitude, I pulled the veil from my face. I looked. I looked at him on the cross. I kept on looking. I saw, not a baby, not a man, not my son. I saw a lamb, slain as a sacrifice for sins. And I heard again the angel say, ‘He shall be called Jesus for he shall save his people from their sins.’ Not from Roman oppression, not from the dislocation of human affairs, not even only from their sicknesses. From their sins. A lamb, helpless, vulnerable, weak; yet innocent, unblemished, perfect. A lamb acceptable to the Holy One of Israel.

Isaiah’s prophecy came with insistent clarity into my mind: ‘He was led as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is dumb, so he did not open his mouth. All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way. And the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.’

Before, all I could see was human tragedy, pain, injustice and cruelty. But now, I was beginning to see another side; God’s side. I was seeing God’s answer to the sin of the world that had separated him from the objects of his love. There had to be a sacrifice. God had provided the Lamb! This was the plan. And now he was being offered up outside the city, paying for sin, even mine, that I might be reconciled to God.

I was shaken to the core. I had known his love as a son loves a mother – precious human love. But this was something that totally eclipsed it – the love of God that values individual human beings so much that he would send his only Son to die, so that whoever believes in him should not perish but receive eternal life. This was divine love. I stood there in front of the cross looking up, not just at my son, but at the Saviour of the world, and light flooded my soul.

But now the sky grew black and a strange dread came over the watching people. There was a subdued hush. No bird sang, no voice was heard, just the eerie rasping, gasping breathing of the victims on the crosses. It was a darkness that could be felt.

A streak of lightning lit the sky, followed by a crash of thunder. The ensuing darkness seemed thick and suffocating. Suddenly came a great heart-wrenching cry, the most terrible thing I had ever heard: ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ It seemed to echo in the silence that followed. In horror I shrank down on my knees: something of vast cosmic significance was taking place.

Then I heard a sigh from the cross. ‘I’m thirsty.’ One soldier dipped a sponge in vinegary wine and held it up to Jesus’ mouth on a stick. Having moistened his mouth sufficiently, he said loudly and clearly, ‘It is finished!’

Then he died.

John led me away. The voice of Jesus as a boy was running through my head, saying, ‘Do you not know I must be doing my Father’s business?’ All his life and all his death he had faithfully carried out the Father’s business. Now it was done.

Material for this article is taken from Mary, Mother of Jesus by Wendy Virgo.

This book is currently out of print.