This morning as I reflect on the death of Jesus my eyes see this day from a different perspective. Today I am seeing his death from the perspective of one of the spectators in the crowd. This disciple followed each step of the man who traveled the Via Dolorosa. This onlooker witnessed the senseless scourging, the brutal crucifixion, his imminent death, and the abuse of his corpse.
Today I see the pain from the eyes of his mom.
It has not been that long ago that I held my son’s dead body in my arms. I am still haunted by that night in my thoughts and in my sleep. But my son he wasn’t betrayed. He wasn’t beaten. He wasn’t mocked. He wasn’t nailed to a cross like a criminal. My son died in his sleep. Mary’s son didn’t. My son died peacefully. In a way, her’s did too.
Jesus possessed enough power in his whisper to put an end to it all. Yet, he resigned. He surrendered. He died.
I weep with Mary for what she had to see that day.
I wonder how one woman could even physically endure such a day- the day of the death of the son she bore. The day her son took on the sins of the world.
I suppose Mary endured that day the same way I have. I believe it is not the end. I believe on the other side of death there is life. I believe there is life for my son because Mary’s son made the way.
For God’s will was for us to be made holy by the sacrifice of the body of Jesus Christ, once for all time. Heb. 10:10
They all joined together constantly in prayer, along with the women and Mary the mother of Jesus, and with his brothers. Acts 1:14