MARY'S SWORD

Scripture John 19: 25-27
Mary stares at the cross, it blurs in a teary mist and seems like the hilt of a sword plunged into the heart of the earth. As she ponders the image, the cryptic words of Simeon, spoken at Jesus' birth come rushing back to her:

"This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many will be revealed. And a sword shall pierce your own soul too."

As the cross comes into focus again, it dawns on her: So this is the sword.

It is something every mother fears...losing a child. That fear has haunted her ever since Simeon's foreboding words. Then there was the terror of Herod's assassination plot on the baby. And the Suffering Servant prophecy in Isaiah has always troubled her. It was as if Death had perched on Jesus' crib since his birth, casting its dark shadow as a reminder that one day the boy would be his.

Deep down inside, Mary knew that Jesus was a child born to die. He would not grow up to be a doctor or a lawyer or a rabbi. He would not marry or give her grandchildren to carry on the family name. She's known this for a long time now and had buried it in her heart.

In pools of tears swim a few tender memories. His birth in that cold, dark stable in Bethlehem. How he shivered as she held him for the first time, so tiny and helpless. How her breast warmed him. How her song lulled him to sleep. And how, when she kissed his forehead, he looked so peaceful, without a care in the world.

The cross comes into focus again, and she sees crude, hunched-over men gambling their souls away as the cast lots for his clothes. She looks up at her son and aches. He is naked, and there is no one to warm him. He is thirsty, and there is no one to wet his lips. He is tired, and there is no one to sing him to sleep. His forehead is wrinkled in agony, and there is no one to kiss it, no one to mop his care-ridden brow.

"What did my baby ever do to deserve this?" Again her eyes blur. another memory floats by. And another. She remembers his first word. She remembers his first step. She remembers how he used to love to help her bake, and how she would pull off a portion of fresh bread, dip it in honey, and, give it to him. She remembers how it made her little boy smile and his eyes sparkle.

"What did my little boy ever do to deserve this?" she remembers when he was twelve and already about his Father's business at the temple in Jerusalem. She distinctly remembers thinking, "He's not my little boy anymore."

A mother's love, that's why she is there. A Savior's love, that's why he is.



Andre L. Burton
Former, USA East
Greater New York Division