Never had she thought it would end like this. Not in her most terrifying dreams. Not in her most horrifying nightmares. The darkest anxieties of her fear-laden mind could never have conjured such a violent scene. As much as she wanted to, as much as she needed to, Mary couldn’t tear her eyes from the gruesomeness unfolding before her. The pain she felt was almost physical, would have brought her to her knees had it not been for her accompanying friends. She leaned heavily on their arms, drawing from their strength. She’d never forget this sight. The savagery. The barbarity. The injustice. Her memory would forever echo with the roaring jeers of the hateful crowd punctuated by the angry thud of hammers brutally slamming into spikes. Death spikes. Nails, they called them. Penetrating iron rods driven through the hands and feet of her Savior, her Son. His face, swollen and bruised from abuse and streaming blood from the blasphemous crown of thorns, indelibly etched itself in her memory. His words, relinquishing the care of His beloved mother into the hands of His beloved friend, resounded like the permanent closing of a door, the irreversible alteration of her life, the final, inevitable physical separation between her precious Child and herself. It was far too soon. (John 18: 19-24, 19:1-27; Matthew 26:67, 27:27-29; Luke 22:63-23:46; Mark 14:53-65, 15:1-37)
She hadn’t been warned it would be like this. Not once. When Gabriel appeared to the much younger Mary more than thirty years prior, calling her by name and honoring her with the opportunity to bear God’s Son, he hadn’t said anything about an abusive pummelling, a bruised body, a bloody face. She would absolutely remember if he had. He hadn’t. He’d called her blessed. Said there would miraculously be a baby. Instructed her to name Him Jesus. Stated He would be great, the Son of the Most High. He spoke of a kingdom and ruling and reigning. Yet not one word in the entirety of their holy conversation had been uttered about this. Gabriel hadn’t prepared her for this moment. The moment when life as she knew it would cease to exist. If Gabriel had known, he hadn’t told her.
Admittedly, Mary hadn’t asked, either. Surrounded by the warm glow of being chosen from thousands of girls to be the one mother of the one Son of the one God, few questions had made it through the astonished haze to cross her lips. She hadn’t considered how He would become King. She gave no thought to what saving the world would entail. She couldn’t think beyond the muddle of emotions that flooded her heart, couldn’t organize the thoughts swirling around in her brain. Her Son. Jesus. Savior of the world. It was a moment she’d never forget. (Luke 1:26-38)
Not once had she regretted surrendering herself to be God’s servant. As the child had grown beneath her heart, her heart had grown with love for Him. Maternal love. Protective love. Unfailing love. Greater love than she had ever known existed. Love that would outrun the wildest beast, outlast the longest standoff, outmaneuver the slyest predator. Love that would do everything, suffer anything, to protect her Son. She’d have done anything to save Him from this. Barged into Pilate’s hall demanding His release. Charged forward to assault and disarm the soldiers abusing her Boy. Proclaimed His position in the temple, spoke of His authority in the marketplace, shouted His true lineage from the rooftops, and caused a ruckus outside the Sanhedrin court. She’d have done anything, done everything, formed an elaborate plan to save her Son from this cruel atrocity. If only she’d known.
Yet here she stood, flanked on either side by two other Mary’s. Women who also loved her Son. Women who knew Him to be the Savior of the world. Women who were just as blindsided by this unsettling turn of events as she was. Women she needed for support, both physical and emotional. She leaned heavily on their arms. Tears overflowed her eyes, running unheeded down her face to drip off her chin. Her stomach rolled and clenched. Her knees shook. Her throat ached with the force of a withheld sob. Her heart broke. Shattered. Splintered. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Not for her. Not for Him. Not for anyone. Children weren’t supposed to die before their parents. Mothers weren’t supposed to stand helplessly by, watching it happen. No one was supposed to be left with so many questions. What about the prophecy? What about the promise? What about her Son being their Savior? Who would save them if He was dead? Where was His Father? Where were the angels? Why weren’t they doing something? Anything? Had she missed an instruction? Had she done something wrong? Was this somehow her fault? Could she stop it? Could she change it? Was she supposed to try? Her mind ricocheted from question to question with no answers forthcoming. None of this made sense. None of it seemed right. No one had told her she’d be standing at the foot of a wretchedly, rough-hewn cross, watching her Son, the Savior of the world, die an agonizing death. No one had ever told her this is how true love looks.
When He was a toddler, love looked like chubby arms around her neck and slobbery kisses on her cheeks. As a child, love looked like handfuls of wilted flowers collected from the field and presented with pride. As a teen, love presented itself in respect, honor and care. The lifting of the heavy water bucket. The carrying of wood. The collecting of eggs so she wouldn’t have to. Her heart swelled with joy as she watched His love spread its focus to encompass those around Him. Offering help to the widow across the street. Playing ball with the orphans down the road. Taking food to the homeless encampment. He was a good Boy who loved people and lived like it.
Three years ago, as He’d begun His heavenly ministry on earth, she’d been blessed to watch the thread of love that ran through every miracle, every sermon, every human interaction. Water silently turned to wine, keeping the wedding host from embarrassment. Lepers quietly cleansed, reuniting them with family and friends. Dead brought to life, restoring joy to the mourners. Demons eradicated, making room for the Prince of Peace. Sins forgiven, clearing the way for righteousness. The spiritually dead raised to spiritual life because Jesus, in love, was willing to preach the truth without caveat, without hesitation, without alteration. He loved people too much to do anything less. He loved them too much to let them die in their sins, so He died for them, instead. (John 2:1-11; Matthew 8:1-4; Matthew 9:23-26; Luke 4:33-35; John 4:1-26)
As Mary stood there, gazing up at her Son in His final moments, it surely all became clear. God’s kingdom would not be bought in an atrocious war on a blood-saturated battlefield. It would not be built on a pile of defeated carcasses. It would not be announced with the savage cry of a warrior and the clank of his sword. No. The kingdom of God would be purchased with the sweat and blood of Jesus Christ. Her Son. God’s Son. The Savior of the world. Bludgeoned and brutalized. Nailed to a cross. Arms outstretched to encompass every sin that would ever be committed by every single ungrateful, unworthy scrap of humanity. And, no matter how much and how well she’d loved in her lifetime, Mary finally realized, this is how true love looks. Suffering Servant. Sacred Sacrifice. Sufficient Savior. For you. For me. For everyone who comes to Him in repentance and faith. Yes. Yes! Christ was born for this. (Isaiah 52:14; Hebrews 10:10-12; I John 2:2; Mark 1:15; I Peter 2:24)
Born to walk the humble roads of earth visiting mercy and miracles on the marginalized members of society. Born to teach unrelenting truth in the face of egregious error. Born to die so those dead in their trespasses and sins could be resurrected to life everlasting. Born to save His people, all people, from their sins. Born to lose His life that we might find ours. Yes, friend. Christ was born for this. (Matthew 10:39)
As you gaze at depictions of the Babe in the manger, surrounded by His mother, Joseph, a handful of mismatched animals and a group of disheveled shepherds, don’t forget the suffering Servant. As your heart warms at the pleasant scene of a mother gazing fondly down at her Child, don’t forget the sacred sacrifice. As you imagine the love Mary felt for the Babe God lent her for such a short time, don’t forget the Man on the cross didn’t come to live, He came to die. For you. For me. Painfully. Brutally. Innocently. Jesus gave up everything that we might gain the one thing worth more than anything–eternal life. In all the definitions of love buzzing around our world today, remember this moment with Mary. Remember her Son, our Savior, dying a barbarous death on a torturous cross. Remember His pain. Remember His suffering. Remember it was all for you. Because He loves you. And that, friend, is how true love looks. (John 3:16, 15:13; I John 3:16, 4:10; Romans 5:6-11)
Amen