“May the Lord open your eyes and ears to the truth.” Mary covered her head with her prayer shawl and wept.
Mary slept fitfully, dreaming of Jesus in the Temple. He was crying and raising his hands to heaven as men shouted in anger around him. She awakened, her heart pounding wildly. The room was dark. She rose and went to stand outside, wondering if it was only her imagination that made her think she heard angry voices in the distance.
All was silent.
Yet, the sense of oppression increased.
Where was her son? Surely, a mother sensed when something was terribly wrong. She was afraid. Oh, Lord, why will you not speak to me as you did to Joseph? She covered her face. Who was she to make demands upon God? She should have gone with Jesus the day he left Nazareth. She should have walked down that hill with him and never left his side. She should have left James and Joseph, Simon and Jude, and her daughters and their husbands in the hands of God, rather than trying to convince them Jesus was the long-awaited Messiah.
Oh, Lord, don’t let it be too late. Help me find him.
Dressing quickly, she went out. She headed for the Temple, praying with every step that God would bring her alongside her son again. When she came up the Temple mount, a man ran by her, weeping loudly. She turned sharply, for she thought she recognized him. He was one of Jesus’ disciples.
“Judas!” She called out, retracing her steps. “Judas! Where is my son?”
He fled into the darkness.
Mary found a man dozing against one of the huge pillars of the Temple. When she asked him if he knew where Jesus was, he yawned and said, “They took him last night from the Mount of Olives.”
Her heart raced in fear. “Who took him?”
“They all went up after him: the leading priests, the other leaders, and a Roman cohort. They took him to Caiaphas and have been giving testimony against him all night. They took him to Pontius Pilate a little while ago.”
“But why?”
“Because they hate him and want him executed.” The man raised his head, his black eyes boring into her. “The Law requires that a blasphemer be stoned to death, doesn’t it? And since we no longer have the authority to kill our own, we must plead Roman indulgence to do it.”
Mary drew back from him. She had seen him before, but where? How long ago?
The man stood slowly, the movement reminding her of a snake uncoiling. “They will kill him, Mary.”
Her body went cold. “No.” She drew back farther. “No, they won’t. He’s God’s Anointed One. He is the Messiah.”
“He is the great I Am,” the dark man mocked. “And he is going to die.”
“Jesus’ disciples will stand with him.”
“His disciples?” The man threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing in the Temple. He looked at her again with a feral grin. “They all deserted him. They’ve run like rabbits and gone underground into their warrens.”
“I don’t believe you.” She shook her head, backing away from him. “I won’t believe you!”
“Jesus stands alone. Go see for yourself. Go and watch the work of my hands.”
As she fled, she heard his laughter.
A throng was gathered before the judgment seat of Rome. Mary saw the Pharisees clustered together like black crows near the front, talking among themselves. Pilate was sitting on the judgment seat, speaking with one of his officers. He waved his hand impatiently and the doors were opened. Mary drew in a sharp gasp when she saw her son and another man hauled forward. Jesus’ face was battered and bruised, his mouth bleeding. He stood looking out at his people, his wrists chained together like a criminal. Sobbing, Mary tried to push her way through to him, but was shoved back. “Jesus!”
Pilate spoke loudly to the multitude, explaining that it was the Roman custom to show clemency to one prisoner of their choice during the festival season.
“Which one do you want me to release to you—Barabbas, or Jesus who is called the Messiah?” The guard nearest the governor leaned toward him in protest, for Barabbas was a notorious Zealot and enemy of Rome who had ambushed and slain Roman soldiers.
The crowd cried out, “Barabbas!”
“Jesus!” Mary cried out.
“Barabbas! Barabbas!” others shouted.
“Jesus! Jesus!”
An officer came out to Pilate and whispered in his ear. The governor frowned heavily and looked at Jesus.
The leading priests and other leaders turned to the crowd, moving among them. “Jesus is a blasphemer. Will you let him live? You know what the Law requires, what God demands.”
“Barabbas!”
Pilate waved the officer away and stood, holding his hands out for silence. “Which of these two do you want me to release to you?”
“Barabbas!” They wanted violence and bloodshed. They wanted rebellion and hatred against Rome. “Barabbas!”
Pilate held out his hand toward Jesus. “But if I release Barabbas, what should I do with Jesus who is called the Messiah?”
“Crucify him!”
“Why? What crime has he committed?”
“Crucify him! Crucify him! Crucify him!” The multitude was turning into an angry mob, and Roman soldiers moved into position, waiting for Pilate’s command to disperse them. But he didn’t. He motioned for his slave, who carried a bowl of water to him. Then the Roman governor washed his hands, mocking the assembly of Jews who took such pains to remain clean. Drying his hands, he called out, “I am innocent of the blood of this man. The responsibility is yours!”
And Mary heard those around her cry out angrily, “We will take responsibility for his death—we and our children!”
“No! Don’t do this!” Mary sobbed. She reached out toward Jesus as the Roman guards turned him roughly away.
The angry crowd milled around, waiting to see the crucifixion, cheering when the doors were opened again and Jesus and two others were ushered out by Roman guards. Mary felt the blood drain from her face, and her chest tighten with anguish. A crown of thorns had been shoved down on his head, causing rivulets of blood to run down his face. His face was ashen with suffering; his back was bent over beneath the weight of the cross he dragged down the steps.
“Blasphemer!” People spit on him as he passed, their faces twisted and grotesque with hate. “Blasphemer!”
“Jesus!” Mary cried out, and saw her son tilt his head slightly. He looked straight at her, his eyes filled with compassion and sorrow. “Jesus,” she sobbed and tried again to get closer to him, to reach out to him through the crowd. He passed by, whipped by the Roman guard when he stumbled and fell to his knee and struggled to rise again, and jeered by the mob eager to see him suffer and die.
“This can’t be happening,” Mary rasped. “This can’t be happening . . .” She tried to keep pace with him, pushing her way through the throng that lined the street. She wanted her son to know she was there, that she loved him, that she would not turn away. “Jesus!” She cried out again and again, knowing he would hear her voice.
They took him outside the walls of Jerusalem to a place called Golgotha, near the main highway for all to see. The hill was in the shape of a human skull. Another man had shouldered Jesus’ cross and was shoved aside after dropping it on the ground. A Roman guard gripped Jesus’ shoulder and flung him to the ground. Another leaned down and offered him something to drink, but Jesus turned his face away. Two guards stripped off his garment and cast it aside. They took him by the arms and jerked him on the cross, lashing his arms tightly to the beams with leather straps.
One of the other two men who were being executed was screaming as a guard drove nails through his wrists. “I don’t want to die!” The other cried. “I don’t want to . . .” He fought the guards, struggling violently and screaming as he was nailed to his cross.
Shaking, Mary moved through the crowd to the front, for those around her were less eager now to draw close. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird as she saw a Roman guard raise a hammer in the air and bring
it down. Jesus’ body arched as he cried out, his feet drawing up. Sobbing, she fell to her knees. Three more times the guard hammered the nail through Jesus’ palm, and each time, Mary’s body jerked at the sound of her son’s cries. Then the guard stepped over Jesus to secure his other hand while another hammered a spike through his feet.
Ropes and pulleys were used to raise the cross. Mary felt faint as she heard the hard >thunk as it dropped into the hole. Pieces of wood were hammered in to wedge the cross into place and then the ropes yanked free. Every movement etched the agony deeper into her son’s face.
And Mary would not take her eyes away from him. She clasped her hands. Oh, Lord, you will come now and save him. You won’t let him die. He’s your Son. He’s the Anointed One. He’s our Messiah!
A Roman guard leaned a ladder against Jesus’ cross and climbed up to hang a sign that said “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.” Immediately, the leading priests began shouting angrily, “Take it down! He’s not our king! He’s a false prophet!”
“It hangs by order of Pontius Pilate,” a Roman guard said, drawing his sword when several men started up the hill toward the cross. They backed down.
The great mass of people turned to walk away, heads down. But many remained to gloat. Some hurled abuse at Jesus, wagging their heads. “So! You can destroy the Temple and build it again in three days, can you? Well then, if you are the Son of God, save yourself and come down from the cross!”
“He saved others, but he can’t save himself!” someone shouted mockingly.
“So he is the king of Israel, is he?” a priest called out. “Let him come down from the cross, and we will believe in him!” He shoved his hands into his priestly garb and stared, his face hard.
Mary shuddered at the laughter, her mother’s anger so fierce she would have killed them herself if she had possessed the power. And then she looked into her son’s eyes and felt the anger fall away, and confusion and sorrow fill her up to the brim as though she were a vial of tears that mourners wore around their necks.
Even one of the men crucified with Jesus cast insults.
Trembling in agony, Mary could not tear her eyes from her son. The crucified thieves were arguing with one another, and then one looked at Jesus, pleading with him. “Jesus, remember me when you come into your Kingdom.”
Jesus looked at him and smiled. “I assure you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
Mary wept silently, tears streaming hot down her cheeks. She wanted to cry out in anger against those who had done this to her son. Oh, God, why? Why?
The soldiers divided Jesus’ garments among them, and hunkered down to cast lots for the tunic she had woven for her son.
A murmur of fear went through the crowd still gathered as darkness fell over the land.
“My God,” Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Mary covered her face, her body shaking with heart-wrenching sobs as her heart cried out the same question. Why? Why? All his life, Jesus had fought and triumphed over sin. She had seen him fight the battles and win. And now, during her people’s most important celebration, her son’s blood was being spilled like that of the Passover lamb.
“This man is calling for Elijah,” a bystander said.
Someone ran up the hill with a sponge dripping with sour wine. He held it up on a reed so that Jesus could drink.
“Let’s see whether Elijah will come and take him down!” someone sneered.
Dark clouds swirled angrily overhead and the wind came up. The sun was obscured.
“Mary,” came a quiet, tentative voice. When she looked up, she saw John, the young son of Zebedee, standing nearby. “Mary,” he said again and came close, putting his arm around her. As she buried her head in his shoulder, he whispered brokenly, “I’m sorry.” He drew in a sobbing breath as she put her arms around him. She could not condemn him for running away when she had remained so long separated from her son.
John looked up at Jesus, tears streaming down his face, his chest heaving.
“Woman,” Jesus said, looking at her, “he is your son.” His gaze moved to John, his face softening even in his agony. “She is your mother.”
Mary understood that she was being entrusted to John’s care rather than that of her other sons and daughters. When John put his arm around her, she turned her face into his chest and wept harder.
“Father,” Jesus said, and Mary looked up again, hoping to see the Lord himself come down to take Jesus from the cross. “Father, forgive these people, because they don’t know what they are doing.” She saw him heaving for breath, his body sinking lower. “It is finished!” he said, his chest rising and falling. “Father, I entrust my spirit into your hands!” Having said this, his breath came out in one last, long breath, and his body relaxed.
Mary stared in disbelief, her heart breaking, her mouth open in silent denial. “No. No.”
John held her tightly.
The earth shook and people scattered. The Roman officer who was handling the executions looked up at Jesus. “Truly, this was the Son of God!”
“It’s over, Mother,” John said in a choked voice. “Come away from this place.”
“No. I won’t leave him.”
“Then I will stay with you.”
Soldiers came and broke the legs of the first man and then the second. Their screams were brief and then they gasped for breath, dying within minutes because they could no longer hold their bodies up enough to fill their lungs with air.
“This one is already dead.”
“Better to make sure.” The guard raised his spear and pierced Jesus’ side. Blood and water spilled out. “He’s dead.” They hammered out the wedges and let the cross fall. As they yanked the nails from his feet and hands, Mary approached.
One of the guards straightened, the hammer in his hand. “What do you want?”
“My son . . . my son . . .”
Grimacing, the man stepped away, going to help take down another cross.
Mary fell down on her knees at Jesus’ side and lifted his head into her lap. It began to rain, and she stroked the droplets over his face. Shifting, she sat and gathered her son closer, until the upper half of his body was in her lap, and she rocked him as she had as a child. “No,” she whispered, kissing his brow. “God said you will save us from our sins. . . .” She gently pushed his hair back and kissed him again. She cupped his cheek and ran her hand down his arm and placed it on his chest, praying to feel a faint heartbeat. There was nothing. As she held him close, rocking and rocking, she felt the warmth of his body go out of him until he was cold.
And then she knew. Her son was dead.
Raising her head, she wailed in sorrow and then screamed out the despair of all humanity. The Messiah was dead, the world left in bondage.
All around Mary danced unseen beings, gloating and prancing in pride while their master laughed and laughed.
Didn’t I tell you I would kill him? The earth is mine now, and all that is on it. I have won! Behold my power. Behold! I have won!
Mary sat on the muddy hillside, carefully removed the crown of thorns, and held her son’s head against her chest. The rain came down in sheets, drenching her. “Mary,” John said, his voice gentle. “Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus are here.”
“Who?” she said dully, looking up at two finely garbed men standing at a respectful distance. They looked like the wealthy men who were members of the Sanhedrin. Mary put her hand against Jesus’ cold face as though to protect him from them.
John knelt down and looked into her face with compassion. “Joseph has been given permission by Pilate to take your son’s body and bury him.”
Bury him? Mary stroked Jesus’ cold face. John put his hand over hers, and she looked up at him. His face was etched in grief. “Mother, it will be Sabbath soon. He needs a proper resting place.” She looked away at the gray sky and at the small groups of people still standing around. The bodies of the two thieves had alr
eady been taken away. If she didn’t give up her son now, nothing could be done for another day. “Joseph of Arimathea has offered his own tomb.”
She looked down at Jesus. The rain had washed away the blood, leaving his face white as the marble in the Temple. Leaning down, she kissed his brow as she had when he was a baby sleeping. His hair smelled of perfume. “Take him,” she whispered and spread her hands.
Nicodemus lifted him enough so that Joseph could wrap Jesus’ body in a clean linen cloth. Mary sat in the mud, watching. John put his arms around her and lifted her. “Come, Mother,” he said tenderly. “I’ll take you home with me now.”
“Where is the tomb?”
“In a garden not far from here. Joseph said it’s hewn from the rock. It’s a beautiful place with olive trees and a cistern. Jesus will rest in peace there.”
Several women came to meet them, weeping and embracing Mary. She felt so numb, so bereft of any emotion. She didn’t know what to say to them. As John led her away, she saw her sons standing together. They looked at her in shame and grief. She saw in their eyes that they expected her to reject them as they had rejected Jesus. “Oh,” she said, the tears coming hard again. She went to them, weeping and embracing each one, kissing them.
“Come with us,” John said to them, taking the place Jesus had assigned to him beside Mary. “I have a house in the city.”
As they walked away together, Mary looked back in sorrow as two men she didn’t know carried her son to a borrowed tomb.
Mary and her companions joined the disciples in an upper room. Most were too ashamed to look at Mary, for they had all run away and left Jesus. The women were not among them.
“The Magdalene and the other Mary are sitting near the tomb, waiting for the Sabbath to pass,” someone said.
“Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus have already anointed Jesus’ body with a hundred litras of myrrh and aloes and wrapped him in linen.”
Unafraid_Mary Page 13
