Last night, I preached on one of the Seven Last Words at University Church's Good Friday Service.
John 19: 26-27--When Jesus
saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to
his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then he said to the
disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into
his own home.
This is not
what she dreamed for her child.
Thirty-three years ago, an angel had told her that she would bear a
child who would be called Son of the Most High, heir to David’s throne, the
long-awaited Messiah! From the
moment of his birth, she began to imagine what life would be like for him, all
the great things that he would do, how he would lead their people out of
occupation and oppression, the kingdom he would bring. She treasured these dreams in her
heart.
As he was
growing up, she did everything in her power to prepare him for his
destiny: she made sure that he
went to temple every Sabbath to learn from the rabbis. She told him the stories that bound and
defined their community. She sang
to him, songs of exile and unity, of mourning and celebration. She watched him grow into an
intelligent, compassionate, wise man.
Guided by her dreams, she called him to his ministry at a wedding in
Canaa.
And such a
ministry! She heard about the
miracles he performed, about the crowds that congregated to hear his sermons
and witnessed his fame spread exponentially. At the beginning of Passover, she saw how the crowds
welcomed her son into Jerusalem—rejoicing as they would for a king! The prophecies of old were being
fulfilled in her own baby boy, and the dreams that she treasured in her heart
were finally coming true. The
next, and last, time she sees her son, he is being crucified—condemned by both
the Roman Empire and the Jewish community for treason.
What does it
mean to be the mother of a guilty man?
Christians claim that Jesus was sinless, but we cannot claim that he was
innocent. Jesus was a criminal,
guilty of the charges leveled against him: sedition, treason, and incitement. He was granted a trial, convicted according to the law, and
his sentence decided by his peers.
The crucifixion is almost impossible to read, and we often dull its
impact by deifying Jesus and justifying it with complex legal language. Someone
had to pay for our sins—our crimes against God’s law—and so our guilt was
imputed to Christ. He bore the
punishment that we deserve—a task only God could take on. Whether or not the laws he broke were
just, our divine savior pays for his crimes and for all of ours—guilty as
charged. God chose to come and suffer with us, it had to be done in order to
forgive the sins of the world, he’ll rise again in three days. Perhaps. But in this moment, Jesus is a son, a
brother, a friend. His suffering and death is deeply felt by the mother who
loves him and watches him slowly succumb to unimaginable torture. Mary’s presence at the cross reminds us
of Jesus’ humanity and that his death is not suffered alone.
What does it
mean to be the mother of a guilty man?
It’s a pain that even Jesus could not ease. In this passage, Jesus sees his mother and tries to comfort
her, telling one of his disciples to welcome her into his own family, trying
desperately to make this better, to make it bearable, but it’s impossible. Mary
saw her child being lashed with a lead-tipped whip, saw him being forced on a
death-march through a crowded street, watched Roman soldiers lash him to a
cross and raise it up on the scorching rock of Golgotha. She watched his lips dry and chap,
listened to his voice become raspier and his moans of pain grow fainter. She saw her people mock her little boy,
loudly denounce his teachings, curse him and his family. She stood in the open, an object of the
community’s spite just as her son was.
And she doesn’t turn away.
I imagine Mary pleading with the crowd to give Jesus some water, begging
the soldiers to give her his clothes, weeping with sorrow and relief when it’s
finally finished and her son is free from the pain and humiliation. She does not abandon her son, even when
all her dreams and visions are destroyed.
What does it
mean to be the mother of a guilty man?
Mary is usually compared to the mothers of martyrs and innocents who
have suffered and died for their righteous actions—an analogy that is both
powerful and apt. But she is also
the mother of a criminal who reminds us that all suffering is suffering and
that our communities are harmed by the prejudice we hold towards the
guilty. Offender’s guilt condemns
them to the torture of the American prison system, an institution that we can
all agree is deeply flawed.
Some are subject to deportation—irreparably torn from their
families. Some are condemned to
death. They are all ostracized
from their communities, and even if they are released they will never be fully
reintegrated into society. Their
voting rights will be stripped away, they won’t be hired for decent-wage jobs,
and they are ineligible for state-sponsored economic support. They suffer.
These
offenders are likely guilty of the crimes for which the State convicted
them—just as Jesus was. I don’t
think anyone believes that our maximum security prisons are filled with
innocent people. And it’s true
that there must be payment for one’s crimes. As such, it’s often difficult for us to extend our
compassion to offenders and perpetrators, especially those whom the law deems
worthy of the worst punishments.
Last weekend, 36 people were shot in Chicago, 4 were killed. Each of these victims was someone’s
child, someone’s sibling, someone’s friend—and so were the shooters But we don’t advocate for the
gangbangers, the murderers, or the terrorists. We don’t ask for their suffering in prison to be
relieved or for their families to be supported in their loss. We forget that these individuals
are also beloved children of God, made in the Creator’s image just as we
are. We forget that they are
members of our communities and as such we owe them the opportunity for
restoration and transformation. Mary calls us to remember.
What does it
mean to be the mother of a guilty man?
Earlier this year I met an amazing woman, I’ll call her Juanita here,
through my work at the Southwest Organizing Project. Juanita told me a story that is eerily similar to
Mary’s. She and her husband gave
birth to their first son, Marcos, here in the United States almost 20 years
ago, only a few months after they had made the dangerous journey across the
border. She and her husband
encouraged Marcos’ interests: football and music, and made sure that he passed
all of his classes. Juanita looked
forward to seeing her baby boy graduate, attend college, and raise a
family. But in high school his
grades began to fall, he lost interest in sports and he began to flout her
authority. One night, she got the
call that her son had been arrested for assault with a deadly weapon; he was caught with other members of his
gang. After four years in prison,
Juanita welcomed Marcos home. He
searched for a job, but no one would hire a convicted felon; he grew restless
and angry. Six months ago, Marcos
left home—Juanita knows that he’s living with other members of his gang. This is not what she dreamed for her
child.
Without Juanita’s story, would we give Marcos
a second thought? Would we be able to sympathize with him, to see his
suffering? Would we be able to
recognize him as a beloved child of God? Mary is seen today in mothers like
Juanita, who call us to extend compassion to all of our brothers and
sisters. Mary’s presence at the
cross humanizes Jesus and shows us that suffering is suffering, whether or not
an individual is innocent.
