I have never known a mother whose son was executed, much less a mother whose son was executed despite being provably innocent. Though I can’t ask, I have sometimes wondered: Is it typical for a mother to attend her son’s execution?
Under such circumstances, would most mothers prefer to be there or would they prefer to be anywhere but there? And what if that execution was as drawn out, as humiliating, and as agonizing as a crucifixion? How could any mother bear to see her son so brutally mistreated—blood flowing, chest heaving, body trembling with the pain of it all? But then, how could any mother know her son was suffering so deeply, yet not be there to speak her words of comfort and reassurance, to be near him to the very end? Of all those who gathered around Jesus’ cross that day, surely no one’s pain was greater than Mary’s, for none of them loved Jesus more than his mother.
I can barely bring myself to picture Mary as she stood before the cross—or as she knelt in grief or collapsed in distress. But as I do my best, I can’t imagine she felt in that moment the way we feel about the cross today. I can’t imagine she said in that moment the things we say about it when we gather together on Sundays. When she surveyed that cross, did she, like Wesley, judge it wondrous? Did she, like Watts, think it dear? Did she, like Bowring , or like Crosby, pray for God to bring its scenes before her so her memories of it would also be fresh? Did she love, cherish, and cling to that old rugged cross? Surely not.
It is right that we thank God for the cross and good that we praise him for it. It is appropriate that we proclaim it as the greatest of all manifestations of the love and wisdom of God. But I very much doubt it looked that way to Mary. I very much doubt Mary looked up to Jesus as he hung on the cross and praised God for his wisdom, or that she thanked God for the blood of his Son (who was, of course, equally her son). I doubt God expected her to.
That’s not to say that Mary accused God of treating Jesus unjustly or that she rebelled against him in any way. That’s not to say that she harbored resentment or submitted to God any less in the death of her son than she had in his conception, birth, and public ministry. It’s just to say that it must have been difficult for her to believe in the wisdom of God in that moment. Though God was accomplishing something wondrous beyond comprehension, surely all she could see in that moment was her son’s pain and surely all she could feel in that moment was the agony of losing her precious child. She was, after all, only human and subject to all the weaknesses and limitations of a human.
I can barely bring myself to picture Mary as she stood before the cross, but I love to picture Mary just a short time later. Her grief must have been intense in the day that elapsed between what we now call Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Her senses must have been overwhelmed, her body exhausted by grief, her brain in a fog. I doubt she slept a wink in that time and I doubt she was at her very best as the news began to filter in: “the other Mary saw an angel who said Jesus has risen!” “Peter and John verified that his body is gone!” “Mary now says she spoke to Jesus—real, alive, resurrected!” I don’t know if Mary believed it at first or not. I don’t know if she was quicker than others to bring to mind what Jesus had promised—that he would die, but also that he would rise again.
But surely in the moment she actually saw him, she experienced what every mother would experience were her formerly deceased son suddenly before her—shouts of disbelief, screams of joy, and the need to touch him, to hug him, to kiss him, to make sure it was all real and not just some cruel dream. And maybe as her mind adjusted and her senses returned, maybe then she was ready to judge the cross wondrous, to proclaim it dear, and to glory in it. Maybe then she was ready to cherish it and to cling to it forever. Maybe then, when what she had been forced to take by faith had at last become sight, maybe then she was ready to take up the song that will be ours for all the ages—a song of praise to God for his wisdom and a song of praise to Jesus for his willingness to do for us what we could never do for ourselves.
And just like Mary, the day will come when our faith will become sight. The day will come when the crosses that stand before us will be seen to have achieved God’s purpose just as much as the one that stood before her. The day will come when we, too, will see Jesus, and when we, too, will come to understand that the most difficult providences were ultimately for our good just as much as the most desirable, and that the hard times displayed his goodness just as much as the good times. And when all becomes clear, we will join the song she has already taken up. Together we will praise God and proclaim his goodness, his grace, his mercy, his kindness, and his never-ending love.
