He'd been beaten and berated and then hung out to die. For six hours he'd
endured searing pain while stretched on a cross beneath the blazing
middle-eastern sky. While his mother watched traumatized, Jesus bled profusely, losing
vital body fluids. His tongue was noticeably swollen. His lips were parched.
And yet Jesus found the strength to speak to his close friend John who stood
near his grieving mother. "Behold your mother!" (John 19:27 NKJV) Jesus
sighed between his heaving breaths. His final words of instruction to his beloved
disciple called John to care for the carpenter's mother as is she was his.
On the cross we not only see a God who loved the world, we see a son who
loved his mother. His devotion for the one who gave him birth continued to beat
in his breaking heart until he breathed his last. Amazingly, in front of
skeptics, mockers and his executioners, Jesus used his ebbing strength to tell
her so.
There is a bond between a son and his mom that defies simple explanation.
Although Joseph had mentored Jesus in the ways of wood, his mother had
nourished him in the ways of the heart. His Jewish father passed on to Jesus the
traditions of the faith, but Mary faithfully schooled her son in the tangibles
qualities of love - tenderness, respect, courage, sensitivity and touch.
When I was an infant, my mother cuddled me with protection and sang the
songs of faith as I drifted off to sleep. When I began to grow, she baked cakes
for my birthdays. She sewed uniforms like the ones my sports heroes wore. She
allowed me to dig backyard graves in which to bury birds, butterflies and
squirrels.
As my values were being shaped, my mom helped me see treasures often hidden
beneath the dust of discarded junk in a thrift store. Her probing questions
would not allow me to live at odds with those with whom I did not get along.
My five-foot two-inch mother taught me to never look down on those less
fortunate than me and also to look up to those who had something to teach me (no
matter their stature). Her love of music taught my soul to sing. Her sense of
humor taught me how to laugh. My mother's intimate relationship with her
Heavenly Father rubbed off on me. She taught me how to pray.
When my dad nearly died a dozen years ago, I watched my little mother
agonize over the possibility of widowhood. In the hospital waiting room I proudly
observed the quiet dignity of the woman who had shaped my life and faith like
none other. As I witnessed her courage caged by fear, her hope fueled by her
faith and her undying devotion to my dad, I was overwhelmed with love. I
shared her concern for my dad's survival, but my concern for her well-being was
punctuated by my pounding heart.
It's no wonder that more long-distance calls are placed on Mothers' Day
than any other day of the year. There's a reason that when TV cameras pan
professional football players on the sidelines, they are prone to wave to their
mothers (read their lips!). Something deep within the heart of the most
masculine man longs to pay tribute to the one who gave him birth and nurtured his
life. So it stands to reason that Jesus would spend his depleted currency of
words to honor the most significant human in his life --- his mother.
