The Cross

Extract 82
I'm so angry. That wasn't a trial, it was a conspiracy to murder. Our Chief Priests and the Roman Governor and worse, the people Jesus healed, the ones he saved, the ones he has given his life to reach.. I can hardly speak about it. Pilate washed his hands. What a travesty, the man who mixed the blood of those he had killed with the Temple sacrifices, suddenly a convert to our rituals. 'What is truth' he dared ask of my son. My son is the truth! The truth is that frightened men have done what they always do. Kill and destroy what is good. But it's the ordinary people I can't understand. Jesus raised them up, he gave them real hope. But when Pilate offered to release Jesus, they asked for a thug instead. When Pilate declared himself innocent of Jesus' blood, they cursed themselves and all generations 'Let his blood be on us and on our children'. Fools! Don't they understand anything? He ordered Jesus to be beaten then crucified at noon. In less than an hour my son will be torn apart by those he loved. Mary and John tell me to stay in the house. But how can I? Of course a sword will pierce my heart, watching my son die. But the people have deserted him, his friends have deserted him. I'm his mother! How can I not be there?

Extract 83
It was strange. Awful,and yet, I don't know. More real than real. Somewhere deep inside me there is a peace, a shalom, that I can't explain.

My son is dead. I watched as his tortured body collapsed under the weight of the cross. My strong carpenter, unable to carry wood. I saw the hammer raised and a thousand times in my mind saw the nails pierce his wrists. I heard the crowd taunting him, the Chief Priests mocking. I heard the silence as the cross-piece of death was raised.

I was there. I heard the Officer declare Jesus to be the son of God as he witnessed his dignity. I heard Jesus tell John to look after me. I stood as that supernatural darkness covered the earth.

All of this should have destroyed me. But I felt as I did all those years ago when Gabriel was with me. Warmed by God’s presence, peaceful even in the middle of the storm. Now, on this most holy Sabbath of the year, it is as if God is somehow with me, not allowing this bruised reed to break. As I sit, the scriptures seem to be taking on a different shape. Jesus' words giving them new meaning. The third day he said. New wine, new wineskins, a surprising celebration on the third day.

And somewhere, beyond all reason, hope is alive in me again.