Friday night, Saturday, nothing seemed real. It was as if all life were a mirage.

Her thoughts kept going back to that place. If only she could have died for her son! One old woman, what did she matter compared to all the good her son had done, teaching and healing?

Friday night harsh dreams of soldiers, or priests, or the growling wind woke her. An ice sweat soaked her clothes through.

Saturday she felt useless and disoriented.

In the grand home of John’s uncle there was a maid to care for every need. Mary wasn’t used to being waited on. Or to warm scented baths, soft clothes, and silver platters heaped with quail, fish, dates, figs.

She wanted chickens to feed or laundry to pound! But she sat quietly, doing nothing.

Climbing that hill, listening to Jesus take each breath. Slow, hard breaths.

In the house there were so many passover guests!

Loud noises shocked her. When a servant dropped a bowl in the kitchen, Mary screamed. It sounded to her like the blow of a hammer.

Worst was the talking, laughing crowd.

She found herself staring at everyone as if they were the ones who shouted “Crucify him!”

So (she thought) this is what old Simeon meant, all those years ago in the Temple, when he said, “A sword will pierce your own soul, too.”

As the Law required, she and Joseph had just circumcised Jesus, sacrificing two small pigeons, all they could afford. A blood stain on the baby’s blanket embarrassed her.

At the cross she wiped Jesus’ wounds, her veil was drenched in blood. When they left Golgotha, It was raining; John wrapped her in a dry blanket and left her veil on the ground.

Now, in the cold light of Saturday, she looked at her hands. There was blood on them! No (she thought calmly) I have washed them again and again; they are clean. But it was so easy to remember what they had looked like.

What he looked like, dead, in her arms. As quiet as a baby sleeping.

He was only sleeping! Of course, after such a day! He was exhausted. She’d bathe his wounds, and soothe them with oil. She’d make him a warm broth.

 He’d wake up! He’d look at her, smile, call her, “Mother!”

The smile twisted into a sneer. The voice mocked, “Let him come down from the cross now and we will believe in him!”

“Eloi! Eloi! Lema sabachthani!” she heard Jesus scream.

Then, it was John’s voice, “Mother Mary!”

He squatted beside her, his hand stroking her face. “You’re dreaming! It’s just a nightmare.”

It took a moment for his face to come into focus.

Only a few days ago, he was a boy; in one day he had become a man. He’d seen what no one should see: torture, drunken indifference, pious hatred.

“How will I ever forget?” she sobbed.

John held her gently. “James is here,” he said a moment later. “He wants you to come home with him.”

“No!”

“Will you speak to him?”

Mary hesitated. She didn’t like to quarrel. She was afraid of what she might say.

“No!”

“Wouldn’t Jesus want you to?”

She nodded.

“Send him in,” John told a servant. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Yes,” Mary said.

James rushed into the room. “Mary—!” He noticed that John had stayed in the room. “Leave us alone!”

“No,” John said.

“Mary, tell him to go away.”

“No,” Mary said.

James was used to being obeyed. “Mary, this should be strictly a family matter.”

“It is,” Mary said. “On the cross Jesus told him ‘Here is your mother’; and, me, ‘Behold your son.’ I’m part of John’s family from now on.”

James’ eyes glittered with anger.

“I warned your son many times what would happen, if he kept on!” James said, his quiet tone shaking. “But he didn’t pay any attention. I’m the eldest, he should have obeyed me.”

“He obeyed his Father.”

“Joseph never—”

“Joseph was not his Father!”

James’ face hardened in triumph, as if vindicated after many years’ struggle.

“I knew it!”

“Adonai was his Father!” John said, moving to stand between James and Mary.

“This is none of your business!” James said to him.

“On the contrary,” John said, “it is my business. Mary is my mother—Jesus said so. You will speak to her with respect, or not at all.”

“Mary!” James’ tone softened.

“You and your brothers were in the crowd, shouting ‘Crucify him!’ weren’t you?” Mary asked.

James glanced away, with no place to hide.

“Yes,” he answered.

“He was the Messiah,” Mary said. “Shaddai—not a Roman—Shaddai was his Father. Joseph knew it, that’s why he married me, though I was with child. Do you actually think your father, righteous man that he was, would have married a woman unfaithful even before marriage? No, he would not, and you know it.”

James stared at her.

“Joseph never broke the Law of Moses in his life!” Mary said.

Now James looked confused. She was right, and he knew it.

“It doesn’t make any difference now, Mary. Jesus is dead.”

“I think today is not the right time for this,” John said. “Perhaps, in a few weeks, when feelings have begun to heal.”

“There will never be healing!” Mary cried. She sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands.

James moved toward her, but John blocked the much older man.

“Through that door,” John said, “a servant will show you out.”

Mary looked at John with gratitude. She’d forgotten that Jesus once named John and his brother (whose name was also James) Boanerges “sons of thunder.”

“I don’t want to be a burden to you,” she said. John’s branch of the family, fishermen in Galilee, were not rich.

“A burden?” John replied. “You are a treasure!”

“A grieving old woman—what good am I?”

“You know, Adonai cherishes people, especially. Solomon said, ‘The beauty of the aged is their gray hair.’ How old was Mother Sarah? How old was your relation Elizabeth, the fiery baptizer’s mother?”

“When you’re old, tell me then about the glory of the aged.”

“If I live to be 100, I won’t see anything more terrifying than what we have seen. I think I aged a dozen years yesterday.”

Mary shuddered, seeing again the body of her son stretched and torn, looming over her, and two other men on either side of him, in just as much torment.

“He used to say that in three days he would rise again,” John said. “What do you suppose he meant?”

Mary replied, “He also said that anyone who wanted to follow him must take up the cross daily.”

She sighed. Soon the sabbath would be end, night would fall. She hoped tonight she could sleep.

Perhaps one day she would understand. Now she didn’t, and she didn’t care to.

John walked arm in arm with her to the bedroom. She changed into cool fresh robes. A maid brought a bowl of milk with honey and spices. A small flame of a clay oil lamp burned on the table, filling the room with a slight fragrance.

Tonight  she felt calmer. Nothing could bring Jesus back. Her eyes closed, and she fell into a deep dreamless sleep….

Hours passed. Silence filled in the house. Here and there small lamps burned.

Very early Sunday morning, though dawn was more than two hours away, Mary had slept a long refreshing sleep.

The curtains at the window stirred. Moonlight shone in. Something woke her.

Or rather Someone, standing beside her bed, casting light as others cast shadow.

Was she dreaming?

He wasn’t a ghost, because he was warm. He reached out his hand and touched hers, to waken her fully.

“Mother!” he called her. She felt Love calling her out of the darkness. All the horror of the past two days dissipated, like a cloud of steam. The wounds of hate and fear were gone. Only Love remained.

“Jesus!” she cried.

“Yes,” he said, “I am.”

“Am I dreaming?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “and Yes. I am a dream that is true and real. My disciples and friends will find I am risen in a few hours, but you are first.”

“I failed you,” Mary said. “I should have—”

“No, Mother, you didn’t fail. You were there with me. My Father chose you to teach me how to be human. Your flesh is God-made-flesh in me.”

“James doesn’t understand. The family—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring him along! He’s stubborn, but stubborn for my sake is strength. All my brothers and sisters will believe soon. You’re responsible for that. You planted the seeds, even when you felt pulled between us.”

“Yes.”

“All the pain and lies are over. Just stay close to my beloved ones, John will care for you.”

“I’ll have to tell you’re alive.”

“No, Mother,” Jesus said. “I am in this moment yours alone. Only you are my mother. In the Father’s time and the Father’s way he will show the others.”

There was silence. The moonlight seemed brighter than before.

“Don’t leave me! I can’t bear to give you up again.”

“Wait in Jerusalem for my Father’s promise. I will not leave you desolate. Actually, when the Comforter comes, you’ll know him. For, he came upon you once before-remember?”

The moonlight faded. “Mother, I love you,” he said. The words echoed forever in her heart.

###

Regarding the perpetual virginity of Mary. (1) It’s always good to respect others’ views. (2)  Protestants don’t know for a fact that Jesus’ siblings had Mary for their mother. (3) In the case of this fictional narrative it heightens the tension between James and Mary if she were his stepmother.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t weep. And she didn’t.

James was ten when she married Joseph, the son of his first wife, who died in childbirth with her sixth child. Mary felt Joseph’s first family never approved of her. Though they never said so, she thought they even believed the rumor that she was pregnant by a Roman soldier.

 ”He’s acting crazy. Parading into Jerusalem like some kind of Messiah! Turning the Temple upside down—the Temple, Mary! Driving out the lambs and the pigeons! Or was it the traders, even the priests, that he imagined on the tip of his whip! Who does he think he is!”

She’d heard that whiny criticism all Jesus’ life. Joseph’s first family  were jealous of him. Deep down, they knew he outclassed them. The more gentle and humble he was, the more sullen and hostile they were.

“You remember Joseph’s brothers?” she said. “You’re no better!”

“Don’t set one foot out of this house!” James insisted.

After all the men had gone, Mary knew she had lost precious minutes.

Though, James had a point. Jerusalem wasn’t safe, especially with the people aroused as they were now, especially for a Galilean, an older woman who weighed scarcely 90 pounds. She didn’t know the streets of the Holy City well. After Joseph died she had stayed in Nazareth during passover.

No matter. Jesus was not going to die alone!

The sun began its ascent above the horizon; clouds crowded the skies, as if all heaven were gathering to watch him die.

The Son of God.

Her son.

Where are the angels now, the warrior angels, the angel of death who saved a whole nation from the Egyptians! she wondered.

Send twelve legions of angels! she prayed silently. He is your Son, isn’t he?

She didn’t know these streets. They were supposed to…

She wasn’t demon possessed, was she? All these years, a hoax of the devil?

Smaller and smaller steps led her into a maze of narrow stone roads, walled with houses all around her. She didn’t recognize them. She turned one way, then another, until at last she simply laid her face against a wall of peeling, dirty plaster.

*Shaddai!” she sobbed. “Why are you silent? I can’t, I can’t—”

“Mary!”

It was a soft voice, it was John, the young boy whom Jesus loved best among the disciples, she thought. Although Jesus had no favorites—he loved them all, especially young John.

Anguish darkened his tone. ” Mary! What are you doing here! We’ve been frantic to find you!”

Confused, Mary looked around. Nothing was familiar, except the boy, now a man, but to her, a boy.

“Where is this place?” she asked.

“You want to be with him?”

Stifling pain and exhaustion, she jerked her head. Of course, where else would she be?

“Come, then.”

He led her along narrow alleys and tracks made by animals and slaves. Not far she heard sounds of the mob, jeers and cries, shouted curses, harsh orders.

Then, John led her into the main road, through the gate of the city to a place that beggared imagination for its horror.

Heaps of garbage, from which came thick oily smoke. The picked clean carcasses of dogs, possums, hare, the feathers, claws, skulls of birds.

Beyond them a hill. She shuddered, imagining in the rock before her a massive forehead, the eye sockets of a skull. Golgotha. She’d heard her sons speak of this place, but she thought they were exaggerating, trying to scare her.

John  whispered to a slave, who disappeared in the crowds that gathered in clumps. Priests and scribes here. Pharisees there. They had slaves rake the ground before them, to keep from being contaminated by the litter of death all around them. On three crosses were stretched the bodies of men who had been human before they were tortured; remains of other crosses lay about on the ground.

In a few minutes the slave returned, escorting a woman Mary knew well: Magdalene. And with her were others.

They surrounded Jesus’ mother as she drew near the cross.

John approached the centurion. “This is the mother of Jesus of Nazareth.”

The sun-hardened centurion eyed her. She imagined that compassion flickered in his eyes, then it was gone. He was his mother’s son, after all.

He nodded, and turned away.

Magdalene and John supported her on either side, as she drew near to the cross.

At eye level were his bony feet, secured to the wood with a massive nail.

From somewhere deep within she gained strength to stand alone, and gently she shrugged the others off. Without flinching she looked up at the body, bruised and torn, blood blackened in strips, welts, across the rib cage.

She had to do this alone. Who but she could grasp the horror of her son dying a death designed to be slow, with maximum torment!

Close to the crosses the soldiers had made a small fire, which sputtered in the wind. Drops of rain stung as if flung from a slingshot.

The squad on crucifixion detail were allowed to drink. They cast bones for the condemned man’s seamless tunic. Others, sober, several arm’s lengths removed, stood guard to protect them from the crowd.

By now there was no light but the torches, blown to dim tatters by the wind, and the soldier’s fire.

Clouds had put out the sun. Deafening cracks of thunder exploded in the sky, the ground shuddered. But there was no lightening.

Above the shrieks of the wind, Mary heard Jesus scream, “Eloi! Eloi! Lema sabachthani!”

Mary couldn’t have prayed even that cry of agony because she couldn’t make sense of God any more.

She had often wondered if she had dreamed the angel who startled her with, “Hail, thou art highly favored!” Surely Joseph’s stubborn loyalty to her was no dream, his quiet pride at the birth of her firstborn son—what would he think now? She couldn’t think of the rest, the others who gathered at his birth. A strange foreign face, a language she couldn’t understand, bowing; inside a golden case a jar of myrrh. Who’d give such a thing to a baby! Skies full of angels she saw but couldn’t hear in memory. A few weeks after the family returned to Nazareth, the women laughed when she came to the well “You know who he looks like, your Jesus?” they said “That Roman who was so-o-o smitten with you that goy! what was his name!” Laughter— but guttural slurred from thick lips of a helmeted face

yourkid aRomanbastard? somebodysaystome, lookit! Isays therebetweenhislegsthebastard surelooksjewishtome hahahaa

The centurion stood between a red puffy face in armor and her. “Back to your post!”

Nosir’struesomeguytoldme’spaterwasaRomanhonest

The centurion shouted, “Back to your post!”

The soldier turned about, too drunk to perform the maneuver sharply.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the centurion said to her.

“My son!”

The Roman caught John’s eye. “Take her home,” he said.

Even the sober staggered in this dark wind.

Mary could no longer remember a time when clouds had not roiled overhead, choking off light, or crosses had not groaned in the wind. She couldn’t remember anything, but that moment. Looking at John, when he stepped forward at the centurion’s bidding, she couldn’t remember who he was.

“Woman.”

Gently in grave pain, Jesus spoke to her.

He might have called her, Mother. But somehow “Woman” was what he needed to call her. She felt, though he clearly meant her,  he was speaking to her for the sake of all women. That was what she felt, because she couldn’t think.

The pain was still there, the dark, the sneers, the Romans.

But she felt saved from all the dangers that had been threatening her all that day.

His eyes moved from embracing her alone, and now included John. “Here is your son,” Jesus said. He had difficulty speaking. He couldn’t get much breath. But she heard him plainly.

To John he said, “Here is your mother.”

That’s why, when she left there, she went home with John, and stayed. Never returned to the house of James and the other brothers.

She passed the remainder of that day sheltered by the five words Jesus spoke to her: “Woman, here is your son.”

The worst had passed, but terrifying moments were still to come.

When, with the centurion overseeing, they lifted the cross from its hole in the rock-hard, slick ground and laid it down. When they pried the nails loose from Jesus’ hands and feet. When they laid him in her arms.

“My son! My son!” she cried, rocking him as best she could.

She took her veil, wet with the rain, and wiped his body, wiped the blood from the wounds of his flogging and of the nails,  and of the spear run into his side.

She didn’t notice how long it was before Joseph and Nicodemus urged John to take her home. If she wondered, “How can that young boy be strong enough to pull me from the body, to lift me and carry me,” she didn’t remember.

He did. So they told her. She didn’t remember anything, but Jesus speaking from the cross to her.

(to be continued)

There were 16 in their families. As the oldest mother, it was up to her to get the day going.

The men had to work construction—had to, mind you—in Sepphoris, the Gentile town nearby. They would have preferred to work in Nazareth.

But jobs weren’t so easily come by in Jewish Nazareth, where most lived at or below subsistence. The prosperous and prominent shunned Mary and her brood.

It was the old story. She’d gotten so used to it by now, she hardly noticed when people snubbed her. Long ago, she had learned to go about her business and pay no attention.

But she wasn’t at home. Not today, a bad dream from which she could not awake.

This couldn’t be happening. Not to her. Not to her son.

This punishment the Romans dealt out to murderers, rebels, misfits. Her son was a gentle soul who…

When he was little, her firstborn son kept birds. You wouldn’t  find these in palaces—they were just sparrows, and the chickens she kept for eggs and the occasional feast. In his clothes she’d constantly find a bit of dry bread that he’d saved for the birds.

He never lost his love for animals. They sensed it. His hands, now big rough carpenter’s hands, always were stroking a cat or scratching an old plow horse behind the ears or gently bringing home a stray.

She saw him (must have been four), his hands barely big enough to hold his prize, his black eyes sparkling with curiosity, his hair mussed. He had found a bird’s nest containing two speckled brown eggs, and was pleading to place it in the bushes so that the mother bird could hatch them.

Then, she remembered one day years later, he asked if he would ever marry. His friends were being betrothed. But his parents had never broached the subject with him.

Not handsome, but hard working, intelligent, loyal, he would make any of the young girls of Nazareth a fine match.

There was a girl Jesus liked. He managed to be at the well every morning about the time she appeared to get the day’s water.

But, the year passed when others Jesus’ age were betrothed, and Joseph still waited.

“Wouldn’t Adonai appear to me in a dream, like before?” he insisted.

Jesus asked them both, Joseph and Mary. It was the last real conversation he had with his father.

“Will I get married?”

Joseph had learned his oldest was different. He did his chores, he learned the trade as well as any of them, but his heart was in the holy books.

He spent hours with the rabbi; and when the boy was occupied with a scroll, the old man’s face would light up with joy. Every rabbi longed for one student like Jesus in his life.

Joseph did not reply to Jesus’ question right away. With a stick he poked at the fire, which had died out. Once its flames were again snapping and popping in the green wood, he asked, “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” the boy replied. Then, he wandered off into the hills by himself. Gone a whole night and all the next day.

Then, when he was back at the crowded table with his sisters and brothers, some of them not far from marriage, Joseph looked at him, an eyebrow raised the only hint of the inquiry.

Jesus shook his head. So slight a movement, only Mary and Joseph saw it. They never spoke of marrying again.

A few months after that, a drunk Roman drove his chariot off the main road through Nazareth. The horses, struggling to keep the chariot stable, trampled Joseph, walking home late from work.

“Who can finish such detailed inlay?” Joseph’s Roman employer complained. “No one but Joseph.”

After the funeral Jesus spent the next two days in Sepphoris completing his father’s task.

The eighth day Mary and Jesus went to the cave in the hillside, where Joseph’s body had been laid. In the harsh light, Jesus’ face shone with tears.

“He wasn’t my father,” Jesus whispered, “I mean, physically?”

“No,” Mary said. Nothing more.

They never discussed such things. Besides, though he was only fourteen, both were aware that Jesus knew exactly who his Father was.

In Nazareth they called James and Joseph and Simon and Judas the sons of Joseph; but, Jesus, in ordinary conversation, the son of Mary.

Everyone in Nazareth could count.

At least she was in Jerusalem. But this year that was no comfort.

Why wasn’t Joseph here! Mary screamed at heart. She flung across the room the water dipper she was holding.

Tears of anger stung her eyes. Fear choked in her throat.

She felt abandoned by God and utterly alone.

(To be continued)

In reading Revelation, I’ve gone back and read some of the Hebrew apocalypses in Daniel, Zechariah and some of Ezekiel, who was certifiably off his rocker. The encouraging thing is, God can use anyone. In a time of upheaval, a psyche undone may be the best vehicle for revealing truth.

This time through the last book of the NT, I’ve concentrated on the big ideas. For example, in studying the judgments as a unit, it’s clear that they had a purpose: to urge people to come to repentance before it was too late. Therefore, the first two series pause after the first four calamities. God assures us that God’s own are doing fine. This is poignant when you realize that about AD 95, a whole generation of Christians had died. Were they lost?

Not only weren’t they lost, but they will come first!

So throughout these scenes of incredible judgment, flows the soft melody of God’s love, securing and comforting the saints. The majestic choruses of heaven echo in the hearts of God’s people, even on the mean streets.

There are so many references in Les Mis to French history, and geography, that go over my head. I’m reading the Wilbour translation, which was done so quickly. You can’t help but wonder how good it is. Hugo is daunting. To develop a character he takes five or six long chapters of history, of literature, of politics; in that nest he places the individual character.

So why not cut out all the 19th century verbiage? I think it’s in those long passages that he really paints the world as he sees it. This isn’t just an incredibly well plotted drama about an escaped convict. It’s about a society, about what we need to become human. And of course, it’s the contradiction between law (Inspector Javert) and grace (Valjean).

The pity is, that many of our young students are learning computer programming and web page design, which I admire, but their souls don’t get stretched by big ideas and great hearts like Hugo’s.

For example, the following description of young Marius, Cosette’s future love interest (Project Gutenburg):

For many great deeds are performed in petty combats. There are instances of bravery ignored and obstinate, which defend themselves step by step in that fatal onslaught of necessities and turpitudes. Noble and mysterious triumphs which no eye beholds, which are requited with no renown, which are saluted with no trumpet blast. Life, misfortune, isolation, abandonment, poverty, are the fields of battle which have their heroes; obscure heroes, who are, sometimes, grander than the heroes who win renown.

Firm and rare natures are thus created; misery, almost always a step-mother, is sometimes a mother; destitution gives birth to might of soul and spirit; distress is the nurse of pride; unhappiness is a good milk for the magnanimous.

God’s hands, with destitution, can sculpt great souls. But how many thousands are simply ground into dust? Gandhi said, “Poverty is the worst form of violence.”

³¹ Therefore I tell you, people will be forgiven for every sin and blasphemy, but blasphemy against the Spirit will not be forgiven. ³² Whoever speaks a word against the Son of Man will be forgiven, but whoever speaks against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven, either in this age or in the age to come. Matt 12:31-32 (NRSV)

What happens after death to people who suicide is unclear also because we don’t know their mind or heart. Were they in their right mind? It’s reasonable to believe that people who suicide are not themselves; they aren’t thinking straight. In that case they are not responsible.

Had they ever accepted Christ? If so, they will be saved. If we don’t know for sure, then we can count on God’s Spirit to do everything possible to win them to eternal safety.

God loves them, even more than their closest relatives. God’s mercy will reach out to them and do everything possible to care for them. The Bible says:

⁴ Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. Psalms 23:4 (KJV)

² Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: ³ Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; ⁴ Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies. Psalms 103:2-4 (KJV)

 ⁷ Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? ⁸ If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. Psalms 139:7-8 (KJV)

      ³¹ What then are we to say about these things? If God is for us, who is against us? ³² He who did not withhold his own Son, but gave him up for all of us, will he not with him also give us everything else? ³⁵ Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? ³⁶ As it is written,
“For your sake we are being killed all day long;
     we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered.”
³⁷ No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. ³⁸ For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, ³⁹ nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:31-32, 35-39 (NRSV)

A good site for the aftermath of suicide is  here.

 Note: This week a friend’s family member suicided, without explanation. The above is my attempt to find verses of comfort to share. jlh

Sub tuum praesidium

Beneath your compassion,
We take refuge, O Mother of God:
do not despise our petitions in time of trouble:
but rescue us from dangers,
only pure, only blessed one.

(Oldest prayer to the Virgin Mary, dating from about 250 AD)

For a couple of months Tuesday nights at my house have been about Mary, Mother of Jesus. Since the group is all female except me, I’ve learned a lot.

One statement especially strikes me: Mary and Jesus shared a heartbeat.

No other human being has the distinction of being so close to God. Luke carefully presents Mary as an exemplary servant of the Lord.

She’s there at the beginning, there at the cross, there in the Upper Room before Pentecost.

She ponders all she experiences, all she hears. Sometimes it isn’t pretty: a sword pierces her heart.

Mary in Revelation

But it’s the Johannine pictures of Mary that intrigue me.

First, Revelation 12. Here a woman clothed with the sun gives birth to a son who will rule the nations with a rod of iron. This is a messianic reference from Psalm 2.9.

God spirits the woman away from the dragon’s wrath on eagle’s wings, sheltering her in the desert for a brief time. The dragon goes off to make war on the rest of her children, who keep the commandments of God and the testimony of Jesus.

Who is this? The Protestant answer, of course, is that she is Israel and the new Israel. Perfectly good answer.

But the Roman Catholic answer that she is Mary also is perfectly good. It’s the literal truth.

Mary in the gospel of John

Mary isn’t named in the gospel, suggesting she is more than simply Jesus’ mother (what Catholics call “a baby factory.”) She represents all women.

She is at the wedding at Cana in Galilee, the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, where she mediates between the servants and Jesus. And she is at the cross, an ideal disciple along with the beloved disciple.

Jesus says, “Behold your son,” making her the mother of the beloved disciple and all disciples who come after him (as in Revelation, which calls Christians the woman’s children.)

She is the New Eve, who gets to redo the role a woman played in the fall. (The man was responsible for himself.)

Worship vs. veneration

The classic Catholic defense of their “affection for” Mary (as one book puts it) is that Catholics practice veneration not worship. This apparently is rooted in Greek, that didn’t stick in my head.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s one of those mental videos we play to defend against real spiritual awareness.

Despite my West Texas Baptist anti-Catholic roots, I find myself appreciating more Mary’s unique role.

The Virgen de Guadalupe (pictured at the head of this post) has an especially warm place in my heart. My aunt Margaret, who was the matriarch and died at 92, seems to be the most grounded of all my dad’s siblings. She had a reproduction of the Virgen de Guadalupe on her coffee table.

I haven’t figured it all out yet.

Praxis 

Mary, you were an unmarried pregnant teenager in a time and place when such as you were killed. Yet you prayed, “Be it unto me according to your word.” Some people kick up a lot of dirt because of you. But I find it useful? important? delightful? to speak to you (pray to you, even). You knew Jesus best. Help me to be more like him. Help me to be as obedient and courageous as you were. Amen

When they were born, he had plenty to be pissed about:

• Pampered son, hated by his brothers
• Sold into slavery
• Falsely accused of adultery with his master’s wife
• Imprisoned
• Forgotten by Pharaoh’s butler, once restored to office

When he rightly interprets Pharaoh’s dreams and recommends a wise course of action, Pharaoh elevates Joseph to second in the land. He gives him a wife; the couple have two boys.

Joseph named the firstborn Manasseh, “For,” he said, “God has made me forget all my hardship and all my father’s house.” The second he named Ephraim, “For God has made me fruitful in the land of my misfortunes.”

Gen 41:51-52 (NRSV)

Forgetful

Joseph attributed his state of mind to God, as he did his ability to interpret dreams.

What did he forget?

• All his hardship
• All his father’s house

Joseph put the past behind him. He didn’t dwell on the hate and injustice he’d experienced. But, perhaps more important, he didn’t dwell on all the things he loved in his father’s house.

Joseph did not cut himself off from his birth family. When they were ready to resume a relationship he was willing to.

In Old English “for” meant “away.” “Get” means to grab. Therefore, “forget” means not to get, not to grab. Forget, forbid, forbear all are similar words. Jesus didn’t consider equality with God as something to be grabbed at, held on to (Phil 2.6).

Perhaps we could say to forget in this sense is to let go.

Joseph didn’t let his past, good or bad, get to him. He put it away, just as Paul did.

this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.

Phil 3:13-14 (NRSV)

Forgetting past hurts as well as achievements helps you to focus on the present and the future. Maybe in this context forgetting is like pruning the vine, so that it will be more fruitful.

What about the saying “forget and forgive”? That’s another post. Forgetting in this sense simply means putting something away. Joseph is an example of forgiveness. But people often toss off “forget and forgive” as if to say, “Let’s pretend the injustice never occurred.” That’s not at all what Joseph did here. His caution in dealing with the brothers later demonstrates clearly that he had not lost sight of their power to hurt.

Fruitful

Joseph’s second child is named Ephraim, meaning fruitful. Joseph was fruitful in his ability as administrator, fruitful in his willingness to care for his father and his brothers’ families.

He demonstrated the fruits of the Spirit:

love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

Gal 5:22-23 (NRSV)

But, of course, what he meant primarily by fruitfulness was having children. He is like the woman in Jesus’ parable:

When a woman is in labor, she has pain, because her hour has come. But when her child is born, she no longer remembers the anguish because of the joy of having brought a human being into the world.  

John 16:21 (NRSV)

We have many promises in scripture that we will bear fruit, none more beautiful than this:

 Those who go out weeping,
     bearing the seed for sowing,
shall come home with shouts of joy,
     carrying their sheaves.

Psalms 126:6 (NRSV)

I love the beautiful song by Blood, Sweat and Tears, “And When I Die,” the chorus of which is:

And when I die, and when I’m gone
there’ll be, one child born, in this world
to carry on, to carry on

Jesus chose us to go and bear “fruit, fruit that will last,” John 15:16 (NRSV), whether that be in character, accomplishments, or new followers of Christ.

To be fruitful we Christians need to be forgetful of position, privilege, past—not in the sense of losing identity, for Joseph never forgot his father and wished to be buried in Canaan. Joseph forgot in the sense of never resting on his laurels. Leaves, even beautiful ones that crown winning athletes, soon wither and fade; records are surpassed.

A New Testament example of this forgetful/fruitful pairing is in the preaching of John the Baptist:

Bear fruit worthy of repentance. Do not presume to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor’; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.

Matt 3:8-10 (NRSV)

Somewhere I read that C.S. Lewis tended to discard a manuscript as soon as it was written. (I can’t document this at the moment.) By this I don’t mean that he did not revise and rewrite when necessary, but simply that he didn’t look on past writing as a trophy to be displayed prominently and polished every day. Instead, he simply continued writing.

By God’s grace we need to be forgetful and fruitful.

Here we are, four people–reading Genesis 14, Psalm 110, and Hebrews 4, 5 and 7. Lisa, her daughter Emily, and Linda, whose son recently returned from Iraq.

(We’re expecting my wife Sandy, Methodist minister, pastoral counselor, who visited a former client now in hospice. Having had a day from hell, she gets there an hour after everyone has left.)

Meet Up with Melchizedek

Melchizedek, king of righteousness, king of peace, blesses Abram, serves bread and wine, receives a tithe from him.

“It’s stupid, I guess,” says Lisa, “but I’m thinking, could this be Christ some way?”

“Many people think Melchizedek is Christ on earth long before his birth in Bethlehem,” I assure her.

We bat that around. I acknowledge others think he was a Canaanite priest, in whom Abram recognized a worthy servant of Yahweh.

My Favorite Four Letter (Hebrew) Word

Which brings us to Psalm 110.1, “The Lord said to my lord…” When you see Lord in small caps like that, it stands for the holy name of God which Jews won’t pronounce.

No one had ever noticed that. Which sparked interest in Exodus 3.13-15, and the holy name YHWH, now thought to be pronounced Yahweh, similar to verb forms of to be like hayah and ehyeh; influenced by German scholars, we used to pronounce it Jehovah.

People are intrigued, gonna take that bit of Bible knowledge home.

How come they don’t know this stuff?

I think, these women have attended Sunday School their whole lives. The last four Tuesdays Linda’s been doing committee work at her church. These are sharp people. Linda’s a nurse. Emily’s a college student. Lisa has a keen eye for people. Whenever Lisa says something about a stupid idea or thick skull, I get ready to jot down what she says because often she’s right on the money.

I’ve taught Sunday School most of my life, followed each week by a sermon. For a decade I wrote Bible study materials for junior highs, and I’m proud of the work the team and I did, grateful for the editors, and pissed at the politics at the top. I also believe the Bible study aids I’m familiar with aren’t doing the job.

®  People don’t know Bible basics.

®  People don’t connect Bible knowledge and a life-changing relationship to Christ.

®  People don’t take what little they know out of the classroom.

  BEFORE and AFTER BSing¹ in SS they’re NO DIFFERENT!

Compare your average SS class with an AA group. What a difference!

I’m a fan of a good study Bible, a systematic plan to cover the whole Bible appropriately in each age group, and teachers with access to commentaries, computer software, and other aids.

I’d be interested to know if anyone’s curriculum includes measuring knowledge and application.

 This Teacher Needs a Little Mercy

Anyway, back to Tuesday. We read

For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.

Heb 4:15-16 (NRSV)

That gives some juice to the potentially dry discussion of the order of Melchizedek in Hebrews, after which we return to psalm 110. Using typology we apply what’s said about Zion to our lives. “What does that mean to you?” I ask lamely.

I was struggling. I can think of many specific ways to apply Psalm 110.5-6:

The Lord is at your right hand;
     he will shatter kings on the day of his wrath.
He will execute judgment among the nations,
     filling them with corpses;
he will shatter heads
     over the wide earth.

But I don’t.

 Nail Prints N’ All

At the close the women note my wife Sandy’s not home. We get into a discussion of hospice. In the group two had mothers die recently in hospice. We talk about pain management, the patient’s looking forward to death, how relatives cope, how God blesses us when we need it most.

When people in a small group trust each other, and focus on God’s Word in their lives, amazing things occur, despite the group leader’s lame use of typology.

I don’t know for sure if it was Christ way back there with Abram. But, right there Tuesday night in my living room where two or three were gathered, for sure–it was Christ.

___________________________________

¹That’s “Bible studying.” In higher criticism aka “Bull Geschichte.”