Tag Archives: Mary

Easter Series, Part 3: Surely He Was the Son of God

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I have always wanted to prepare for Easter by taking the month leading up to that holiday and reflect on the events that make up what we call, Easter. I began that the other day with “When Jesus Says Your Name“. It was the story of Mary as she stands at the tomb, distraught over her Jesus being gone.

 

The second in the series, Bound For My Freedom, is the story of Asher, the young shepherd boy who sat next to Jesus in the stable, only to meet up with him again at the foot of the cross, as he assists his cousin Joseph in preparing Christ’s body with burial.

 

Today’s story, third in the series, is seen through the eyes of the centurion who saw the darkness of Good Friday turn to the light and hope of Easter. Enjoy!

 

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“For God so love the world that He gave His one and only Son…”

For many, that verse has been heard a thousand times and it can mean next to nothing. For others, they have heard Jesus died on the cross, yet leave that fact hanging in mid-air where it stopped, so as not to allow it to pierce their heart. They, like I once did, have heard the story of the cross like this: “Jesus died on the cross for your sins.” That’s pretty plain. Pretty simple. But was that all there was to it, really? Just a plain and simple fact?

The last six hours in the life of Christ can show you, once again, (or for what may be the first time), that for Jesus to die on the cross, was not so plain nor was it so simple.

Jesus has been up all night with a great amount of anguish. After all, He is the Son of God and knows the Father’s thoughts. He knows what lies ahead. He had spent these precious hours on His knees, praying in the garden of Gethsemane. His prayers are powerful, intentional and pleading. So emotive that crimson drops of sweat drip from His pores. In the middle of His prayers, He is apprehended as if a criminal.

He is taken away, only to endure three legal, yet not so just, trials. He is flogged – a lashing done with the use of a whip made of rawhide.

In a flogging, the whip that is used contains steel like balls in the middle of the rawhide and at the end, pieces of bone that cut glass. The criminals in Jesus’ day were put on a pole and the authorities would then swing the whip. As it would swing around the criminals body, the balls would hit and cause major contusions to the organs as the pieces of bone cut into the flesh. When pulled out, it ripped away the flesh. Thirty-nine lashes was the legal limit, for few individuals ever lived beyond those 39 lashes.

That’s what Jesus gets.

When Christ lay, most likely almost dead, they strip him of his clothes. They spit on Him. They shove a twisted crown of thorns on his head. They strike Him on the head. They mock him as king.

Emotionally he is exhausted. Physically he is almost dead. Mentally he is drained. And yet, it doesn’t end there. In such a weakened condition, He isn’t able to carry the load of the cross – my cross. But he was the One chosen to bear it and He is led off to Golgotha – the hill on which he must die.

The nails are like spikes and he winces with each strike of the mallet that pounds each one into His hands and feet. Hanging there, they hurl insults at him and He does not retaliate; when he suffers, he makes no threats. Instead, he entrusts Himself to His heavenly Father, who judges justly.

A continual life of obedience, even in the face of humiliation. Obedience in the face of mockery. Obedience in the face of a death He had every power at hand to stop. Still, he endures. They aren’t finished with him yet.

They lift up sour wine for him to drink. They insult him, take his clothes and cast lots for them. It’s all a game to them. It’s all about taunting what appears to be the underdog. It’s all about obeying the rules of the mighty and twisting them to fit your pleasure.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son…”

He doesn’t use His words to bite back. He doesn’t say, “I’ll get you!” or, “Come on up here and say that to my face!” or, “Just wait until after the resurrection, buddy!” No, these statements were not found on the lips of Christ. Instead, He left the ways of judgment up to God and demanded no apology. Instead, he spoke in their defense.

“Father forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing!”

How Jesus, with a body wracked with pain, eyes blinded by his own blood, and lungs yearning for air could speak on behalf of some heartless thugs is beyond my comprehension.

Jesus didn’t die from loss of blood. He didn’t die of pain. He suffocated, for to die by means of a crucifixion is to die of suffocation. As His arms are nailed cross-ways above, soldiers bend his legs and put a nail between both ankles so that he is able to push up with his legs and pull himself up but as he hangs there, his arms quickly dislocate. As he tries to pull himself up, his organs begin to slide down and the pain of pulling himself up, is compensated by trying to get a breath and he suffocates.

“The reason my Father loves me is that I lay down my life …

No one takes my life from me…

I lay it down on my own accord.

I have the authority to lay it down or to take it up again…”

A centurion sits nearby. He watches the three men who are lined up on crosses – no respect, no cause for care or concern, no dignity – just pieces of meat. A conversation develops between the center man and the one to his left. The centurion can’t hear much but he definitely hears a proclamation by the man on the left that this man called Jesus is innocent. The rumble of voices quiet and the world grows freakishly silent.

As the centurion stands, he notices that the man in the middle is lifeless but out of somewhere, the lifeless body musters strength to lift its head upward and like a bolt of lightening and the roar of thunder he proclaims, “It is finished.”

The centurion takes three quick steps toward and falls at the foot of the cross of Christ. Not because he suddenly realizes just who this is that he has hung up to die, but because he loses his balance. The earth is shaking as the skies grow dark with anger.

He looks up into the face of this man, so near to death. Jesus looks down. His arms outstretched, hammered with nails the rugged post, He is unable to embrace this one who now understands. They lock eyes and in that instant, he falls under the grace of God and states a truth that will ring throughout history:

“Surely this was the Son of God.”

The faith of the centurion was born that day at the foot of the cross and forgiveness was poured down over him by the crimson blood of Christ. And, he weeps.

“Surely this man was innocent.”

Surely, He was.

 

 

 

Easter Series, Part 2: Bound For My Freedom

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I have always wanted to prepare for Easter by taking the month leading up to that holiday and reflect on the events that make up what we call, Easter. I began that the other day with “When Jesus Says Your Name“.  It was the story of Mary as she stands at the tomb, distraught over her Jesus being gone. basket-roses-straight-sharp

Today, I hope you enjoy the next story – that of the shepherd boy who sits by Jesus when he’s born, only to meet up with him again as he assists his cousin Joseph with Christ’s burial.

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On an assumed cold, wintry night, approximately 2,000 some years ago, a little baby was born. His mother wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a feeding trough (more commonly known to all as a manger), somewhere in a little town called Bethlehem, located in what is known as the West Bank of the Middle East. A tiny, little baby in a big part of the world.

As his mother slept and his father tried to figure out what they were going to do next, the little baby cooed. All wrapped up in his swaddling cloths, he was quite content and happy enough for just being born. And besides, Asher, the shepherd boy who had listened to what the angels had told him, sat right at his side in awe of this little miracle.

Asher straightened the baby’s cloths. He had an inkling to loosen them, seeing that they bound him from moving about. How he wished he could hold him. Why did mothers wrap their babies so tight, anyhow? It was a practice he never understood. All those strips of cloth, binding his limbs still, all to ensure that this little man would grow strong and his arms and legs straight? Oh well. For now, Asher just traced the little baby’s face with his index finger, softly following the baby’s brow line and then down his baby nose, over his baby lips and then up to the other brow, repeating the process over and again until the newborn fell asleep.

Asher wondered if his mother had wrapped him in linen such as that. In that way. Was he bound tightly so that he couldn’t move? Wouldn’t move? Was he constrained from stretching his fingers up into the air? Were his feet confined from layers of cloth wrapped around his legs so that he was unable to kick freely as he had done while in his mother’s womb? How was a little baby supposed to strengthen his muscles if constricted from movement?

Swaddling clothes seemed to be a form of bondage to Asher. Bondage that kept this little baby from being welcomed freely into the world. Perhaps it was a sign. After all, his route in getting here to this stable was a bit miraculous, if he dared to use such an explanation.

The baby’s father looked tired and his eyes bloodshot as his head rested against the wall of the stable. Asher felt pity toward him.

“Sir – I can guard the little baby if you fall asleep.”

The father moved his head from the wall and turned it slightly to face Asher. A weary smile crept over the man’s face as he contemplated Asher’s offer.

“Thank you,” the deep voice sounded. “I’m not sure if I can sleep. But what about you? Is your mother worried about you? Shouldn’t you get home?”

“Oh, no. The other two boys that were with me earlier – they were my brothers and it was our turn to tend the flock tonight. She’s not expecting me home tonight and they told me it was okay to stay a while when they went back to the field. But, I – I can leave if you want me to.”

The father smiled. “No – you can stay. I think he likes you here,” he said, looking at the baby. “Maybe I will take you up on that offer. You wake me up if he wakes up.”

“Yes, sir,” Asher promptly responded and with that, the baby’s father rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes and the mother continued to sleep soundly, her head resting on the father’s lap, as the rest of her body lay on a mound of hay.

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Jesus knew he wouldn’t see his next birthday. Things were moving rapidly now and heating up amongst the people and officials and he knew His time to do what He was sent here to do was now at hand.

As he knelt in the garden, he continued praying as he had been doing all night, only now he was hearing voices coming from the front entrance. Within moments, on every side Roman soldiers surrounded him, death dancing in their eyes. Did they really think they needed hundreds of men to take him captive? Did they secretly believe He was who he said he was and think they couldn’t stop him unless they brought a battalion of men?

He went peacefully and some might say, He suffered peacefully. When it was over – the beatings, the mockery, the crucifixion – he died.

Joseph, a good and upright man and having been granted permission to take Jesus’ body down from the cross, began preparing Jesus’ body for burial as Asher helped. For Asher, there was something familiar about this man who had been hung on a cross to die for no apparent reason. Something Asher couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Asher knelt beside his cousin, whom he had come to visit and helped him remove the spikes that held Jesus’ hands to the timber, splintered and now coated with the stickiness of dried blood. With great gentleness and care, after each spike had been removed, they gently laid the body beside the cross on which he had breathed his last breath.

Joseph untied a cloth bag and removed strips of linen. Asher helped his cousin to wrap the dead body. Around and around the feet, methodically they wrapped the body, moving up the legs. Then, positioning the stiffened arms straight against the sides of his torso, Joseph and Asher continued wrapping, overlapping layer after layer, until they were to the neck.

“Who was this man?” Asher finally sliced through the silence, a feeling of familiarity once again surrounding him. “What was his name?”

“They called him Jesus.”

Asher stopped. “They called him what?”

“His name was Jesus. I really believe, no matter how stupid it sounds, He was the Son of God.”

Asher’s face turned white.

“Are you okay, Ash? You don’t look good.”

From swaddling cloths to grave cloths, this was no coincidence.

“Do you remember that story I told you about when you helped me tend the flocks that summer when I was twenty? The story about the angels and the baby we found at the stable when I was a little runt?”

Joseph’s face was expressionless as he stared at Asher, except for the wideness of his eyes, which were staring back at Asher. “Yes.”

“I think this is him.”

“You told me he was born in Bethlehem.”

“He was, but his parents had gone there for the census and eventually, I heard they left to go back where they came from. His father told me what I told you that night we were talking – he was no ordinary baby and the angels that told us to go into town and we’d find a baby in a manger – this was him. I know it.”

Joseph looked at the baby, wrapped in linen except for the blood stained face and matted hair. A tear dropped from his eye and landed silently on a piece of cloth that he held in his hand.

“I remember watching him that night in the stable and for some reason, wishing I could have removed the swaddling clothes and let him be free to move around. And now, here I am wrapping him up, making him bound once again.”

“You’re not going to bind him. He said after three days he would rise again. Even the Pharisees are afraid. You can bet they’re going to station guards at the tomb. Nothing’s going to hold him back, Asher. Nothing. And that – I know.”

Asher sat and listened to his cousin, who was so confident that this man they tended to was the Messiah. Did he realize what he was saying? And yet, didn’t Asher himself believe that the little baby some thirty years ago, who he watched try to wiggle his way from being bound with the linens of long ago – didn’t he believe that little baby would change the world – just as the angels had said?

With sorrow, now mixed with anticipation, they finished what they had come here for. They wrapped Jesus’ face and then carried him to the tomb. There was nothing more they could do. They laid him down on the stone and with the help of the soldiers already waiting at the tomb, rolled a large stone in front of the entrance as two women watched from afar.

As they walked toward Joseph’s home, Asher asked, “Tell me again what he said about coming back to life after three days.”

And so it was – the third day. Asher was heading back to Bethlehem and decided to take the path that passed Joseph’s tomb. A nagging curiosity had been his companion the last two days. He stopped, seeing commotion ahead.

Sliding off his donkey, he tied it to a nearby olive tree. He walked closer, seeing the two women who had been watching from afar as he and Joseph rolled the stone across the front of the tomb just days before.

Three men were talking to them and suddenly they gasped, ran into the open tomb; back out again, and down the road – right past Asher. As they passed, one of them turned to him, exclaiming, “He’s alive!”

His eyes followed her as she ran by, yet she never stopped and kept running.

He turned back toward the tomb. The men were gone. They hadn’t passed him. They weren’t walking away from him down the road in the other direction. They were just – gone. He looked all around – no one. Slowly, he walked toward the place where the men had stood while they were speaking to the three women. He could see the tomb.

It had taken six men to roll that stone in front of the tomb. The women couldn’t have moved it, even if the three men had helped. He and Joseph could barely do it with the assistance of the four hefty built Roman guards.

Asher stood at the entrance, took a deep breath and then stepped inside. It was dark, but bright enough with the light from outside streaming in behind him, was able to see what he needed to see. They body was gone. And, at that moment he was certain.

The body hadn’t ‘disappeared’. No one had taken it. He knew how he and Joseph had wrapped that body. Carefully – oh so carefully. And there, on the stone where they had laid the body, lay the grave cloths. Neatly folded, in a pile, on the stone.

Asher was shivering, every inch of his body tingling with excitement. He picked up the top cloth and a strange peace coated every inch of his being as he held the cloth to his face, lightly passing it across his cheek.

The little baby he had fallen in love with. The baby he wanted to set free. And though for burial Joseph and he had bound him as a man, Asher knew in his heart that this man they called Jesus and had hung on a cross – truly he was the Messiah. He saw him wrapped in swaddling clothes as a baby and bound him in grave cloths in death. But he knew – the next time he saw him – it would be with outstretched arms, as Asher’s Savior and Lord.

Just as the angels had said.

Easter Series, Part 1: When Jesus Says Your Name

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dscn9827It’s Saturday – that day that comes between Good Friday and Easter and I can’t help but wonder whether I would have lost hope on that day – that one Saturday, so long ago.

I can be hopeful, however, because I know what happened that next day – the day that followed the dark clouds of doubt just two days prior. The day the tomb was empty. Sunday morning – Easter morning. The morning that Jesus could not be found.

What would it have been like to have been one of the three women walking to the tomb, in order to prepare Jesus’ body for burial? These three women – Mary and Martha and Mary – had been His close friends. The closest kind. After all, it isn’t just anyone, on just any old day, that would lavish their Master’s feet with the finest of oils. Oils worth their weight in gold, as some might say.  But – one of these three did. Mary did. And now she most likely took each step, with a million questions in her mind beginning with ‘why’, as she walked her path of sorrow.

Martha walked alongside. Did she have regrets? Did she wish she had put down the dishtowel and joined Mary at Jesus’ feet more often, instead of sighing and complaining that no one ever helped her? Did she yearn and ache to have Him back and have a do-over, showing her Lord that He really was more important than a clean sink?

And what about the other Mary? The first Mary – his mother? What was she going through? She knew what He was about. She knew it from the very beginning but was this the way it was supposed to be? If he was who she believed He was then why this? How was being dead going to save the world? She remembered hearing about the statement He had made about the ‘third day’. She knew God was a God of miracles – she knew that first hand and personally. But – death? How was that going to fix things? Loaned to her through arms of God, she watched a little baby boy become a man – a man who was going to save the world.  But how could that be? He didn’t even save himself when the time warranted it and everyone was waiting for a miracle. Instead, he took the insults, the beatings, the lies and didn’t stop a thing.

Approaching the tomb in silence, the women abruptly stopped short. The storm clouds from the days prior were now completely gone. The sun beat down upon them as they removed the veils from their heads, not that it enabled them to see clearer. The stone had still been moved – but how? It would take many men to push it away and there wasn’t one man around.  Not even the guards who were sworn to be standing beside the stone that was now moved from where it had been placed to seal the tomb.
Without a sound, without a word, they looked at each other in bewilderment, all three with thoughts racing through their minds of what the open tomb could mean. Was He still in there? Had someone taken Him? Was it a cruel joke? A few seconds seemed like hours as they stood, speculating in silence what the darkness before them held as they prepared to enter that tomb.

Within seconds of entering, the three women reappear from within the tomb and  bolt to where they know Peter is. Frantic, broken, distraught and out of breath, Mary rattles off what has happened.

“They have taken the Lord out of the tomb and we don’t know where they have put them.” She is beside herself with confusion.

Peter, watching her expressions, realizes that she isn’t joking around and he and John, without response follow Mary’s lead and all three are out the door and on their way to the tomb. John, always the renowned devoted one, beats Peter and reaches the tomb first. He and Peter look in the tomb, much the same way the three women had done not long before.

It was as Mary had told them. He was gone. All that was left was the cloth they had wrapped him in. They are beside themselves and rush back home. Fear? Bewilderment? Confusion? Hope?

Mary stays and is standing outside the tomb, crying. She came to the tomb for one reason and now her one reason is gone. And the ones she ran to for enlightenment have run back home. As she stands there weeping, she hears a noise. It causes her to stop and look. She looks around, but no one is there. She hears it again and realizes that it’s coming from inside. She peeks back into the tomb.

Did she gasp? Did she cover her mouth in surprise, covering a potential scream of fear? What was her reaction as she looked in and found two men sitting on the very place where Jesus should have been? The very place where the cloths he was wrapped in sat neatly folded next to these unknown men, evidence that Jesus had made His bed before he left. Martha would have rejoiced.

Her attention is given in full to the strangers when they ask her to verbalize the cause of her tears. They knew why, but they knew there was a God-sized hole in her heart that was aching right now to be filled by One she feared she had lost. However, they still  ask.  There is something freeing in being able to talk about your pain.

“They’ve taken my Lord away and I don’t know where they’ve put Him.”

My Lord. Her prince, her savior, her  friend. The only One who knew her to the depths of her being and in spite of it, loved her unconditionally and poured measures of grace over the stain of her sins.

A voice from behind startles her and she turns to find another man.

“Woman, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?”

It was just the gardener. Or so she thought. She is desperate. Where is her Lord?

“Sir, if you’ve taken my friend, tell me where he is and I’ll go get him.”

Poor Mary! Can’t you not feel her pain? The helplessness? The confusion? Her last opportunity to shower her Lord with love by preparing his body for burial and he’s missing.  And these men – they keep asking why she’s crying. Did they not know him? Had they not heard what kind of man he was? Did they not understand the difference he had made in so many lives?
And then Jesus, to save her from distraught, says her name.

“Mary.”

Can you imagine Jesus saying your name?

Weary from grief and overwhelmed with what to do in the situation that confronted her seconds earlier, she stops. The two angels that appeared as mere men hadn’t been able to help her. Who she thought was the gardener couldn’t help… until he said her name. All it took was to hear him say her name, as He had so many times before and she knew.

It was at that moment when Mary came undone and turned to Him and cried, “Teacher!”

I can just imagine that, at that very moment she was overflowing with excitement, relief, joy – all in one. She most likely did what anyone would do while standing face to face with the son of God – she fell at his feet.

He, seeing her joy return, probably gave a chuckle at her excitement and took a step back and  said, “Woah, Mary – hang on. Don’t hold on to me – I haven’t gone to my Father yet…”

Jesus knew this woman. He had given her grace when the rest of the world wanted to condemn her. He had given her his friendship when the rest of the world considered her trash. He had offered forgiveness when the rest of the world said she was unforgiveable. He gave her a new life and He loved her and had filled the God-sized hole in her heart.

“Mary.”

He knew what she needed at that moment, the same way He did when she stood next to him as he drew a line in the sand, attempting to separate the sinners from the self-proclaimed saints.

“Mary.”

As she listened to him call her by name, her hope was restored and her joy made full once again. And, once again, she ran off to tell the disciples the good news and instead of weeping, she was praising God.

Close your eyes and listen. Jesus is calling you by name. Do you hear it? Listen carefully. He is saying your name and offering to you all he offered to Mary – grace, joy, mercy, hope, unconditional love, forgiveness and more. Are you listening?