Love in the Passion

As I'm posting this reflection on the Passion on our greatest day of joy, I'll give you a pass if you want to wait to read it. I've been slouching toward the Resurrection this week, taking advantage of school break for my own ends and neglecting my pastoral committment here . . .

John 19:25-27 

      When I read John's Gospel, I almost want to put it down and walk away at moments during Jesus' trial, march to Calvary, and his Passion. The evangelist does not let us have it easy. We want to say, "Stop! It would have been enough to tell us just once"--that the crowd shouted "Crucify him!", that Jesus fell. But instead the author relentlessly repeats, multiplying the sense of the crowd and their flaming hatred, of Jesus' own helplessness. In stories with a buildup so dramatic and violent we're conditioned to expect a last minute reversal, a hero to swoop down and set everything right. Although we know there will be no deus ex machina here, it still breaks our hearts to see the helplessness of the cast of characters we're rooting for: a suffering man and his anguished, powerless friends.

      There are a few stark moments of beauty in this story, thrown into relief against the backdrop of hatred, ignorance and pain. One is when the crucified Jesus calls his mother--addressing her tenderly as "Woman," a term of respect and endearment--and calls his friend John, and makes them family to one another. We often interpret this story as an instance of Jesus' perfect concern for those he loved, and it is that. I see it also as a model of our relationship to God in helpless times of trouble. At a time when Jesus felt abandoned, he made sure that two of his best beloved would not be.

      Our artistic tradition tells us that the disciple John was a young and gentle man. We can imagine him as someone, like many we know, who retains the loving heart of a child through every stage in life, perhaps a sensitive person whom life's pains and losses have special power to wound. Jesus who sees and loves the human uniqueness in each of us would have treasured his friend's tender nature, and we can be sure that throughout his passion Jesus' heart was filled with concern for the pain and loss of all those he loved.

      With them was Mary, who had known this pain would come since she first held Jesus in her arms. Mary had, in all likelihood, taught Jesus his first prayers; she watched as his role with God grew in his own understanding and in the eyes of the world. She traveled with him throughout his ministry and is called his most faithful disciple. Mary heard as public opinion swelled against Jesus, and she walked with him up Calvary. The strength of God must have been with her in so strong a way as to be almost a part of her being. God was not visible when the Son of God died, but God's steadfast, unyielding, parental love was manifest: the mother of God was there on that hill. 

      Jesus commits John and Mary to one another's care. This is a model of human concern for the welfare of those we love, and it's more than that.  As Jesus entrusted the disciple John to the motherly attentions of the one who gave him life, he entrusts all of us who are his sisters and brothers to the care of God who gave Jesus life.  John accepted his responsibility to care for Mary's earthly welfare, taking her into his home. We, too, are called to respond to God's parental love with willing attention to God's well-being, God's purpose on earth.

      I imagine the young disciple and the aging disciple embracing one another in honor of Jesus' request. Mary's arms encircled one who was human as her son was human; John was comforted by the strength of God who was with Mary intrinsically and innately. Perhaps we, too, can do nothing better when we are faced with the relentless horror of the crucifixion but to reach out our human arms and embrace God. Hold on tight.