When I was a senior in high school, I had a friend approach me twirling a butterfly knife. As he walked toward me, spinning and flipping it, he explained how I'd never really been his friend, he was angry because I was more popular and he felt betrayed.
He brought up stuff from way back, kept walking closer, flipping that knife. He was big too. I was still trying to figure it all out when he lunged at me.
As I grabbed his hand to stop him, my mind was completely and utterly confused. There was the reflexive move to protect myself, but the rest of my brain was in chaos, plowing through history, trying desperately to understand. Why was he so angry? Why didn't I know it? Is there someway out?
Holding his arm away from me, I looked at the knife. It was plastic.
This stupid high school prank is the only experience I've had which I think gives a glimpse of how Mary felt the day Christ died. And it doesn't even come close.
She knew for certain she was a virgin who had given birth. The same angel who promised her that, also promised her son would,
"... be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob's descendants forever; his kingdom will never end."
But it was ending. It had ended. He just said it.
"It is finished."
She had been with him when they fled to Egypt. Saw him wow the rabbis in the temple at 12. Watched him turn water into wine.
If she didn't see, she heard about the blind seeing, the lame walking, the hungry fed and the dead returning to life. And she had to have thought, "It's true. Everything the angel said was true."
Except it wasn't. It was finished.
I struggle to think how confused she must have been during all the beatings he took. When they stripped his clothes and put thorns on his head. When they drove nails into his feet and hands. When they hung him there.
She must have wondered, "When will he do something? Say something? Put a stop to this? Isn't there a way out?"
But there was no way out. His last breath. The spear. The tomb.
There are times when I can't understand God and his purposes. I have a hard time understanding the wickedness of man, mine included. I look at the chaos of the world and I'm bewildered. And I'm reminded of Mary.
Everything she knew was true on Thursday was crushed in Friday's finality. Then Saturday's all consuming despair was blown away in Sunday's sudden wonder. When I am overwhelmed with confusion from the weight of my circumstances I need to remember Mary. Because even when it's finished, it's not over.
He brought up stuff from way back, kept walking closer, flipping that knife. He was big too. I was still trying to figure it all out when he lunged at me.
As I grabbed his hand to stop him, my mind was completely and utterly confused. There was the reflexive move to protect myself, but the rest of my brain was in chaos, plowing through history, trying desperately to understand. Why was he so angry? Why didn't I know it? Is there someway out?
Holding his arm away from me, I looked at the knife. It was plastic.
This stupid high school prank is the only experience I've had which I think gives a glimpse of how Mary felt the day Christ died. And it doesn't even come close.
She knew for certain she was a virgin who had given birth. The same angel who promised her that, also promised her son would,
"... be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob's descendants forever; his kingdom will never end."
But it was ending. It had ended. He just said it.
"It is finished."
She had been with him when they fled to Egypt. Saw him wow the rabbis in the temple at 12. Watched him turn water into wine.
If she didn't see, she heard about the blind seeing, the lame walking, the hungry fed and the dead returning to life. And she had to have thought, "It's true. Everything the angel said was true."
Except it wasn't. It was finished.
I struggle to think how confused she must have been during all the beatings he took. When they stripped his clothes and put thorns on his head. When they drove nails into his feet and hands. When they hung him there.
She must have wondered, "When will he do something? Say something? Put a stop to this? Isn't there a way out?"
But there was no way out. His last breath. The spear. The tomb.
There are times when I can't understand God and his purposes. I have a hard time understanding the wickedness of man, mine included. I look at the chaos of the world and I'm bewildered. And I'm reminded of Mary.
Everything she knew was true on Thursday was crushed in Friday's finality. Then Saturday's all consuming despair was blown away in Sunday's sudden wonder. When I am overwhelmed with confusion from the weight of my circumstances I need to remember Mary. Because even when it's finished, it's not over.
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