[A parishioner sent me this beautiful meditation (both text and audio) on Blessed Mother's experience immediately after the Good Friday before Easter Sunday. I thank the parishioner for sending me this beautiful and profound meditation which will help us enter into the mystery of Easter. - Fr. Paul ]
(click left to hear the audio of this meditation)
Today, Holy Saturday, is certainly the most mysterious day of the Christian calendar, and yet all too rarely do we pause to consider its significance. Usually, time, thought and energy are taken up with decorating churches and preparing for family events. Poised between the darkness of Good Friday and the light of Easter, it is a day of profound silence. We heard in the scriptures yesterday, in the reading of the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ, that Christ suffered, died and was buried. Today is the day that Christ was with the dead – eliminated from the world, knowing death completely and absolutely as each one of us will eventually know death.
We sit here today having the benefit of 2000 years of history knowing that Jesus rose from the dead – as promised. But what was it like that first day after the crucifixion – on that first Saturday – that would later become our Holy Saturday.
Can we even begin to imagine what it was like for Jesus’ disciples who had just lost their Lord and Master? And what about Jesus’ Mother…what did she do that day – that first day - after her Son, who was perfect, was killed. We heard in the scriptures of yesterday, that the disciple John took Mary into his heart and into his home. So on that Saturday morning, that Sabbath morning, Mary, mother of Jesus was with John at his home. What was she doing, what was she thinking, what was she feeling?
And so let’s try to imagine what Mary was doing on that first day. Let’s try to place ourselves in her place. As we sit here in these chairs, focused on the painting of Blessed Mother, imagine that we are peering into John’s home and we find Mary in prayer. Listen to her prayer and try to make it your own.
Blessed Mother’s Prayer on the morning after the crucifixion
Father, I am overwhelmed with grief. For years I have trusted in your promise and pondered the events of my Son’s life. Now, my heart is in shreds after watching the Son that you gave me all those years ago die a cruel death.
Oh, how I remember, as if it were yesterday, when the angel came to me. Your messenger, Gabriel, told me that I would conceive and bear a Son, and that his name would be great and that he would be spoken of by the prophets of old. Joseph, too, was chosen by you, and together we found a place in Bethlehem. There, the child was born. I wrapped him in a cloth…I held him close to me…I nursed him at my breast. The common folk came from the hilltop, and illustrious ones knelt before him. We named him Jesus and presented him to you.
On that day when we brought our baby to the temple, we did not fully understand what Simeon meant when he said, "Behold, this child is destined for the fall and rise of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be contradicted (and you yourself a sword will pierce) so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed."
The words of this prophesy sank deep into my heart like a burning knife. At that, great tears welled up in my eyes. My tears fell gently upon my tiny baby held securely in my arms. My tender baby Jesus too, was visibly affected ~ He drew closer to me in fear and trembling. Although horrified at the thought of what he must endure to save sinners from Hell ~ we answered in unison to you, Father, -- "yes" and, thus, a complete and trustful surrender to your will. I did not realize it then but this was the beginning of much sorrow.
Father, through these years my heart has entertained both exquisite pain and soaring joy at the same time on behalf of my Son. When he was 12 and we were on our way home from Jerusalem with friends and relatives after celebrating the feast of the Passover, we thought Jesus was traveling with one of our friends. It suddenly became an anxious time for us when we discovered that our Son was not with our group. The Prophesy of Simeon was our greatest fear. This ever-present dread was foremost in our minds as we returned to Jerusalem and searched desperately for our lost Son. The joy of finding him in the temple among the elders far outweighed the anguish of those few days. We did not understand when he told us, “Why were you looking for me? Did you not know that I must be busy with my Father’s affairs?” I carried those words in my heart and pondered what they could mean. We returned home and through the years he grew in wisdom and in stature.
I remember that wedding feast that Jesus and I attended. When the wine ran short, I said to him, “They have no wine.” His face was puzzled as He said to me, “Woman, how does your concern affect me? My hour has not yet come.” I pressed on and said to the servers, “Do whatever he tells you.” And so he changed water into wine. At first, I did not understand that when Jesus said to me that ‘the hour had not yet come’, that He was saying that if He performed a miracle, then the road to the Cross had begun! But, He performed this miracle and embarked on the journey to the Cross. I came to know that he had been a light hidden first in me, then among our family in Nazareth, but no longer was he hidden – beginning then He was a light for everyone. From that moment on I grew accustomed to sharing my Son with all.
The pain yesterday, Father, was so great when I had my first glimpse of him. His bruised and bleeding skin sent a sword of pain deep into my heart and tears rolled down my cheeks. I saw him weighed down by that large heavy cross on his shoulder. And that mass of cruel thorns they had placed on his head. They had him bound with ropes around his neck and waist, and oh how they shoved him, and prodded him along with the blunt end of spears, like a driven lamb to the slaughter. My ears were assaulted by the loud, angry insults and blasphemies they heaped upon him. My Son stumbled and fell ~ my arms reached for him in reflex but he was too far away. For a moment I thought my son was dead. My whole body trembled. I watched intently and then I saw him move. I wanted to take the cross from him and carry it myself. The soldiers manhandled him~ afraid that he would die before they could nail him to the cross ~ shoved him and yanked him around by the ropes to revive him. He rose slowly and began to walk again.
Weakened from the loss of blood and excruciating pain suffered in the cruel scourging, suffering terribly from the painful crown that pierced his skull and pricked his eyes and ears at every movement ~ he could barely see for the blood in his eyes. He walked on ~ one, slow, painful, step at a time. I tearfully watched as he drew closer to me. He slowly, painfully, lifted his head and our eyes met ~ and I gasped....His once beautiful face ~ swollen and bruised, covered in filth and blood and spittle! His thick dark hair and beard matted with sweat and blood. I called out...My son, My son. I felt helpless; yet, in his eyes I saw, ‘take courage, mother, there is a purpose.’ Could this be!
So many silent swords of pain passed between us in that brief look. The soldiers shouted and pushed the crowds back, and He was stolen from my view. I followed quickly and caught sight of him once more as he stumbled and fell again. If only I could have taken his place….
I would have taken his place on the cross. For three hours he hung there. I witnessed the cruelest violence, insults, and indignities. I could hardly breathe; my tortured heart pierced through with burning swords of unimaginable pain and sorrow for my beloved Son. My pain was overwhelming. I had been dreading this moment for more than 30 years since Simeon spoke those words to me in the temple.
My eyes were fixed on His hands and feet driven through with cruel nails, bloodied and pinned to that crude wooden cross. I thought about how I smothered them with kisses when he was my precious sweet baby. Those same hands healed and blessed ~ those same feet brought the good news to the poor and the hopeless.
I stood at the foot of the cross saying to myself over and over, my Son, my Son, I am here with you. Through this entire ordeal he has not fought back, he keeps pressing on. I thought to myself, why must you suffer this way? Was this your Father’s business, which Joseph and I failed to understand when we lost you in the Temple? Dear Father, I wondered: how could any of us call you “Abba” when Jesus was being tortured? And yet…and yet, I remembered the promise the angel told me when he announced Jesus’ coming to me. I remembered my response of faith: Be it done to me according to your word. And still I pleaded: Lord, I believe, help my unbelief.
Barely able to breathe, my son cried out, “Father, forgive them; they do not know what they are doing.” What did I hear? He wanted you to forgive them…to forgive them! How could this be? Unless, unless this was His Father’s business…His Father’s business of love. I knew then that my Son on the cross was the reflection of Your Love for your children –a love so deep that you used your Son to draw them back to you.
I stood there weeping, at the foot of the cross, with his dear friend John, and women of our community. My Son said to me, “Woman this is your Son” and then to John He said, “This is your mother.” Then I watched as he took his last breath. My heart pierced again with a sword. His earthly anguish was finished, but mine was greater than ever.
I knew that he had died and I felt as if life was leaving me as well. Suddenly, His adorable body was struck by the lance of a soldier. Blood and water came forth from his side. When they were certain that he was dead, the nails were pulled from his hands and feet, and He was lowered down from the cross. Jesus ~ all bloodied, bruised, torn and lifeless ~ was placed in my arms. A deep sorrow engulfed my being. The Crown of thorns having been removed, I saw with horror ~ the deep puncture wounds left in His forehead by the long sharp thorns. Jesus, my Son, in my arms one last time. As I held Him and gazed at Him, the memory of holding Him as an infant was fresh in my mind and at the same time a new image was being burned in my memory forever.
I looked at the holes in His Hands and Feet that had borne the weight of His body; the terrible wound in His side; His once beautiful face, now swollen and bruised. I pondered with deepest emotions all the multiple cruel and mortal wounds my Son willingly endured for humanity. I sat there, Father, holding my Son and pondering your plan. I gently kissed his wounded hands and laid them back over his body.
Just as I did on the day he was born, I once again wrapped His body in a cloth. We quickly, and without ceremony, placed his body in a borrowed sinner’s tomb. I said my farewell to the precious body of my Son. I stood with the other women as they rolled the heavy stone back over the entrance to the tomb. I watched as the stone fell in place with a final great shuddering sound. There were no birds singing, the world was silent. And silently, one by one, they slowly, tearfully departed. The pain in my heart was so great.
John urged me to leave with him ~ but I was unable to move. He placed his arm gently around my shoulders ~ choking back tears he said softly, "Mother." I raised my tearful eyes and looked at John; I realized that my duty toward my beloved Son, Jesus, now rested with his children ~ begotten at his death. I had become the adopted mother of all -- It was my Son’s final gift before his dying breath.
And so now, Father, I am waiting and watching. Life ended cruelly for my son, but I do remember what your angel Gabriel told me so many years ago, “Do not be afraid for you have found favor with God. Behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall name him Jesus. He will be great and will be called Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give him the throne of David his father, and he will rule over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end."
I believe, Father. I trust in your love; I trust in your promise. I knew this had to be…and I wait in faith!
