A Meditation for Easter

I'd rather not give my name.

Just think of me as an ordinary Jewish housewife and mother. I grew up in the city, and have rarely been outside it. I particularly enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the market, especially at festival time when the crowds arrived from all over the countryside.

That year Passover was different. Yes, the streets were crowded with pilgrims eager to attend the temple as in every year. But, I think it was a few days previously, when I'd caught a glimpse of a man on a donkey. He looked so young and yet old, he was worn but determined and somehow he had a regal bearing.

The crowd around him had gone mad, throwing their cloaks on the ground, to be trampled into the dust by that poor colt, waving branches around and shouting hysterically. There were bound to repercussions from the authorities. I kept out of the way. Rumour had it the man was from Nazareth, I wonder how his mother felt about him creating all that commotion? Leading up to the festival, too! I bet she'd have words to say to him. Who did he think he was?

There were regular executions under the Roman command and along with some of the other God-fearing women, I used to do what I could for the condemned prisoners. To alleviate their pain on the cross, the soldiers let us administer a mixture of drugs and wine. Little good it did the poor devils. We did what we could.

We were also expected to weep for the prisoners, part of the job, there was rarely anyone else there to mourn. We never knew the condemned men but we couldn't let them die with no-one there to shed a tear. Think of their mothers - losing their sons. Surely, if they'd known, they'd be there themselves.

Well, that Passover there was a rush trial, I only heard about it when I was in the market haggling over the last few bits for the celebration. The streets were crowded, then I caught a glimpse of the pitiful procession, three criminals carrying their crosses. One of them stumbled, poor thing, he'd been beaten to a pulp, the soldiers had to grab a passing pilgrim to help carry his cross.

Then I saw the placard the soldier was holding, "This is the King of the Jews". Isn't that what the crowd had been shouting about the man on the colt, the man from Nazareth? Jesus was his name.

I thought he'd had large following as a teacher and healer, he even had a reputation for listening to women and treating them well, mind you the religious authorities hadn't liked him, he was too clever for them - told them a few home truths, he did. I pushed my way through the crowd to get a little closer to the other women following him and I began to wail.

Suddenly, he stumbled, right in front of me.

He turned and looked at me.

Such pain, and yet such love in those eyes. Then I began to cry, now I cried genuine tears.

Jesus spoke to us women, he spoke as if he knew us personally: "Don't weep for me; weep for yourselves and your children."

I went cold. What did he mean? He was the one being led out to be crucified - Weep for my children? What was going to happen to them? What did he know? I wanted to hurry home and check that my two were still alive. But, I was drawn on by that face and the push of the crowd. I followed the procession out of the city to that horrible hill. That day I wept with every fibre of my being.

Who was that man and what did he mean?

My two are grown and flown the nest now with children of their own, but I still think about that day and shiver when I remember what he said.

He has a large following now - they say he is alive again. But, the authorities don't like them. I keep my head down.

I haven't been to a crucifixion since. I couldn't cope any more. What if it had been my son hanging there on that ghastly cross? I often wonder about his mother...

© 2002, Sue Groom

Stations of the Cross