All In The Family
Read the Sermon
ALL IN THE FAMILY
The Rev. J. Donald Waring
Grace Church in New York
Good Friday + March 29, 2024
The Seven Last Words of Christ: The Third Word
When Jesus saw his mother, and the disciple whom he loved standing near, he said to his mother, “Woman, behold your son!” Then he said to the disciple, “Behold, your mother!” (John 19:26-27)
In 1988 I was a seminary student here in New York City. My father was the rector of an Episcopal church in Michigan. Dad’s father – my grandfather – lived in Upper Montclair, New Jersey. Grandpa Waring had always been a big part of our lives, and was especially close with my father. But by the time I started seminary, he had slipped deep into dementia. Thus, I remember Dad’s frequent trips to visit him, to help oversee his care, and to check in with me. Then one day the call came that Grandpa had died in his 87th year. Dad and his two brothers made the arrangements, which would include a viewing at the funeral home, and a service at the church the next day.
At the funeral home, I remember Dad’s looking at the open casket, beholding the body of his father, and saying to me, “Thank God for the resurrection. Without the resurrection, this would be the end.” It struck me there that Dad’s Christian faith had triumphed over grief, and this was a good thing. I mean, who wants to be an emotional wreck? Dad didn’t. I don’t, and neither do you. The next day at the church the funeral began with the hymn, “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty.” True to form, Dad sang the first verse with a clear and steady voice. Strangely, he did not join in for the second verse, and when I looked at him next to me in the pew, he had dissolved in tears, something I had never before seen him do. Resurrection faith could not hold back grief. That day I beheld my father in a new way.
Dad probably would not have appreciated my telling the story of his grief. He would want you to believe that he stood strong in the Lord, and always looked on the bright side of life. So turn about is fair play. Three years ago my mother was in her final days. When I arrived at her hospital bedside for what would be our last conversation, she apologized that we had driven all the way to see her, and she wouldn’t be able to go out to dinner. She confessed to being weary. She made me promise that we’d bury her with her parents in New Jersey, and transfer Dad’s ashes there from Michigan. I assured Mom that we had it all under control. If she was ready to let go, she could depart in peace. We would miss her more than words could express, but we’d all be fine. I, especially, would be fine. “Mom, I got this.”
Overnight, Mom took a decided turn for the worse, so much so that by the morning it was not possible to communicate with her. She began a final, long ordeal. The extended family gathered at her bedside after we had begged, bribed, and sneaked past the Covid police. I, the priest, would lead the Ministration at the Time of Death in a clear and steady voice. Right! Guess which son turned out to be not-so fine when he beheld his mother, lying in great weakness. Just a few lines into the Prayer Book liturgy, the tears overwhelmed me like a tidal wave hitting a sandcastle. I was an emotional wreck. So much for resurrection faith helping me to keep grief in check.
In the Gospel of John we read that at some point in Jesus’ final, long ordeal, he looked and saw a circle of people whom he deeply loved keeping vigil: Mary his mother; his mother’s sister who would be the aunt of Jesus, named Salome; Mary the wife of Clopas; and Mary Magdalene. Also with the four women was the enigmatic, unnamed “disciple whom Jesus loved.” So it was these five who were there. As John the Gospel writer reports, When Jesus saw his mother, and the disciple whom he loved standing near, he said to his mother, “Woman, behold your son!” Then he said to the disciple, “Behold your mother!” And from that hour the disciple took her to his own home.
At first glance it seems perfectly obvious what Jesus meant by his “third word” from the cross. When he bid Mary and the Beloved Disciple to look upon each other as mother and son, he was simply seeing to it that Mary would have a secure place in a loving home after his death. The identity of the Beloved Disciple has always been a mystery, and to offer the pros and cons of all the theories would keep us here well past 3:00 pm today. Nevertheless, the most likely hypothesis, put forth by the late Biblical scholar Raymond Brown, is that the Beloved Disciple is John, the brother of James, the son of Zebedee and Salome. If indeed John’s mother was Salome, the sister of Mary, this would mean that John and Jesus were first cousins. Thus, when Jesus entrusted Mary into the care of John, it was a perfectly natural way to reach out to his mother and secure her continued place in the family for the remainder of her years. It was all in the family.
Throughout the centuries, however, preachers and commentators have not been satisfied to leave well enough alone. The straightforward interpretation of the words that Jesus spoke to Mary and John just won’t do. Those who plum for deeper, mystical, theological truth in the third word from the cross remind us of the multilayered, mystical nature of the Gospel in which it occurs. In the Fourth Gospel every word and deed of Jesus is symbolic. What he says on one level has its true and intended meaning on a deeper level. They tell us that the writer of John would not be concerned with such mundane matters as a son reaching out to his mother. Rather, we must understand how Mary herself represents far more than merely the mother of Jesus. She is the mother of God, Theotokos, and Co-Redemptrix. We are to see her as the new Eve, the universal mother of the redeemed and regenerated humanity.
Another popular interpretation puts less emphasis on Mary but reaches essentially the same conclusion. With these words to Mary and John, Jesus was actually calling into existence the first church – the redeemed community of people gathered in his name. They would be new creatures, a new society free from the old obvious distinctions of male and female, Jew and Greek, slave and free, Hatfield and McCoy.
My problem with these lines of thinking is that they conspire to clean up the raw emotions of the moment. Personally, I struggle with the notion that Jesus, having been awake all the previous night, arrested and unjustly tried, beaten and mocked, flogged and crucified, would be finding here an opportunity to draw a theological connection between a conversation he had with Mary at Cana, and his conversation with Mary now at Calvary. It’s not to say the connection isn’t there, but I have my doubts it was on Jesus’ mind when he spoke to Mary from the cross. With his flayed-open back rubbing against the splintery wood of the cross, with nails the size of railroad spikes hammered through his wrists and ankles, Jesus looked and saw his mother. Was he really using Mary and the moment to score a few more theological points?
Likewise, Mary. Let us behold his mother. Was she really at the foot of the cross basking in some kind of strange glory, knowing that Jesus’ hour had finally come? I’m sorry, but I just don’t subscribe to this point of view. I can’t imagine that Mary was anything but overwhelmed by grief and tears. The Gospels give us only fleeting glimpses of Mary. But we see enough of her to conclude that she remained connected to Jesus throughout his adult life, and that their relationship was always difficult. Jesus had been a handful! In fact, when he said, “Woman, behold your son,” Mary could well have replied, “Thank you, very much; thank you, very much. That’s the nicest thing that Jesus has ever said to me.” We don’t have time to go through them all, but every other recorded word that Jesus spoke to Mary is not what a mother would want to hear. Jesus had been headstrong, passionate about his mission and ministry. Along the way, Jesus’ five brothers, two sisters, and Mary did not understand. Now at the foot of the cross, Mary could not possibly have understood the crucifixion of her first-born son as meaning his hour had come. Rather, it meant his hour would never come. This was the end.
As you and I well know, the cross was not the end. I don’t mean to be jumping ahead of where we are supposed to be on Good Friday, but the Gospel of John actually gives us permission to do so. John invites us to imagine Mary’s life after the cross when he writes, And from that hour the disciple took her to his own home. Why would Jesus not commend Mary to James, his younger brother next in line? We’ll never know for sure. It may be as simple as James’ not being present at the foot of the cross. In any case, the call came to John. Mary would live in the home of her nephew, John, which, by the way, was also the home of her sister, Salome, and brother-in-law Zebedee.
What transpired in all the years ahead? Again, we just don’t know, but I think we’d be on safe ground to imagine a bustling fisherman’s household with perhaps three generations under one small roof. Over many meals they would tell and retell the stories of their life with Jesus, and the transformative effect he had upon them. He was her son, his cousin, their nephew. They would remember the words he spoke, and the prayers they overheard him pray. They would recall his miracles, and especially, the last week of his mortal life in Jerusalem. They would break the bread and pass the cup, as Jesus commanded them to do, and there he would be in the midst of them. They would remember his death, and marvel over his resurrection. I imagine it would take them many years to process it all. The ongoing reflecting and remembering would be all in the family. The only hard evidence we have of they life they might have lived is the Gospel of John itself. The authorship of John’s Gospel has always been an open question. But the premise that the Beloved Disciple played a major role in its compilation, if not wrote it himself, is the most plausible of all the theories.
Jesus warned any who would come after him that family life can always be a bit idolatrous. Families can be idolatrous when God is merely a means to preserving the natural order of mother, father, daughter, son. But families also can be sacramental. Families are sacramental when fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters open up windows to God for one another. I give thanks every day for my parents and grandparents. They all, in their own way, shined the light of Christ on me. I imagine that the household of John, Mary, Salome, and Zebedee functioned in a similar or even greater way. They were sacraments to each other. Were they the new community of the redeemed? I suppose, if that’s what you want to call them. Were they still ordered along the traditional roles of a household of their time? Probably. Someone had to catch the fish, cook the meals, take out the garbage, and feed the dog.
“Woman, behold your son. Behold your mother.” When I survey the wondrous cross, and hear these words of Jesus, I discern the call of Christ: that by the grace of God and the power of the Spirit, we all be sacraments to each other. Don’t make it any more complicated than it needs to be.