Easter Vigil 2011 Sermon
It seems that I was far too young to carry the responsibility that God gave me, but I do find peace in the words of St. Paul, that God chooses the weak in the world to shame the strong and God chooses the foolish to shame the wise. At age fourteen I felt both weak and foolish, so perhaps that made me an excellent candidate to be chosen by God. And I had been dreaming about being a mother since I was very little, hoping to be as good a mother as my own, I just didn’t expect motherhood to unfold the way it did, but who does? Life is full of surprises.
But there I was, pregnant out of wedlock, absolutely terrified that Joseph would either put me away or publically disgrace me. But God intervened and Joseph is such a godly man, marrying me and raising Jesus as his own. It is a rare man that marries a woman in such a state and raises a child not his own as though they were his own flesh and blood. And really, Joseph does not get the credit he deserves, while I fear I get far too much, but of course, all is grace, and Joseph doesn’t mind. All is grace, and my ability to say “yes” to angel Gabriel when asked to bear God’s Son was absolute, pure grace.
After Jesus’ birth, the reality of what was happening began to sink in when the shepherds and magi came to visit. The stories they told of the miraculous star and the heavenly host glorifying God, announcing my little baby’s birth astounded me. I pondered it in my heart from that day on and I never forgot a single word.
And of course I prayed and prayed and prayed. God had to be my strength because I feared that the load and responsibility was too much for me. I often wondered “why me?” And when my son looked up into my eyes as a child and later as a young boy, I wondered if he asked the same question and wondered if perhaps a wiser woman should have had my place. I don’t wonder anymore, because I’ve learned that no matter your task or calling in life, we are only able to do what we do because God grants us the grace and strength to do it. And that is what God granted me when I most needed it. All is grace.
As Jesus grew and started to become a man, I knew I had to let go. That fact hit me the day we thought we had lost him in Jerusalem during Passover when he was only 12 and we found him in the Temple, teaching the elders. I had to remind myself then that he was not only my little boy, but God’ Son.
Still, as his mother, it was so hard to let go; I loved him more than anything on earth. But as he grew, a shift was occurring, and one day, as I listened to him teaching the crowds, I saw that he had become my teacher too. Where once he sat at my feet as I taught him the Hebrew Scriptures, now he was teaching with authority to God’s people and had knowledge and wisdom that far surpassed my own. Now it was time for me to sit at his feet and learn.
At times, fear crept into my heart though, because I knew who he was and what he was meant to do. I could see the growing hatred and jealousy in the eyes of the religious leaders and scribes. It was becoming clearer and clearer that he was going to be killed. My instinct as a mother was to protect him, just as I had when he was young and fell down and needed comforting and love. But now, it was out of my hands, I was helpless, and I had to submit myself to God’s will, knowing it meant that I would lose my son. God grant me the grace I prayed.
To see your child suffer is the greatest pain a mother can bear, and words can’t describe the way I felt during his trial and subsequent torture. As Jesus walked along Calvary carrying the heavy cross, I scrambled through the crowds, hoping to catch his eye, to offer him some loving sense of comfort, but I was helpless. I wanted so much to tell the crowds to stop taunting my beloved son, couldn’t they see that he was not only innocent, but a miraculous gift from heaven to us all? When I finally saw him on the road, beaten and battered, falling to his knees, my heart broke. Time seemed to stand still as they slowly moved him from the road to Golgotha and then placed my boy’s body on that cross. I couldn’t stand to be there and see him suffer the excruciating pain, but I couldn’t leave either: that was my child, that was my Jesus.
That dark afternoon on the cross, my son, who had always been so loving, offered me yet one more act of love: looking at John and I he said, “woman this is your son” and to John, “this is your mother.” Even as he was dying he was thinking of others and thinking of me, knowing how much support we would need in the coming days and years without him. My sister squeezed my arm and Mary Magdalene and Mary of Clopas-my sister in law, all stood by me that terrible afternoon, offering their support as we cried, huddled together.
And then, my boy died. He died like a common criminal, in public disgrace… this loving gift from heaven. When they took his body off the cross, I held him for a long time, just as I had when he was an infant, and I began wondering if perhaps something had gone wrong in God’s plan…it seemed too much, too terrible. I looked for any sign of life, but there was none: my boy was truly dead. Weeping overtook me. They finally took Jesus from me and placed him in a nearby tomb. Because it was the Sabbath, we were not able to properly prepare his body for burial. It was the final insult.
I returned home and my family and the Mary’s all offered their support. But I was overwhelmed with grief, shocked senseless by what I had seen my boy suffer. And yet, and this is always true of God grace, even in that darkest hour, there were moments when I recalled the words of the angel and God’s promises. And in my heart I held on to that mustard seed of faith that this terrible suffering was not the end of the story at all, it was only the beginning. That Sunday morning when the Mary’s went to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body, I stayed home. I stayed home because, truth be told, I hoped the tomb was going to be empty.
When the women returned, excited and scared and filled with wonder, explaining what the angels had told them, that Jesus had risen, I knew it was all true. God had raised up my beloved Jesus from the dead and he was alive! God’s promises were good! The grief turned to joy, death turned into new life, and once again I realized God had done the impossible: this was the miracles of miracles! When I finally saw Jesus, he was changed, he was now the resurrected Christ and Lord, the Savior of the world, but he was also still the son I knew and loved. And everything I, we, had endured finally made sense. That’s the thing about life: while you’re in the thick of it, in the pain and suffering, it’s impossible to see the meaning or where it’s all going. It can feel like nothing more than senseless suffering. I could never have foreseen how much suffering my family and I would have to endure. Most of us don’t.
But be of good cheer my friends: God is faithful, God’s grace brought me through the worst imaginable and God’s grace will bring you through. The end of the story is much, much better than the beginning or the middle. As St. Paul says, “we do not lose heart…for this…momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure.” And “our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.” I have lived this truth, I have seen it lived, and THAT is the true promise of Easter my friends! All is grace! Glory be to God! Alleluia! Jesus is risen!
It seems that I was far too young to carry the responsibility that God gave me, but I do find peace in the words of St. Paul, that God chooses the weak in the world to shame the strong and God chooses the foolish to shame the wise. At age fourteen I felt both weak and foolish, so perhaps that made me an excellent candidate to be chosen by God. And I had been dreaming about being a mother since I was very little, hoping to be as good a mother as my own, I just didn’t expect motherhood to unfold the way it did, but who does? Life is full of surprises.
But there I was, pregnant out of wedlock, absolutely terrified that Joseph would either put me away or publically disgrace me. But God intervened and Joseph is such a godly man, marrying me and raising Jesus as his own. It is a rare man that marries a woman in such a state and raises a child not his own as though they were his own flesh and blood. And really, Joseph does not get the credit he deserves, while I fear I get far too much, but of course, all is grace, and Joseph doesn’t mind. All is grace, and my ability to say “yes” to angel Gabriel when asked to bear God’s Son was absolute, pure grace.
After Jesus’ birth, the reality of what was happening began to sink in when the shepherds and magi came to visit. The stories they told of the miraculous star and the heavenly host glorifying God, announcing my little baby’s birth astounded me. I pondered it in my heart from that day on and I never forgot a single word.
And of course I prayed and prayed and prayed. God had to be my strength because I feared that the load and responsibility was too much for me. I often wondered “why me?” And when my son looked up into my eyes as a child and later as a young boy, I wondered if he asked the same question and wondered if perhaps a wiser woman should have had my place. I don’t wonder anymore, because I’ve learned that no matter your task or calling in life, we are only able to do what we do because God grants us the grace and strength to do it. And that is what God granted me when I most needed it. All is grace.
As Jesus grew and started to become a man, I knew I had to let go. That fact hit me the day we thought we had lost him in Jerusalem during Passover when he was only 12 and we found him in the Temple, teaching the elders. I had to remind myself then that he was not only my little boy, but God’ Son.
Still, as his mother, it was so hard to let go; I loved him more than anything on earth. But as he grew, a shift was occurring, and one day, as I listened to him teaching the crowds, I saw that he had become my teacher too. Where once he sat at my feet as I taught him the Hebrew Scriptures, now he was teaching with authority to God’s people and had knowledge and wisdom that far surpassed my own. Now it was time for me to sit at his feet and learn.
At times, fear crept into my heart though, because I knew who he was and what he was meant to do. I could see the growing hatred and jealousy in the eyes of the religious leaders and scribes. It was becoming clearer and clearer that he was going to be killed. My instinct as a mother was to protect him, just as I had when he was young and fell down and needed comforting and love. But now, it was out of my hands, I was helpless, and I had to submit myself to God’s will, knowing it meant that I would lose my son. God grant me the grace I prayed.
To see your child suffer is the greatest pain a mother can bear, and words can’t describe the way I felt during his trial and subsequent torture. As Jesus walked along Calvary carrying the heavy cross, I scrambled through the crowds, hoping to catch his eye, to offer him some loving sense of comfort, but I was helpless. I wanted so much to tell the crowds to stop taunting my beloved son, couldn’t they see that he was not only innocent, but a miraculous gift from heaven to us all? When I finally saw him on the road, beaten and battered, falling to his knees, my heart broke. Time seemed to stand still as they slowly moved him from the road to Golgotha and then placed my boy’s body on that cross. I couldn’t stand to be there and see him suffer the excruciating pain, but I couldn’t leave either: that was my child, that was my Jesus.
That dark afternoon on the cross, my son, who had always been so loving, offered me yet one more act of love: looking at John and I he said, “woman this is your son” and to John, “this is your mother.” Even as he was dying he was thinking of others and thinking of me, knowing how much support we would need in the coming days and years without him. My sister squeezed my arm and Mary Magdalene and Mary of Clopas-my sister in law, all stood by me that terrible afternoon, offering their support as we cried, huddled together.
And then, my boy died. He died like a common criminal, in public disgrace… this loving gift from heaven. When they took his body off the cross, I held him for a long time, just as I had when he was an infant, and I began wondering if perhaps something had gone wrong in God’s plan…it seemed too much, too terrible. I looked for any sign of life, but there was none: my boy was truly dead. Weeping overtook me. They finally took Jesus from me and placed him in a nearby tomb. Because it was the Sabbath, we were not able to properly prepare his body for burial. It was the final insult.
I returned home and my family and the Mary’s all offered their support. But I was overwhelmed with grief, shocked senseless by what I had seen my boy suffer. And yet, and this is always true of God grace, even in that darkest hour, there were moments when I recalled the words of the angel and God’s promises. And in my heart I held on to that mustard seed of faith that this terrible suffering was not the end of the story at all, it was only the beginning. That Sunday morning when the Mary’s went to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body, I stayed home. I stayed home because, truth be told, I hoped the tomb was going to be empty.
When the women returned, excited and scared and filled with wonder, explaining what the angels had told them, that Jesus had risen, I knew it was all true. God had raised up my beloved Jesus from the dead and he was alive! God’s promises were good! The grief turned to joy, death turned into new life, and once again I realized God had done the impossible: this was the miracles of miracles! When I finally saw Jesus, he was changed, he was now the resurrected Christ and Lord, the Savior of the world, but he was also still the son I knew and loved. And everything I, we, had endured finally made sense. That’s the thing about life: while you’re in the thick of it, in the pain and suffering, it’s impossible to see the meaning or where it’s all going. It can feel like nothing more than senseless suffering. I could never have foreseen how much suffering my family and I would have to endure. Most of us don’t.
But be of good cheer my friends: God is faithful, God’s grace brought me through the worst imaginable and God’s grace will bring you through. The end of the story is much, much better than the beginning or the middle. As St. Paul says, “we do not lose heart…for this…momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure.” And “our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.” I have lived this truth, I have seen it lived, and THAT is the true promise of Easter my friends! All is grace! Glory be to God! Alleluia! Jesus is risen!
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