SERMON AT ST JOHN'S CATHEDRAL OBAN
Murdoch MacKenzie
Good Friday 2009
Reading: John 19:25-27
John 19:26 ‘ Woman, here is your son’ We have just been remembering that Jesus took a thief to Paradise. Jesus did not come to condemn the world, but that the world through him might be saved. And his invitation to repentance is always open. As the poet wrote of the man who was killed as he was thrown from his galloping horse:
‘Between the stirrup and the ground
Mercy I asked and mercy found.’
And we can receive that mercy this morning as we look at the Cross and realise our own sin, our own unworthiness. ‘When I survey the wondrous cross, my richest gain I count but loss.’
There was one person who surveyed the wondrous cross and who was losing her richest gain, losing something very precious, losing her own son, her first-born. Her name was Mary. Just imagine the agony of Mary watching her own child die a horrible, lingering, painful death. Perhaps she remembered the words of the old man Simeon in the Temple at Jerusalem when he said: ‘Behold this child is set for the fall and rising of many in Israel and for a sign that is spoken against (and a sword will pierce your own soul also) that the thoughts out of many hearts may be revealed.’
And that sword was piercing the heart of Mary as she stood at the foot of the Cross watching the agony of her son. Perhaps she remembered the words which had sprung to her lips so long ago, before Jesus was even born – the words of the Magnificat. ‘My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour.’ The faith of Mary continually cradling the Christchild, even at the very end, in the midst of his agony on the Cross.
There was once a young French soldier in hospital in Geneva. He was very ill and nothing would tempt his appetite. He wrote to his 70 year old father in far-away Brittany and told him he was going to die. The old man made the pilgrimage to Geneva and tried to persuade him not to die but to take something to eat. He fancied nothing. Then from his knapsack the old man took out a common loaf of rye bread, the kind so familiar to the peasants of Brittany. ‘Here my son, take this, it was made by your mother.’ With tears in his eyes the young man reached out his hands. ‘Give it me, father, I’m hungry. It’s good, so good, the bread from home.’
The love of a son for his mother and the love of a mother for her son
Such love is summed up in the words of the poem ‘The Mother’s Heart’ by Jean Richepin (1849-1926)
A poor lad once and a lad so trim
Gave his love to her who loved not him.
And said she, ‘Bring me tonight you rogue,
Your mother’s heart to feed my dog.
To his mother’s house went that young man,
Killed her, cut out her heart, and ran,
But as he was running, look you, he fell
And the heart rolled out on the ground as well.
And the lad, as the heart was arolling, heard
That the heart was speaking and this was the word
The heart was weeping and crying so small
'Are you hurt, my child, are you hurt at all?
The love of a mother, which goes on loving whatever you do to her. And Mary was often perplexed by her, O so strange son. At the age of twelve he suddenly disappeared, ran off and they couldn’t find him. They had to go all the way back to Jerusalem and it took them three days to find him. Can you imagine what Mary might have said to him? Well we don’t need to imagine, because it is recorded in the Bible: ‘Son, why have you treated us like this? Behold your father and I have been looking for you anxiously?’ And he gave them an enigmatic reply: ‘Why were you looking for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?’ But they didn’t understand what he was saying to them and so, like many mothers, Mary kept all these things in her heart.
Much later when Jesus was in his thirties Mary heard him say: “Who are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.” (Mark 3:33-34)
Or think of the marriage in Cana of Galilee, when Jesus seemed to be downright rude to her. Mary said: ‘They have no wine.’ Jesus replied: ‘O woman, what have you to do with me? My hour has not yet come.’ Yet Mary, who had learned a thing or two about Jesus, simply said: ‘Do whatever he tells you.’ And he turned the water into wine.
And when his hour did come, she was right there, at the foot of the cross, with the other women, all the men having fled except for one – John the beloved disciple. And looking down from the cross to the earth beneath, with almost his dying breath, Jesus takes care of his mother, entrusting her to the best place that he knew, to the home of his beloved disciple.
In the words of Kipling:
‘If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’mine, O mother o’mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’mine, O mother o’mine!
If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o’mine, O mother o’mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o’mine, O mother o’mine!
If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’mine!’.
Jesus knew very well just how much Mary had loved him, how she had cared for him, how she had understood him, how she had obeyed him, how she had been beside him from the moment he was born until this final moment at the foot of the Cross. Thus it was that he loved her to the very end and said: ‘Woman, here is your son.’
Amen.
Murdoch MacKenzie
This reminds us of John Masefield’s poem ‘TO HIS MOTHER C.L.M.'
In the dark womb where I began
My mother's life made me a man.
Through all the months of human birth
Her beauty fed my common earth.
I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,
But through the death of some of her.
Down in the darkness of the grave
She cannot see the life she gave.
For all her love, she cannot tell
Whether I use it ill or well,
Nor knock at dusty doors to find
Her beauty dusty in the mind.
If the grave's gates could be undone,
She would not know her little son,
I am so grown. If we should meet
She would pass by me in the street,
Unless my soul's face let her see
My sense of what she did for me.
What have I done to keep in mind
My debt to her and womankind?
What woman's happier life repays
Her for those months of wretched days?
For all my mouthless body leeched
Ere Birth's releasing hell was reached?
What have I done, or tried, or said
In thanks to that dear woman dead?
Men triumph over women still,
Men trample women's rights at will,
And man's lust roves the world untamed.
O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.
John 19:26 ‘ Woman, here is your son’ We have just been remembering that Jesus took a thief to Paradise. Jesus did not come to condemn the world, but that the world through him might be saved. And his invitation to repentance is always open. As the poet wrote of the man who was killed as he was thrown from his galloping horse:
‘Between the stirrup and the ground
Mercy I asked and mercy found.’
And we can receive that mercy this morning as we look at the Cross and realise our own sin, our own unworthiness. ‘When I survey the wondrous cross, my richest gain I count but loss.’
There was one person who surveyed the wondrous cross and who was losing her richest gain, losing something very precious, losing her own son, her first-born. Her name was Mary. Just imagine the agony of Mary watching her own child die a horrible, lingering, painful death. Perhaps she remembered the words of the old man Simeon in the Temple at Jerusalem when he said: ‘Behold this child is set for the fall and rising of many in Israel and for a sign that is spoken against (and a sword will pierce your own soul also) that the thoughts out of many hearts may be revealed.’
And that sword was piercing the heart of Mary as she stood at the foot of the Cross watching the agony of her son. Perhaps she remembered the words which had sprung to her lips so long ago, before Jesus was even born – the words of the Magnificat. ‘My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour.’ The faith of Mary continually cradling the Christchild, even at the very end, in the midst of his agony on the Cross.
There was once a young French soldier in hospital in Geneva. He was very ill and nothing would tempt his appetite. He wrote to his 70 year old father in far-away Brittany and told him he was going to die. The old man made the pilgrimage to Geneva and tried to persuade him not to die but to take something to eat. He fancied nothing. Then from his knapsack the old man took out a common loaf of rye bread, the kind so familiar to the peasants of Brittany. ‘Here my son, take this, it was made by your mother.’ With tears in his eyes the young man reached out his hands. ‘Give it me, father, I’m hungry. It’s good, so good, the bread from home.’
The love of a son for his mother and the love of a mother for her son
Such love is summed up in the words of the poem ‘The Mother’s Heart’ by Jean Richepin (1849-1926)
A poor lad once and a lad so trim
Gave his love to her who loved not him.
And said she, ‘Bring me tonight you rogue,
Your mother’s heart to feed my dog.
To his mother’s house went that young man,
Killed her, cut out her heart, and ran,
But as he was running, look you, he fell
And the heart rolled out on the ground as well.
And the lad, as the heart was arolling, heard
That the heart was speaking and this was the word
The heart was weeping and crying so small
'Are you hurt, my child, are you hurt at all?
The love of a mother, which goes on loving whatever you do to her. And Mary was often perplexed by her, O so strange son. At the age of twelve he suddenly disappeared, ran off and they couldn’t find him. They had to go all the way back to Jerusalem and it took them three days to find him. Can you imagine what Mary might have said to him? Well we don’t need to imagine, because it is recorded in the Bible: ‘Son, why have you treated us like this? Behold your father and I have been looking for you anxiously?’ And he gave them an enigmatic reply: ‘Why were you looking for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?’ But they didn’t understand what he was saying to them and so, like many mothers, Mary kept all these things in her heart.
Much later when Jesus was in his thirties Mary heard him say: “Who are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.” (Mark 3:33-34)
Or think of the marriage in Cana of Galilee, when Jesus seemed to be downright rude to her. Mary said: ‘They have no wine.’ Jesus replied: ‘O woman, what have you to do with me? My hour has not yet come.’ Yet Mary, who had learned a thing or two about Jesus, simply said: ‘Do whatever he tells you.’ And he turned the water into wine.
And when his hour did come, she was right there, at the foot of the cross, with the other women, all the men having fled except for one – John the beloved disciple. And looking down from the cross to the earth beneath, with almost his dying breath, Jesus takes care of his mother, entrusting her to the best place that he knew, to the home of his beloved disciple.
In the words of Kipling:
‘If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’mine, O mother o’mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’mine, O mother o’mine!
If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o’mine, O mother o’mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o’mine, O mother o’mine!
If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’mine!’.
Jesus knew very well just how much Mary had loved him, how she had cared for him, how she had understood him, how she had obeyed him, how she had been beside him from the moment he was born until this final moment at the foot of the Cross. Thus it was that he loved her to the very end and said: ‘Woman, here is your son.’
Amen.
Murdoch MacKenzie
This reminds us of John Masefield’s poem ‘TO HIS MOTHER C.L.M.'
In the dark womb where I began
My mother's life made me a man.
Through all the months of human birth
Her beauty fed my common earth.
I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,
But through the death of some of her.
Down in the darkness of the grave
She cannot see the life she gave.
For all her love, she cannot tell
Whether I use it ill or well,
Nor knock at dusty doors to find
Her beauty dusty in the mind.
If the grave's gates could be undone,
She would not know her little son,
I am so grown. If we should meet
She would pass by me in the street,
Unless my soul's face let her see
My sense of what she did for me.
What have I done to keep in mind
My debt to her and womankind?
What woman's happier life repays
Her for those months of wretched days?
For all my mouthless body leeched
Ere Birth's releasing hell was reached?
What have I done, or tried, or said
In thanks to that dear woman dead?
Men triumph over women still,
Men trample women's rights at will,
And man's lust roves the world untamed.
O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.
