Sword-Pierced

Luke 2:25-35

March 30, 2025 • Mount Pleasant UMC

The wind was oddly quiet, but it would get that way when the sky went dark. Still, with the scene before her, she expected a much more violent setting. It had certainly been a violent day, the ugliest day she could remember and hoped she would ever experience. It should be raining, lightning, thundering, something! It shouldn’t just be quiet enough that all you could hear is the moaning of the men dying on the crosses in front of her. Well, that and the laughter of the soldiers who were playing games at the foot of the crosses, waiting for the men to die so they could go home. But even their laughter was muted. The darkness had done that.

Mary was tired. Bone-weary tired. It had been a long week. No, not just a long week. It had been a long three years, full of conflict and questions and misunderstandings. She loved that man in the middle. He was hers. He had always been hers. From the moment the angel appeared to her and told her she was highly favored (Luke 1:28) and that God had a special plan for her, she had loved this child. From the first flutter to the moment he was born, from the times in the workshop with her beloved Joseph to the day he came to tell her he was leaving home, he had always been hers. It still boggled her mind that the creator of the universe, a universe that even to the naked eye obviously contained billions of stars, that creator became a baby in her womb (cf. Zahnd, The Wood Between the Worlds, pg. 148). A tiny, little baby who cried, spit up, filled his diaper and never seemed to sleep on schedule. He was a year old before he slept through the night! He always seemed to know he had such a little time here; why waste any of it sleeping?

Despite the grim surroundings, Mary smiled just a bit as she remembered the little things, so many little things. The way his fingers grasped hers. The noises he made as he nursed in those first few hours of life. The lack of hair on his head at birth—a bald Son of God, how amazing! The way Joseph rocked him to sleep and sang to him each night. And later, the friends that came to the door: “Can Jesus play outside today?” The laughter of other boys and girls when they gathered at her house. The games they played, the stories they told, the way this one who was promised to her by God seemed to be just a normal boy who loved his parents, loved his friends, and loved his heavenly Father.

But now—now she was standing beneath the cross of that same boy. He would always be her little boy, always had been. She had come with him to Jerusalem on what, he knew, was his final trip. She had refused to believe it, though some part of her knew, deep down. After all, this trip had been foretold thirty-three years before, not far from where she was standing right now.

Joseph—dear, sweet Joseph, bless his soul—he was so faithful to God’s Law (Matthew 1:19). That was one of the things that she loved most about him. And so they had been careful to do everything right, even with this child that wasn’t his. Eight days after Jesus was born, they had come to the Temple to have him named and circumcised. The angel had given them the name, but for the sake of all the legalities, it was on that day when they would announce to everyone, “His name is Jesus” (2:21; Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 51). “God saves.” It wasn’t an uncommon name these days, but they knew that for this child it had a special meaning. So Jesus circumcised and named, and then, thirty-two days after that, they returned to the Temple for two more rituals. First, Mary had to be purified. After giving birth, women had to present an offering for cleansing. All Mary and Joseph had to offer was the poorest of the poor offerings: a couple of small birds (2:24; Leviticus 12:1-8). But offer them they did for her cleansing. Then, Jesus had been dedicated (Exodus 13:2-14). From the very beginning of their history as a people, the firstborn had always belonged to God, and the dedication ceremony was a celebration and a reaffirmation of that ancient belief. Joseph had insisted on all of these rituals and he wouldn’t return to Nazareth until all was taken care of.

It was after those ceremonies were complete that it had happened. The moment was still as clear in Mary’s memory as if it had happened yesterday. They were walking away from the priest when an old man approached them. Tentatively at first, then more confidently. The Temple complex was huge, 35 acres (cf. Card 51), built for their people by that awful puppet king Herod. He called himself Herod the Great, but he really wasn’t that great. Most of their people despised him. Nevertheless, he had given them a great gift in building up the Temple area and making it so beautiful. But in such a large place, what were the chances of one person finding another person at just the right time? The chances were high, apparently, when God was involved, because this old man was waiting for them. Somehow, even though they had never met, he knew they were there and he knew who they were. The smile on his face told the story. He had come to see the baby.

His name was Simeon, he told them, and he had spent his life waiting on God to fulfill his promises to Israel. Well, Mary had thought, everyone was kind of waiting on that, but Simeon had an advantage. He told them God’s Spirit had whispered to him that he would not die until he had seen the Savior of the world (2:26). “Do you know,” Simeon had said, “that’s him?” Mary had nodded, overcome with emotion to the point where she couldn’t speak. Simon then had opened his arms in that way that told her he would like to hold the baby, and Mary, though protective, offered Jesus. Simeon took him, cradled him in his arms, and began to quietly weep. Big tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks, something a man of his stature would never allow to happen in public normally. But these circumstances were anything but normal. And for a long time, they all stood there. Joseph, Mary and a weeping Simeon holding the baby Jesus. When Simeon recovered his composure, he began to pray: “Sovereign Lord, as you have promised, you may now dismiss your servant in peace. For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all nations: a light of revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory of your people Israel” (2:29-32). And then he began to weep again.

Eventually he composed himself and handed the baby back to Mary. As she and Joseph turned to go, she remembered Simeon touching her arm gently. Mary couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone so serious as Simeon was at that moment. He looked right into her eyes, into her soul even, and told her that Jesus would cause a lot of turmoil in his life. People would speak against him and he would reveal the thoughts of many hearts. Then came the most personal and direct promise she’d heard since the words of the angel. Simeon had said this to her: “And a sword will pierce your own soul too” (2:35). Then he turned and simply walked away, still wiping his eyes.

Mary had looked at Joseph and he had looked back at her. Neither one of them knew what the old man had meant, nor did they really know what to say to each other. They shook their heads and moved on, but Mary never forgot those words. A sword would pierce her soul. What could he have meant?

Well, she learned what he meant as the years went on. There were several times when the pain she felt seemed unbearable. Not long after encountering Simeon, Joseph had received another message from God in a dream. “The child’s life is in danger,” the angel had told him. “You need to get moving now and take your family to Egypt” (Matthew 2:13). So they did. In the middle of the night they got up, left Bethlehem without telling anyone and moved to Egypt. They were living there as refugees when word came that Herod had in fact carried out his murderous intent. He had sent soldiers to murder every child that might have been Jesus’ age in Bethlehem and the surrounding area. Friends of hers lost their children because Herod was after Jesus. It pierced her to the core. When they returned to Israel, she was sort of relieved they didn’t go back to Bethlehem. Mary wasn’t sure she could face any of them, knowing what she knew. A sword had pierced her soul.

The second time happened when he was twelve. Mary chuckled at the memory because she remembered the heated conversation with Joseph when they lost Jesus in Jerusalem. “I told you to keep an eye on him!” she had said, many times. Joseph, usually quiet, hadn’t said much. He was wise. But she knew he was worried about Jesus. After all, they had traveled for a whole day before they realized Jesus wasn’t with them. Jerusalem was a big city, especially compared with Nazareth, where they lived. He could be anywhere. Someone could have taken him. I mean, for goodness’ sake, they were entrusted with the Son of God and they had lost him! It had taken them another three days of searching the city to find him, which had worn them out, but when they did, what he said struck her to the heart. “Didn’t you know I had to be in my Father’s house?” (Luke 2:41-50). Mary remembered, somberly, that from the beginning he was never really hers. He belonged to God. A sword had pierced her soul.

Then there was this week. This horrible, excruciating week. Oh, no, it had not all been bad. There had been some good times, sharing meals with Jesus, laughing with the disciples, spending time at the home of Mary, Martha and Lazarus. But when the time had come, Jesus had set his face to Jerusalem and she knew there was no going back. There was that final meal, where he spoke about his body and his blood. And then the moment when Judas left the room. The disciples had whispered that he was probably going to make an offering for the poor (cf. John 13:29), but Mary knew. She saw it in Jesus’ eyes. She knew where Judas was going, but she also saw the determination in her son’s eyes. She knew that trying to stop Judas would do no good. There was no stopping what was about to happen, which made the long, final walk along the Kidron Valley to the place of prayer, Gethsemane, seem even longer. They had been in that place so often, often enough that Judas knew where Jesus would be. And he did. He led the soldiers right to Jesus. Then he kissed Jesus. He kissed him. A sign of intimacy and friendship, corrupted into a mark of betrayal. Mary began to weep. She had counted Judas as a friend; so had Jesus. How could it have come to this? The sword burrowed deeper into her soul.

But the true piercing was yet to come. He was arrested. He was drug through a sham trial. And he was taken before the Roman governor. She tried to get close, but she couldn’t. The crowd was enormous. There were always a lot of people in Jerusalem for the festival, but this year it seemed people came from everywhere. And they were furious, worked into a frenzy by the religious leaders who hated Jesus. Every time she heard those words screamed, “Crucify him!” she felt like falling to the ground. But she would not dignify their hate by letting her pain show outwardly. And so she stood on the edge of the crowd and listened to them condemn her son, listened to them choose to release a convicted killer instead of her son, watched them beat her son and place a heavy crossbeam on his beautiful back. And still, the worst was yet to come.

Every step he took, she was right there with him. Not out in the road, but in the crowd. She knew he knew she was there, but she didn’t dare get too close. She walked every step with him through the city, watched him stumble and saw the soldiers put the crossbeam on the back of a man pulled from the crowd. She went with him through the gates, up to the hill called Calvary. Golgotha. Place of the Skull. It was an ugly place, and she had never been here before. She had hoped she never would be. But if she knew anything it was that her life was in God’s hands. So here she was, watching as the brutal Roman soldiers stripped her son, threw him on the crossbeam and raised a hammer to nail his wrists and his ankles to the rough wooden poles. Every time the hammer came down her heart skipped a beat. Every time the nails went deeper, the sword in her soul felt it. Deeper and deeper the sword went. And when they lifted him up in the air and dropped the cross into the hole, Mary felt like her heart might stop. She fell to her knees and listened to his ragged breathing. The sword had pierced her soul to the core.

He spoke. She listened. “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.” She watched as he turned toward one of the other crosses and said, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” Today. Today! She was there with John as Jesus looked directly at her. “Woman, behold your son.” She sat in silence while he prayed a psalm she had taught him. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Her heart broke again as he said, “I thirst,” and she remembered all the times as a child he had asked her for a cup of water. Just one more cup, mama, and I’ll go to bed. She would literally do anything right now to relieve his thirst, his pain, his suffering. Then she heard those final words: “It is finished. Into your hands I commit my spirit.” And she watched as he died. Her son died. No one should have to watch their child die, and at that moment, she knew the truth of what Simeon had spoken so many years before. Her soul was sword-pierced all the way through. She would never, ever be the same again.

She sat there in the darkness and the silence. Logic said she should leave. Jesus was dead. There was nothing left to stay for. But her mother’s heart wouldn’t let her. So she sat there in the dust and the dirt, tears slowly making their way down her face. A few others stayed with her, but no one spoke a word. There was nothing to say; it was all over.

Mary watched as a soldier was sent to break the legs of the men on the crosses to speed their deaths. Because Jesus was already dead, the soldier took a spear to Jesus rather than breaking his legs, and blood and water flowed out. Then, to appease the religious leaders who had insisted on Jesus’ death in the first place, they began to take the bodies down. One. Two. And finally Jesus. One soldier with a small measure of compassion noticed Mary still sitting there, and motioned to his companion to bring Jesus’ body over to his mother. They laid the body in her lap and then, surprisingly, walked a respectful distance away. Mary sobbed deeply, tears pouring out from the wound in her soul, as she looked at the disfigured face and broken skin that she had once washed and put oil on and cradled. When her crying calmed down, she leaned over and sang a lullaby in his ear. She knew he couldn’t hear her, but she needed to remind herself why she had, so many years ago, told the angel, “I am the Lord’s servant” (Luke 1:38). Then, when she ran out of songs, she whispered the words in her heart: “I didn't know how much this would hurt, when I saw you play in the dirt. When I watched You climbing the trees, didn't know You would climb one for me” (Heller, “Still My Little Boy”).

John came over after a while and put his hand on Mary’s shoulder. “It’s time,” he whispered, and she knew it. John nodded to the soldiers, and they came over to take Jesus’ body. Nicodemus, a Jewish official, had already asked to take his body and bury it. The other two crucified men were thrown into mass graves, but Jesus would receive a proper Jewish burial. So Nicodemus went with the soldiers as did some of the other women who had traveled to Jerusalem with Jesus. Mary, supported by John, walked along behind the grim procession. She was tired and her sword-pierced soul was broken, but she needed to grieve, as every person there did. They had all been together now for so long, and together was the only way they were going to face the days ahead. Grief is a harsh taskmaster, but Mary knew that it was only in community that she could survive it. And so she went and she watched as Jesus’ body was wrapped in linen cloths and then laid into a new tomb—Nicodemus’ tomb, God bless him. Once the stone was rolled in front of the opening, Mary leaned over to John. “Take me home,” she said. “We will continue to grieve there. Together.” John nodded and turned her toward the place where they had been staying. There would be time enough for words later. Tonight, simply being together would be enough. That’s what Jesus had modeled for them, that’s what Mary’s sword-pierced soul needed, and that’s the way they would continue to live at least for the weekend. Soon it would be a new week, and then they could decide what to do next.