Being a mom transformed how I see the world. For example, while I hated war before, I can’t stand the thought of it now. All those soldiers are someone’s children. Imagining crimes inflicted on children crumples and enrages me more than it ever did before. I see Keegan as every victim.
It also transforms how I see Holy Week. Jesus was Mary’s little boy. He was his Father’s son. In one of the most memorable lectures I attended in seminary, the professor impressed upon us the significance of Abraham’s sacrifice. Could you imagine strapping your little boy to the altar, to raising your own knife, while your boy looked at you with fear and confusion? Who does that? Who asks for that?
What kind of God demands the sacrifice of a son?
Yet God did not spare his own son.
I’ve always imagined the scene in the Mount of Olives from Jesus’ perspective, but today I see it from the Father’s: he gazed upon his son, his only son, as Jesus asked for this cup to pass. Could I deny such a request? Even knowing that on Sunday, not only would it all be over with, but this same son would be glorified?
Title from “My Own Prison” by Creed