Mary was given a promise. She carried that promise in her womb and nourished it in her body. She stored up mysteries and treasured them in her heart. She watched the promise grow wise and good. And then, just as the promise was about to become everything that she thought it would be, it was stripped. It was beaten and unrecognizable. It was paraded before everyone and ridiculed. It was nailed up as a fraud. And that promise, HER promise, renounced her saying, “Woman, behold your son,” calling another man her son. Her son who was dying and bleeding, who was everything to her called another man her son. Then, he committed a worse crime even still. He denied all the hope she had left, every hope that had outlived the pain of seeing him scourged and broken. He did not heal himself. He did not deliver himself and her from the nightmare. No, he died. He actually died. The promise died! God gave her that promise, and it died! How could God be untrue? The God she loved, and served, and trusted killed his promise right before her eyes.
God gave her that promise, and it died!
Sometimes our promise dies, and a part of us dies with it. We cry out to God, “But you gave me this!” as we hold on to the bloody remains of what we cherished. We question ourselves, we question our God, and we weep. We wander aimless in our grief. We cry out, “Why have you forsaken me.” And that is where there is hope, as we turn, in our anger and confusion toward God. We wait in the blackness and say with Job, “Though he slay me, yet will I serve him.” We go to the tomb early in the morning, doing the only thing we know to do in our grief, or we may hear reports that the promise is alive, but we can’t believe it. It hurts to much to even think it, but God is not a man that he should lie. We will yet say:
“My Lord and my God.”