By His Wounds: The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

The Women of Jerusalem

The Women of Jerusalem

The light was so illuminating, it stung John's eyes. He wanted to look away, but felt so drawn to the image before him. The white of those clothes were...bleached clean. More than clean. They shone like the sun, yet they were white. John didn't understand how anything could be so...beautiful. There were no shadows. Nothing seemed to be going on around him. The whole world seemed to stop.

Then, Elijah and Moses appeared next to Jesus. John saw Jesus speaking with the two deceased men, yet John couldn't configure what they were talking about. He simply stared in awe, unable to say a word.

But Peter found his tongue quickly. He said, "Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish, I will put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah."

John only partly paid attention to Peter. He was so transfixed on the Son of God before him. Jesus appeared so...happy. He appeared at home. His clothes shone like nothing John had ever seen.

Suddenly, a bright cloud enveloped John, Peter, and James. The hazy white covered John so much that he couldn't see anyone else except Jesus. Yet he didn't feel afraid; that is, until a loud voice came from the heavens, proclaiming, "This is my beloved Son with whom I am well pleased. Listen to him!"

Terrified, John fell to the ground, closing his eyes and covering his ears. He'd never heard anything like that before. He'd never seen anything like that before. And now it scared him.

Someone touched his shoulder in a brotherly manner. Gingerly, John glanced up, surprised to see that the cloud was no longer surrounding him, Elijah and Moses were gone, and Jesus' clothes were a light shade of brown now. Jesus smiled. "Get up," he said. "Do not be afraid."

John startled out of his dream. He glanced around to find Mary of Magdala weeping on the ground, while Mary the Mother stood silently next to her. She looked near death. John turned to his right, only to see a vacant road. No crowd, no soldiers, and no Jesus. Where was he? How long had it been since Mary had seen her Son? Seen he'd seen his Lord?

Walking quickly to Mary, he hugged her, then said, "Mother, miyad ekhzor. Stay here."

Without questioning him, Mary nodded. John glanced at her one last time before he hurried off. He hated leaving the two women alone, but he'd be back. He had to see Jesus, whether from a distance or close up. He had to see him without the two Mary's. He just needed to see Jesus by himself. He had to see him in order to try and picture that Glorious Lord he had seen a few weeks before. He had to try and picture bleached white clothes, a friendly smile, and a compassionate voice.

He had to.

John darted in the streets. Past houses, past children, past animals, past Roman soldiers. He ran as fast as he could, his tunic flying behind him. An image flashed in his mind at that moment. Him running away when Jesus was taken prisoner by the soldiers. Peter had stood up and fought, but what had John done? He'd run away, not looking back at his Lord. Not saying a single word. Had it really only been less than twelve hours ago?

Determined, John reached the crowd. He pushed his way through, which was not easy. Men threw their fists in the air, armed with rocks and sticks and angry words. Some women were the same, their facial expressions beaming with hate. Yet John saw some women up ahead, far up there, who were not shouting. They were not throwing rocks or sticks. Instead they were weeping.

John ran out of the crowd and through the streets. He managed to brush past a Roman soldier in order to reach a rocky hill. Scurrying atop the rock, John was able to see the road to Calvary much better now. He was just high enough to see a large number of people, yet low enough to still see their faces. After a moment of scanning the crowd, John saw Jesus. He saw the giant cross. He saw the redness of his garments. He saw the Roman soldiers whipping him. He saw the stripes on his back. He saw the thorns pressed into his head. And he saw the pained expression upon his face. There was no illuminating white clothes. There was no smile. There was no compassionate words coming from his mouth. Just blood-red clothes, a grimace, and groans of pain.

John believed Jesus was Lord with all of his heart, mind, and soul. Yet, why didn't he lessen his pain some? Why didn't he prevent the Roman soldiers from whipping him? Why didn't he stop the crucifixion in general? Why endure all of this?

John watched in deep sadness as Jesus approached the weeping women. They wailed loudly, calling out.

"Stop this madness!"

"My Lord, my Savior! Forgive my sins!"

Jesus' pace slowed and he changed direction slightly in order to walk near them. He remained holding the cross, yet barely. His head hung low, his body sinking. John could see the sweat and blood dripping from his nose, his chin, his brow. Then, to John's surprise, Jesus began to speak. Amid the chaos, John could still hear the words.

"Daughters of Jerusalem," Jesus spit out, the words blurred together, "do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children. For one day there will be a time when you will say, 'Blessed are the childless women, the wombs that never bore and the breasts that never nursed!' Then 'they will say to the mountains, "Fall on us!" and to the hills, "Cover us!"' For if people do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?"

And with that, Jesus continued on his journey, dragging the cross behind him.

John remained dumbfounded at his words. Jesus had hardly said anything throughout this entire ordeal, yet he said so many sentences to the weeping women? Out of all the people to speak to—Peter, John, even his Mother—he spoke the most to the weeping women—the women that wailed uncontrollably and showed him the most compassion (not that his Mother didn't show sadness, she just tried not to show it for her Son's sake). What did Jesus mean?

It almost seemed as though he was saying there would be worse times. It was as if he saying the events happening now aren't so bad ones. But later on, the tree will die, and somehow everything will be worse? How can anything be more horrible than now?

A tear slipped down John's cheek, mixing in his beard. He swiped it away as he watched his Lord—not in illuminating clothes, not smiling, and not whispering friendly words—hobble down the road. He watched him go, confused, worried, and saddened.

Turning away, John began to climb down the rocky hill in order to return to the Blessed Mother. He couldn't escape the burning feeling inside of him of fear, though. If his Lord and Savior could be crucified by the Romans, what would stop them from doing the same to him? To the Mother? To Mary of Magdala? John became overcome with anxiety. He rubbing his fingers together and sat down, his back leaning up against a house. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and took a breath.

Before he could think of anything encouraging to say to himself, a still, small voice said whispered these words:

"Get up. Do not be afraid."