Mary Triptych (Part 3): Your Son, Now

The book giveaway contest concludes tonight at Seedlings in Stone at 6 p.m. Eastern time. A winner will be picked at random to receive a copy of Scot McKnight’s The Real Mary and have the opportunity to write a guest post for BeliefNet. So you still have time to leave a comment and be automatically in the drawing.

Here’s the third of the three “Triptych poems” I’ve written about Mary, the mother of Jesus. In a few days, I’ll post some thoughts about them. The first two, "May It Be to Me" and "He Had to Be," seem to have struck a responsive chord; they’ve also taken me to a place I never expected to go – the place of writing as pain.

Your Son, Now

In upper room,
I sit with disciples, praying
With Simon Rock and
Brother Andrew, James,
Doubter, Publican
And Beloved.

Each day I walk
To this place with Beloved.
My son, now;
His mother, now.
Since that day when he said.

That day I saw
The other,
Brow pierced by thorns,
Back lashed, body bruised
From Roman beatings.
That day, the life
Washed from his eyes,
The eyes looking at me
As he suckled,
The hands reaching for me,
The arms clasping my legs.
The life now washing away.

On that hill, I thought
Of Cana, oddly.
Not my time,
He said to me, Mother,
Not my time.
But changed the water anyway.
And he danced,
His robe flowing
Like a wind song;
Joy upon his face.
But that day, it was his time.
No water, they laughed. No wine.
Only gall.

I sit and pray in upper room
With disciples.
My Joseph taught him
To saw, to cut, to
Plane, to shape
Wood into usefulness
And sometimes beauty.
My Joseph guided, his
Hand on Jeshua’s hand.
Yeshua knew what
My Joseph had done.
He stood next to me
When we buried my Joseph,
He wept tears of love
For the man who loved us both.
But on that day,
That day of heavens torn
Like the temple curtain,
That day
We buried Yeshua.
I knew the desolate solitude
Of seeing him born and
Seeing him die.
The only one.

Later I saw him
Who did not look like him,
But the for the eyes, living now
With a different life,
A life I could barely glimpse
And not imagine.
I rushed to hold him but
He pointed to Beloved.
Your son, now;
His mother, now.

My son is not my son, now.
My son is my savior,
Now.

The Crucifixion Triptych, Rogier Van Der Weiden, ca. 1440, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

Mary Triptych (Part 2): He Had to Be

The book giveaway contest continues over at Seedlings in Stone until Thursday at 6 p.m. Eastern time. A winner will be picked at random to receive a copy of Scot McKnight’s The Real Mary and have the opportunity to write a guest post for BeliefNet. Just leave a comment here and you’re automatically in the drawing.

Here’s the second of the three “Triptych poems” I’ve written by Mary. The third will be posted on Thursday.

He Had to Be

Passover feast
In the city of peace.
Somber time,
Tinged with joy,
To celebrate salvation,
Deliverance
From the angel of death
In Goshen, in all Egypt.
My Joseph paid the price,
Bought the lamb,
Brought the lamb
To the priests.

Home, to Galilee,
Traveling the day.
I look for the child.
With you, Martha?
Hannah, with you?
With you? With you?
My heart, frozen.
We go back,
My Joseph and I,
Back to the city of peace,
The now feast-less city.

Three days we
Seek, seek
Everywhere.
No child; vanished.
A tiny whisper, then;
A small rumor,
A torrent of reports,
An explosion of wonder
At the child
In the courts of the priests.
Sitting with teachers,
Listening to rabbis,
Questioning priests,
Amazing with his answers,
His truth before truths.
My Joseph and I knew.
Jeshua.
I had to be
In my father’s house,
He said to us I had to be.

A bearded man, he
Amazed crowds
With words, miracles, healings
Of body and soul.
We heard the whispers,
The muted voices,
The low roar,
The rising anger against him.
We came to warn,
To stop,
His brothers and I.
Like everyone else
We wanted to touch and be healed.
And protect.

You are my mother
And brothers, he said
To others.
In his dark eyes,
The eyes of my child,
I saw the depth
Of the infinity
Of the truth he spoke.
And my son was
Not my son.

Triptych with Virgin and Child, Anonymous, Late 17th century, Ethiopian, Walters Art Museum, New York.

A Contest, and the Mary Triptych (Part 1)

Over at Seedlings in Stone, L.L. Barkat is giving away a copy of The Real Mary by Scot McKnight, who makes a Protestant case for Mary with the theological controversies stripped away. Check out what L.L. says about the book and leave a comment here, and you’re automatically in the contest, which will last until next Thursday evening. The winner will also be offered the opportunity to guest post on BeliefNet.

In the meantime, here’s the first of three “Triptych poems” about the mother of Jesus. The second will be posted Monday, and the third next Thursday.

May It Be to Me

Came in a swirl of scented,
Dry wind.
Do not fear, you have found favor.
May it be to me.

The angel did not tell what I would see
Upon my Joseph’s face,
Worse than anger, searing my soul,
Tearing my heart.
Not a rich man, a good man with
Good hands and heart,
He chose me of all Nazareth.
The man every village mother wanted as a son.
Joseph chose me of all in Nazareth.
The Lord chose me of all in Israel.

My Joseph’s eyes.
The angel, I said.
Disbelief on my Joseph’s face,
His hands clenching into fists of pain.
The angel spoke, I said; the Spirit came.

A divorce, my Joseph said.
Quietly; I will not humiliate you,
My Joseph said I love you too much.
He went to weep the hurt
Into the quiet of his mat.

The angel dreamed my Joseph.
Then he knew,
Taking me as wife with joy,
Protecting the child,
Loving the mother.

My Joseph held the baby bathed in blood.
He cut the cord of life to separate life.
He lifted him up.
My tear-stained Joseph set him in my arms
And whispered,
Jeshua.

May it be to me.

Triptych, Bartolomeo Vivarini, 1460s, egg tempera on wood, Metropolitan Museum of New York. The side panels illustrate various scenes in the life of Mary.