BARABBUS' MOTHER

I wouldn't normally be here.

I can't see anything entertaining about watching people crucified. I can't understand why it attracts such crowds.

Today I've made an exception. I'm here because of the one in the middle, Jesus of Nazareth. He's dying for the sins of my son. I thought the least I could do was come and pay my respects.

I don't understand what happened with him. Only days ago I was in the crowds, cheering and waving palms to welcome him in to Jerusalem. I was astonished to hear that he'd been arrested.

Of course at Passover the custom is that one prisoner is set free; I fully expected it to be him, Jesus of Nazareth.

I was in the crowd shouting for Jesus Barabbas; I had a duty to stand up for my son. But I expected to be a lone voice, not one of the majority. What did he do to turn them so vigorously against him?

“Who shall I free?” asked Pilate.

“Barabbas,” we all shouted back.

And so my son was delivered back to me.

If you think I was delighted you'd be wrong. We'd been at odds for years. We'd not seen one another for months and then we'd rowed about his failure to keep out of trouble and parted badly.

I was so confident his end had come that I'd planned my life without him. I know he's my son, and I wouldn't for the world wish that sort of death on him, but he's nothing but trouble.

The only thing that stops me disowning him altogether is some words I heard Jesus of Nazareth say from the cross today. “Woman, this is your son.”

It wasn't spoken to me but it touched me just the same, because against all the odds I do still have a son. And whatever he's done I'm still his mother.

I'm going to give it one last try.

Perhaps being within touching distance of crucifixion will have finally brought him to his senses.

Perhaps at last I can help him to change.