Archbishop Eamon MartinGazing upon the awesome majesty of the face of God
In the whole Christmas story I cannot think of any more beautiful scene to contemplate than that of Mary gazing into the face of her new-born infant, Jesus. No wonder great artists down through the centuries have tried to capture that serene and intimate moment.
No doubt it was only the first of many times that Mary fixed her gaze on Christ. Like any doting mother, she would have come to know all his facial expressions – every line, every detail – the moment he first opened his eyes; his first curls; the way he smiled and wrinkled his nose; how his tears flowed.
But unlike other mothers, in Mary’s case, she pondered much more in her heart.
After all, the angel had told her that her child would be called ‘Son of God’. How often she must have looked into her child’s eyes and thought with wonder: “I am looking at the face of God.”
Years later, as Jesus went about the towns and villages, teaching and healing, Mary would have noted new expressions on her son’s face: that look of love and compassion when he reached out to the poor and hungry; the strength and power of his features as he worked miracles; the way he frowned with frustration at those who claimed to be only doing God’s will, but who were in reality placing impossible burdens of guilt on people’s shoulders.
Holy face
She noticed the way everyone wanted to look at his holy face – especially the heartbroken, the grieving and the sick. Even his enemies liked to look at him.
Above all, Mary saw the supreme beauty of his face when he said to sinners: “Your sins are forgiven”. It was at moments such as these that she remembered the angel’s words to her years before: “You shall call him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins”.
But a bitter sword was to pierce her heart. It began when she caught a glimpse of his troubled face as he prayed in agony in the garden, his sweat like great drops of blood.
Worse was to come: the insults, the spittle, how they mocked him and struck his beautiful cheeks.
And when they brought him out with that terrible crown of thorns digging into the curls on his head, in a horrible moment she realised that here was the fulfilment of Isaiah’s prophecy: “He had no form or majesty that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him, he was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. Surely he has borne our guilt and carried our sorrows.”
Tears
When it was over, they took him down from the wood of the cross and laid him in her arms. She gazed upon that face she knew so well, recalling how in Bethlehem she had first cradled him in her arms and laid him in the wood of the manger.
Still, through her tears, Mary beheld his calm countenance. It bore the same serenity that she had first noticed on the face of the infant Jesus, meek and mild.
Despite the bruises, death, dirt and blood, in his face she gazed upon the awesome majesty of the face of God.
Holly – the 'Christ thorn'
The holly bears a berry
As red as any blood
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
To do poor sinners good.
God rest my father. Every Christmas he visited our family graves to place a sprig of holly in remembrance.
Over the years, he learned that if he pushed a potato into the winter soil and stuck the holly in it, the leaves would keep green and fresh and the berries stay bright red all the way through January and perhaps even until spring. My dad would have been amazed at this year’s holly. I’ve never seen so many berries! No wonder our Celtic ancestors revered this tree which stood out so bright and verdant even in the midst of a bleak winter. For Christians, its prickly evergreen leaves and blood-red fruit evokes at once the mystery of the passion, death and resurrection of our Saviour. The Scandinavians call it the ‘Christ thorn’ – a perfect adornment for the graves of our loved ones. Mind you, I’m not sure if I should recommend my dad’s ‘potato patent’.
The summer following his death, I found spuds growing on one of our family graves! May he rest in peace.