Farewell to the Mother and Departure from Nazareth
The Weeping and Prayer of the Co-Redemptrix
The interior of the house in Nazareth. I see a room. It looks like a dining room, where the Family eats or spends their hours of rest. It is a very small room. It has a simple rectangular table in front of a sort of chest-bench attached to one of the walls: this serves as the seating for one side. On the other walls, there is a loom and a stool; two other stools and a sideboard holding some small oil lamps and other objects. A door opens onto a small vegetable garden. It must be dusk, for there is only a memory of sunlight upon the crown of a tall tree that is barely turning green with its first leaves.
Jesus is sitting at the table. He is eating. Mary serves Him, coming and going through a small door that I assume leads to the place where the fire is, the glow of which can be seen through the ajar door.
Jesus tells Mary two or three times to sit down... and to eat as well. But she does not want to; she shakes her head, smiling sadly, and brings, first, some boiled vegetables—it looks like a soup to me—then, some roasted fish; later, a rather soft cheese (like fresh sheep's milk cheese), rounded in shape (resembling those stones seen in torrents), and some small dark olives. The bread, in small circular molds (the width of a common plate) and not very high, is already on the table. It is rather dark, as if the bran had not been separated from it. Jesus has an amphora of water and a cup before Him; He eats in silence, looking at His Mother with sorrowful love.
Mary—it is clearly visible—is distressed. She goes back and forth... so that it won't be noticed. She lights—even though there is still enough light—a small lamp and places it next to Jesus (as she extends her arm, she discreetly caresses her Son's head). She opens a brown bag—which looks to me like it’s made of that hand-woven virgin wool cloth and is, therefore, waterproof—checks if it is empty, goes out to the garden to a sort of pantry on the other side, and returns with some apples that are already somewhat wrinkled—preserved since summer—and puts them in the bag. Then she takes a loaf of bread and also puts in a small cheese, even though Jesus does not want it and says He already has enough.
Mary approaches the table again, at the narrowest part, to the left of Jesus. She watches Him as He eats. She looks at Him with true anguish, with adoration, her face even paler than usual and appearing aged by grief, her eyes enlarged by a shadow marking them, a sign of shed tears; they seem even clearer than usual, as if washed by the weeping that is almost appearing in them: eyes of pain, tired eyes.
Jesus, who eats slowly, clearly without appetite, to please His Mother, and who is more pensive than usual, raises His head and looks at her. He meets a gaze full of tears and lowers His head so she won't feel self-conscious, merely taking her delicate hand that is resting on the edge of the table. He takes it with His left hand and brings it to His face; Jesus rests His cheek against it as if brushing it for a moment to feel the caress of that poor trembling hand, and kisses the back of it with great love and respect.
I see Mary bringing her free hand, the left one, to her mouth, as if to stifle a sob; then she wipes away with her fingers a large tear that has overflowed the edge of her eyelid and was wetting her cheek.
Jesus continues eating. Mary quickly goes out to the garden, where there is now little light... and disappears. Jesus rests His left elbow on the table and His forehead on His hand, stops eating, and immerses Himself in His thoughts.
Then a moment of attention... He rises from the table. He also goes out into the garden, looks from one side to the other, and heads to the right relative to the side of the house. He enters through an opening in a rock wall, into what I recognize as the carpenter's workshop; this time everything is tidy, no boards, no shavings, no fire lit; the workbench and the tools, all in their place, nothing more.
Huddled over herself on the bench, Mary is weeping. She looks like a child. Her head is resting on her folded left arm, and she cries quietly but with much pain. Jesus enters slowly and approaches her with such delicacy that she realizes He is there only when her Son places His hand on her bowed head, calling her "Mama" with a voice of loving reproach.
Mary raises her head and looks at Jesus through a veil of tears, and leans, with both hands joined, on His right arm. Jesus, with the end of His wide sleeve, dries her face and embraces her, presses her against His chest, and kisses her on the forehead. Jesus has a majestic appearance, appearing more manly than usual, and Mary more like a child, except for her face marked by pain.
"Come, Mama," Jesus says to her, and, holding her closely with His right arm, He heads back toward the garden; there He sits on a bench that is resting against the wall of the house. The garden is silent and now dark. There is only a beautiful moonlight and the light coming from the room. The night is serene.
Jesus speaks to Mary. I do not perceive the words at first, barely whispered, to which Mary nods her head. Later I hear:
"And tell the family... the women of the family, to come. Do not stay alone. I will be more at peace, Mother, and you know the need I have to be at peace to fulfill my mission. My love will not fail you. I will come frequently, and when I am in Galilee and cannot come home, I will let you know; then you will come to where I am. Mama, this hour had to come. It began here, when the Angel appeared to you; now it is fulfilled, and we must live it, isn't that true, Mama? Afterward will come the peace of the trial overcome, and joy. First, it is necessary to cross this desert, like the ancient Fathers to enter the Promised Land. But the Lord God will help us as He did them, and His help will be like spiritual manna to nourish our spirit in the effort of the trial. Let us say together the Our Father..."
Jesus stands up, and Mary with Him, and they raise their faces to heaven. Two living hosts shining in the darkness.
Jesus says the Lord's Prayer slowly, but with a clear voice and emphasizing the words. He places much emphasis on the phrases: "Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done," distancing these two phrases significantly from the others. He prays with open arms (not exactly in a cross, but like priests when they say: "The Lord be with you"); Mary has her hands joined.
They enter the house again, and Jesus—whom I have never seen drink wine—pours a little white wine from an amphora in the pantry into a cup and brings it to the table; He takes Mary's hand and forces her to sit next to Him and drink that wine (in which He soaks a slice of bread that He offers her). He insists so much that Mary gives in. Jesus drinks the rest. Then He holds His Mother against His side, holding her close to His person, on the side of His heart. Neither Jesus nor Mary are reclining, but sitting as we do. They speak no more. They wait. Mary caresses Jesus' right hand and His knees. Jesus caresses Mary's arm and head.
Jesus stands up and Mary with Him; they embrace and kiss each other lovingly over and over; and over and over they seem to want to say goodbye, but Mary again presses her Son against her chest. She is the Virgin, but she is a mother after all, a mother who must part from her son and who knows where that separation leads. Let no one tell me anymore that Mary did not suffer. Before, I believed it little; now, I do not believe it at all.
Jesus takes His cloak (dark blue), throws it over His shoulders, and covers His head with it like a hood. Then he puts the bag across His shoulder so it does not hinder His path. Mary helps Him, never finishing adjusting His tunic, cloak, and hood, and, meanwhile, she caresses Him again.
Jesus goes toward the door after making a gesture of blessing in the room. Mary follows Him and, at the door, already open, they kiss once more.
The street is silent and solitary, white with moonlight. Jesus sets out on His way. Twice He turns back to look at His Mother, who is leaning against the doorpost, whiter than the moon, all shimmering with silent tears. Jesus moves away down the white alley. Mary continues weeping, leaning against the door. And Jesus disappears around a corner of the street.
His journey as an Evangelizer has begun, which will end on Golgotha. Mary enters weeping and closes the door. For her too, the journey that will lead her to Golgotha has begun. And for us...
Dictation from Jesus:
"This is the fourth sorrow of Mary, Mother of God: the first was the presentation in the Temple; the second, the flight to Egypt; the third, the death of Joseph; the fourth, my separation from her.
Knowing the Father's desire, I told you last night that I am going to accelerate the description of 'our' sorrows so they may be known. But, as you see, some of my Mother's had already been illustrated. I explained the Presentation and the stay in Egypt before because there was a need to do so that day. I know all things. And you understand.
My project is to alternate your contemplations, and my subsequent explanations, with the dictations properly so called, to relieve you and your spirit by giving you the bliss of seeing, and also because thus the stylistic difference between your way of writing and mine becomes clear.
Furthermore, in the face of so many books that speak of me and which, by touching and retouching, changing and grooming, have become unreal, I desire to give those who believe in me a vision restored to the truth of my mortal time. I do not emerge diminished; on the contrary, magnified in my humility, which becomes bread for you to teach you to be humble and like me, who was a man like you and who bore in my human aspect the perfection of a God. I had to be your Model, and models must always be perfect.
I will not maintain a chronological line in the contemplations corresponding to that of the Gospels. I will take the points I consider most useful on that day for you or for others, following my own line of teaching and goodness.
The teaching that comes from the contemplation of my separation is directed especially to parents and children whom the will of God calls to mutual renunciation for a higher love; secondly, it is directed to all those who face a painful renunciation (and how many you find in life!). They are thorns on Earth that pierce the heart; I know it. But for those who welcome them with resignation—look, I do not say: 'for those who desire them and welcome them with joy' (this is already perfection), I say 'with resignation'—they are transformed into eternal roses. But few welcome them with resignation. Like stubborn little donkeys, you obstinately resist the Father's will, even if you do not try to wound with spiritual kicks and bites—that is, with rebellion and blasphemies against the good God.
And do not say: 'But I only had this good and God took it from me; only this affection, and God tore it away.' Mary also, a noble woman, loving unto perfection (because in the Full of Grace even the affective and sensory forms were perfect), had only one good and one love on earth: her Son. Nothing was left to her but Him: her parents, dead for a long time; Joseph, dead for some years. Only I remained to love her and make her feel she was not alone. Her relatives, because of me, unaware of my divine origin, were somewhat hostile toward her, as toward a mother who does not know how to impose herself on her son who departs from common good judgment or who rejects a proposed marriage that could honor the family and even help it.
The relatives, the voice of common sense, of human sense—you call it reasonableness, but it is nothing but human sense, that is, selfishness—would have wanted me to live these things. At heart, it was always the fear of one day having to endure trouble because of me; for I already dared to express ideas—too idealistic, according to them—that could turn the synagogue against us. Hebrew history was full of teachings about the fate of prophets. The mission of a prophet was not an easy one, and it frequently brought death to himself and grief to his kin. At heart, there was always the thought of having to take care of my Mother one day.
Therefore, seeing that she put no obstacle in my way and seemed in continuous adoration before her Son offended them. This contrast was to grow during the three years of ministry, culminating in open reproaches when, while I was among the crowds, they would come to me, ashamed of my mania—according to them—for wounding the powerful castes. Reproach for me and for her; poor Mama!
And yet Mary, who knew the state of mind of her relatives—not all were like James, Jude, or Simon, nor like their mother, Mary of Clopas—and who foresaw the future state of mind; Mary, who knew her lot during those three years, and that which awaited her at the end of them, and my lot, did not offer resistance as you do. She wept. And who would not have wept at a separation from a son who loved her as I loved her; at the prospect of the long days, empty of my presence, in the lonely house; at the future of the Son destined to clash against the malevolence of those who were guilty and took revenge for being so by attacking the Guiltless one even unto death?
She wept because she was the Co-Redemptrix and the Mother of the human race reborn to God, and she had to weep for all the mothers who do not know how to make of their sorrow as mothers a crown of eternal glory.
How many mothers in the world from whose arms death tears a child! How many mothers from whose side a supernatural will snatches a son! For all her daughters, as Mother of Christians, for all her sisters, in the sorrow of a despoiled mother, Mary has wept. And for all the sons who, born of woman, are destined to be apostles of God or martyrs for love of God, for fidelity to God, or through human cruelty.
My Blood and my Mother's weeping are the mixture that strengthens these marked ones for a heroic fate; that which annuls in them imperfections, or even the faults committed through their weakness, giving, besides martyrdom—in any case, immediately—the peace of God and, if suffered for God, the glory of Heaven.
The tears of Mary are found by missionaries like a flame that warms in regions where snow reigns; they find them like dew where the sun burns. Mary's charity squeezes them out. These have sprung from a heart of lily. They have, therefore: from virginal charity wedded to Love, the fire; from virginal purity, the fragrant freshness, similar to that of water collected in the calyx of a lily after a night of dew.
They are found by the consecrated in that desert which is monastic life properly understood: a desert, because nothing lives but union with God, and every other affection falls away, transforming solely into supernatural charity toward relatives, friends, superiors, and inferiors.
They are found by those consecrated to God in the world, in the world that does not understand them and does not love them—a desert also for them, in which they live as if they were alone: very great, indeed, is the incomprehension they suffer, and the mockery, for my love!
They are found by my dear 'victims,' because Mary is the first of the victims for love of Jesus. To her disciples, she gives with the hand of a Mother and a Physician her tears, which comfort and intoxicate for a higher sacrifice.
Holy weeping of my Mother!
Mary prays. Because God gives her a sorrow, she does not refuse to pray. Remember it. She prays together with Jesus. She prays to our Father and yours.
The first 'Pater Noster' was pronounced in the garden of Nazareth to console Mary's grief, to offer 'our' wills to the Eternal at the moment when the period of an ever-greater renunciation began for these wills, which was to culminate in the renunciation of life for me and of the death of a Son for Mary.
And, although we had nothing that needed the Father's forgiveness, out of humility even, we, the Guiltless, asked the Father's forgiveness to face our mission worthily, forgiven (absolved even of a sigh). To teach you that the more one is in God's grace, the more blessed and fruitful the mission becomes; to teach you respect for God and humility. Before God the Father, even our two perfections as Man and Woman felt as nothing and asked for forgiveness, just as they also asked for 'daily bread.'
What was our bread? Oh, not that which Mary's pure hands kneaded, baked in the small oven, for which I had many times gathered bundles and handfuls of wood—which is also necessary while one is on this Earth—not that bread, but 'our' daily bread was that of carrying out, day by day, our part of the mission. May God give it to us every day, because carrying out the mission God gives is the joy of 'our' day, is it not true, little John? Do you not say so too, you to whom the day seems empty, as if it had not existed, if the Lord's goodness leaves you, one day, without your mission of sorrow?
Mary prays with Jesus. It is Jesus who justifies you, children. It is I who make your prayers acceptable and fruitful before the Father. I have said: 'Whatever you ask the Father in my name, He will grant you,' and the Church accredits its prayers by saying: 'Through Jesus Christ Our Lord.'
When you pray, unite yourselves always, always, always to me. I will pray aloud for you, covering your human voices with mine as God-Man. I will place your prayer upon my pierced hands and raise it to the Father. It will be a host of infinite value. My voice, fused with yours, will rise like a filial kiss to the Father, and the purple of my wounds will make your prayer precious. Be in me if you wish to have the Father in you, with you, for you.
You have finished the narrative saying: 'And for us...', and you wanted to say: 'For us who are so ungrateful toward these Two who have climbed Calvary for us.' You have done well to put those words. Put them every time I show you one of our sorrows. Let it be like the bell that rings and calls one to meditate and repent.
Nothing more. Rest. Peace be with you."