“Those Weeping Women”
Luke 23:26-31 (NRSV)
Most mornings I start my conscious time awake with prayer and meditation. The setting is quiet. Dark. early morning. “Faith’s Hymn” by Beautiful Chorus plays on repeat as burning sage wafts through the air and my spider plant is glowing in vanilla-scented candlelight. Mornings that start this way lead to good days.
There is something about the Spirit’s call to silent reflection as we discern what we will be doing with the next precious 24 hours. And I know that I did not conjure this great ritual my own. For we walk this earth as daughters of the African Diaspora, carrying about in our bodies the spiritual traditions of our ancestors.
So I sit. And pray. And meditate.
I wonder what Mary’s prayer and meditation moment was like on Good Friday? What she, the mother of Jesus the Christ, must have contemplated in her heart after bearing witness to the betrayal and persecution of her baby boy...all. Week. Long. What were the words of her mouth? What were the meditations of her heart? Was Mary still saying, “be it done to me according to Your word?” (Luke 1:38).
I am not a biological mother yet, so I don’t know what Mary was going through--seeing her son crucified by empire. I imagine it’s how Sybrina Fulton mourned Trayvon Martin...how Lucia McBath lamented Jordan Davis...how Lesley McSpadden grieved Michael Brown. They all know what Mary was going through. And I know empire.
Empire will annihilate anything--and anyone who threatens its status quo. That’s why Jesus had to go.
Who was THIS man? Healing people and giving life to the dead? Without permission? This Jesus was a poor, Jewish, North African, refugee revolutionary. He was a Black man raised by a Black mama in concert with Black aunties and ‘nem.
So it’s no surprise that these women were there with him on his walk to Calvary.
And because God is a God just justice and equity, Jesus received love and affirmation from one of his Brothas, too. While Simon of Cyrene probably didn’t know that he would be tasked with such a treacherous assignment, once he was called upon, he moved into position.
What did Jesus and Simon talk about in between lurches forward? Did they devise a plan of synchronous movement, as if this were some sort of warped three-legged race? Did they align their breathing so as to exert the least amount of force and maintain their endurance?
The Bible says that Jesus was silent this whole time, but we know how empore like to silence
Black bodies. What if they were talking? What were they talking about? Did Simon say, ‘I got you, Brother” to Jesus? Did Jesus whisper, “Brother, I can’t do this” to Simon? Did Simon affirm, “Yes, you can. God’s got you and so do I.”
The intimacy of brotherhood stems from the West African concept of Ubuntu, meaning “I am because we are.” This principles highlights that when we are in deep community with one another, we are able to access our power and harness our influence more authentically and purposefully. This potent connection was curated by two Black men who were in deep distress. How I long for the days that love and intimacy, in and among Black people, will flow effortlessly.
Perhaps, this was Mary’s plea that fateful morning. That God would send tangible support--to her son, first, and, then, to herself. Maybe Simon was Mary’s answered prayer.
And if God can answer one, God will answer “great number” (Luke 23:27) of people that were following Jesus, Luke makes special mention of the women there “who were beating their breasts and waiting for him.” Who was the him? We assume it to be Jesus. But what if the “him” was Simon?
What if those weeping women were Simon of Cyrene’s mama and aunties and ‘nem? Not just blood relatives, but other-mothers who had had a hand in raising him. In ancient Jewish culture, mothers were the primary caregivers. Simon was raised by women who instilled in him a sense of equity and justice. Simon was there because of the values instilled in him by the women in his life. The ones who knew their son was a kind and gentle soul, but was also agitated by injustice. They had all been talking about the Brotha named Jesus who was going around teaching spiritual (and life!) lessons and healing people deemed “unhealable.” They had debated Jesus’ origins and intentions and they knew how strongly Simon felt about being present to support his Brotha.
After all, that’s who these women raised Simon to be--a man about his Brothers’ business. Simon was from Cyrene, a North African city. He was from the same geographical region as Jesus. I am sure Simon had to see himself in Jesus. The same upbringing, the same blood, the same kin. When Simon began to carry the cross alongside Jesus, it was the ultimate moment of affirmation: “I see you. I hear you. I acknowledge you.”
These women were wailing and sobbing and mourning the loss of their babies. Yes, plural. Because Simon’s kin had every reason to believe that this placement of the cross on Simon’s shoulders meant that he would suffer the same fate as Jesus. They were a crying compound, a proxy platoon, a gap-bridging gathering for their cross-bearing sons.
These were the women from whom Jesus learned about--what Albert J. Raboteau (in his book entitled, African American Religion) called the “healing arts.” These “spiritual mothers” used “herbal medicine with prayer and religious ritual to assist the sick, the dying, and women experiencing child-birth.” They were “respected for their spiritual wisdom and gifts of insight.” How else could a North African Brotha become so well-acquainted with curative living?
The Creator bestowed divine treasures upon Jesus, to be sure, but it was the Sistas in his life who taught him how to tune in to his intuition. It was the North African elder women who empowered him to tap into his ancestral lineage. It was his chorale of motherly mediums who acted as a conduit to transform him from Christ to Messiah. They took his Greek name and reminded him of his Hebrew name. They took the language of the oppressor and reminded him of his people.
Every wail was an intercession; each tear, an expression of agony for their beloved Simon. Their sweet boy who grew up loving to bake bread with his Granny. Their sweet teen, who was an apprentice with the local carpenter in his shop. Their sweet young man, who dreamed of having a family and a home.
Jesus calls them his own, “Daughters of Jerusalem” and admonishes them not to weep for him, but to weep for themselves. Because he knew a day was coming when it would be better to agonize over not having children than to live the life of a paranoid mother, constantly wondering if your child is going to make it home safely that night.
Will the day come when it will truly be better to have not birthed at all than to have to watch what
you gave birth to die?
Jesus wept. And they wept for themselves. These women were probably triggered watching all of this state-sanctioned police violence. Had their fathers been jailed? Had their sons been crucified? Had their daughters been harassed by roman soldiers?
They wept.
Jesus wept. And we weep for ourselves. We weep for the girl child that still ain’t safe in her own home. We weep for the intergenerational trauma we have suffered. We ache for the intergenerational healing taking place.
We weep.
And we wait. Just like those weeping women did so many years ago. May God bless our faith, our presence, and our tears.
Asé...and amen.
Lyvonne Proverbs, MDiv, is a body and sex-positive writer, preacher, poet, educator, and a highly sought after transformational speaker and seminar leader. Proverbs, a TEDx speaker, has been in ESSENCE, Cosmopolitan, and The Washington Post magazines and Sojourners named her one of “11 Women Shaping the Church” in March 2019.
An Emmy-award winning media producer, Proverbs graduated from Seton Hall University, Yale Divinity School, and Columbia Theological Seminary. A former pastor and spin instructor, Proverbs offers consulting for sacred and secular institutions, as well as individual and group spiritual life coaching. She has partnered with Lyft, Auburn Seminary, the Atlanta University Center, San Francisco Department of Health, Young Women Social Entrepreneurs and more.
Proverbs is the founder of beautiful scars, a healing-centered storytelling agency focused on fostering resiliency. She is on the board of Art and Abolition, an organization that exists to heal, empower, and protect young girls in Kenya who have survived male sexual violence.
Proverbs is Teaching Faculty at Spelman College and Claremont Lincoln University; and a proud member of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated and the inaugural cohort of the DO GOOD X Startup Accelerator. She is currently based in Atlanta, GA and be found on Facebook and LinkedIn. You can also follow her on Instagram and Twitter: @LyvonneP.