How to Live Like a Sacrifice

Mother of the Lamb

When Mary was with Child, young and uncertain of what the future may hold, people often asked if she knew what she was getting into. The answer is both yes and no.

She knew of the sacrifice her baby was to make, but she didn’t exactly know the length of what His sacrifice was to be. She was afraid at first but soon, peace had filled her and she knew that God was with her, watching over her and her Son.

That was until the night. The census, having to have her child in a barn, surrounded by animals, straw, and just her husband. 

Joseph held her face, urging her on, with his hands both soft and rough. They both had tears in their eyes. 

Was today really the day? 

Jesus.

The name stuck to her tongue like fresh honey on a summer's day—Jesus. 

It was beautiful in ways she couldn’t really understand or express. Her little baby boy.

The pain was agonizing, the worst thing she had ever felt in her entire life, body and soul.

But the joy that spread through her body after it was over? Indescribable. Like the very hand of God had rested upon her, warmth spreading through his fingers onto her. Her child was finally here.

His cries rang out into the air, she and Joseph cried alongside the baby, joy in their hearts.

She picked her baby up into her arms and held him close, ignoring how sticky and red her fingers were from the blood, and in her head all she could think was, “how could a baby, small and fragile as he, be the Messiah?”

He looked Mary into her eyes, blinking slowly, lashes long, eyes brown. 

He had Joseph's nose, Mary’s lips, but his eyes… and she understood then. The length of what he was to do, the sacrifice he would make to save the world. And she couldn’t help but cry. He was God's son, but He was also just Mary’s Boy. She wanted to stop this, but she knew she couldn’t. His birth would always mean his death.

The Boy of Promise

His hair was curly and wild. His nose was hooked. His lips, brown and thin. His eyes, kind; his voice, soft and quiet—holding the weight of words too deep for his age. 

Mary loved to hold her little boy in her arms while he slept, tracing his features with her thumb. She watched His breathing, in and out as he slept, too often to count. 

That was her boy.

She loved to hear the sounds of His giggling as he played with his father. Touching the rough callouses on his fingers, following behind him as they walked, helping him with his woodwork.

She wondered what He dreamed of, if He…knew?

But then when her baby would look her in the eyes, with the emotions of someone way older than she—with wisdom and knowledge like never seen before. She knew that He knew. 

He was like any other child, running around with His siblings, scrapping His knees when He fell, losing teeth, tangled hair. He didn’t cry often, however, and He was very obedient and polite. He was always respectful. Mary found herself wondering far too often for her liking, “Why did it have to be Him?”

Animals loved Him, when she would go outside to fetch Him, she would very likely have found him by the birds and insects, feeding them, holding them, whispering words to them as they cooed and chirped in response. 

And when he’d notice His mother, he would smile at her, with this smile like…pure happiness, peace, joy, knowingness?

But she hoped it could last forever.

The Sparrow, The Nail, and The Scent of Wood

As Jesus grew older, only a teenager, nearly outgrowing his own father, he would begin to work as a carpenter. Cutting, shaping, nailing planks of wood. 

The room would be silent, save for the sound of clattering materials, and loud hammers. They worked in unity, in synchronization, together, like the father and son they truly were. 

Joseph would pat him on the shoulders, and Jesus would smile, that smile in which his eyes would crinkle, and his smile lines would become much more pronounced, he would smile very often. 

The smile where the room would light up, and Joseph felt at ease with life, the money they owed would fade away, their struggles would cease, and it’d be just father and son.

But then there were the days. Jesus would pick up a plank, a splinter would slice His finger. Blood would pool on His skin, and His eyes would linger just a second too long at the wood, at the nails, the hammer. 

Sometimes He’d touch the palms of His hand, brush His thumb against his temples and forehead, caressing his right side ribs with his fingertips—all as if he knew what was to come.

Joseph didn’t know what it all meant to his son, still, even as Jesus began to outgrow his father, Joseph would hold him close.

He’d put His head to his chest, and Jesus would listen to the heartbeat of His father. He’d remember what this was all for. 

The sparrow would chirp at the door, coming like clockwork, and Jesus would feed the tiny thing, while his father told him stories.

His father loved metaphors and parables, his stories would captivate Jesus and His siblings. 

How Human is The Slaughtered

Jesus was human. He walked barefoot until blisters formed on His feet. He laughed at jokes until His stomach hurt. He listened to people sing, swam in rivers during the heat, and kissed His mother on the cheek. He was kind to children, stopped to help stray animals. He cried. He loved. He lost. He was human.

Jesus was humble. He rode on a donkey to Jerusalem, He was not rich, only born the son of a Carpenter; the Son of God was friends with prostitutes, and the sick, and the addicts, and the non-believers, and the poor—the Son of God loved. 

Jesus taught, he gathered disciples, he healed, he forgave. He watched His mother grow older. Her eyes crinkled with slight wrinkles and lines from the countless smiles she offered. 

There would be times when Jesus would see His mother once again, and like when He was in His youth, he’d put his head in her lap and she’d stroke his hair, with promises of love and protection for as long as she could.

He’d chuckle at the irony of it all.

He knew the time was coming. And above all else, He was afraid. He’d sweat blood, he’d cry, he’d beg and pray. “Don't let Me be alone. Don’t let My mother watch Me suffer.” 

There’d be times where His hands would tremble slightly, he’d breathe deeply, savoring the air. He’d sip wine just seconds too slow, he’d break bread with a weight behind it.

Jesus knew his time was coming, it was coming fast. Did he feel like he was running out of time?

Jesus was a healer. The belief that he could, the touch of a robe, the utterance of a word and people could be heard of any ailment. He gave peace to the troubled, joy to the pained, spoke the truths of his ministry, and of God, His Father.

He knew what He must do. He knew His sacrifice He had to make; He was not a child anymore. He hadn’t seen His mother and father in quite some years, not since His ministry began. 

Yet with the sound of hammers crashing down like lighting, the sparrows that now refuse to chirp, his hands that began to tremble more and more with each passing day as he was unable to even look at planks of wood. 

He wasn’t hesitating, He was…anticipating.

The fame of His works grew, as did the cruelty. He was spit on, pushed, laughed at, mocked, used. And in the face of each person, He smiled, “God loves you anyways,”

The day came, fast, sudden, but not unexpected. He knew how Judas would betray, how the Romans would find him— even Peter’s violent retaliation. 

He stretched his hands out toward them, palms open; those hands which once built with his father, are now to be broken down until He would see His Father.

It hurt. It hurt so bad. The worst thing he could’ve ever feel in His entire life. His feet, his head, his ribs, his hands. All while they mocked Him from below.

“King of the Jews!” They sneered. “Save yourself!” They shouted.

All he could do was whisper with a cracked and dry voice, “Forgive them Father, forgive them…”

His mother was down below, on her hands a knees, sobbing, shouting, inconsolable. She was clawing at the dirt, as if it were her nailed to this cross alongside Him.

He longed for her to hold Him once more, resting His head in her lap, combing her fingers through His hair, whispering prayers, as when He was a child. 

Instead all she could do was cradle the earth beneath her.

She had to watch her son die before her eyes. Years of not seeing Him, just to see Him die.

It seemed like not so long ago—that night, in the barn. A newborn baby boy, crying into the night, surrounded by animals and his tear-stained face parents.

A tear rolled down His face. He didn’t want her to see Him like this, suffering. 

The sky grew dark, thunder crackled, the earth shook. Was it really so bad, God Himself had to look away?

With the final breath of the Son of God, he commended His spirit.

And it was finished.

The Echo of Silence, The Whisper of God

It was quiet, and peaceful. Outside, muted from the large boulder blocking the entrance, he could hear the chirps of birds, and he smiled at the sound.

The birds were finally singing again.

What was it like for Him? The feelings flowing through him, after he rose from the dead—those three days buried, to bring forth his life once more.

It was stillness in the tomb. Even the air barely shifts through the space.

And he rose upwards, the white sheets placed over his body fell into his lap.

The bandages unraveled and he

Was, again.

He would rub his hands together;

The calluses from his fingertips rough to the touch from the days of his youth building with his father.

His father, Joseph. He missed him.

He would feel over the scars, the cuts, the holes in his hands.

Those very same wounds that saved humanity.

He would breathe deeply, the stale air filling his lungs.

It was not necessary, not anymore, but still, in the air, was that faint scent of wood—the one that reminded Him of His childhood, and he loved it so.

His face was full again. His mouth, no longer dry. He could flex His fingers.

He was Him once more.

The light of the rising sun would peek through the crack of the tomb entrance, illuminating the glow of his skin.

In the silence, God whispered, ‘Arise.’

And he knew,

It was almost time to come home.