Quick Word: Real People

You can catch my quick word every Tuesday morning, just after six, on New Zealand's Rhema

During the Rugby World Cup I was a bit horrified at the way Quade Cooper, from the Wallabies, was treated.  Quade grew up in Tokoroa, my husband's hometown (the two of them went to the same high school) so I guess the way he was treated by kiwis - booed at every turn, vilified, abused - got a bit personal for me.  But not as personal as it got for his mother.

Talking about it to the Brisbane Sunday Mail, Quade’s mother explained what happened when she went to one of the World Cup games.  She said,

"I was sitting there listening to people all around me saying horrible, awful things about my son. I was really, really upset. I was thinking 'Is this what he has been going through for five weeks?'. I was really hurt that my own people were doing that to him. It was unbelievable how deep the abuse went. And when you are a mum, you want to take all that hurt away.”

I wonder if, while the young couple booed Quade when he got the ball, they thought of their own son, home asleep?  I wonder if, while the middle aged man threw beer bottles in Quade’s direction, he thought of his daughter just about the finish high school?  I wonder if while the crowd said horrible, awful things, they thought about what Quade’s mother might feel as she sat amongst them?  I doubt it.  But all this made my mind go to another mother who watched her son abused.  Who watched her son killed.

In the gospel of John we read;

“When the soldiers had crucified Jesus, they divided his clothes among the four of them… Standing near the cross [was] Jesus’ mother…”

- John 19, beginning of verses 23 and 25

I wonder if when the soldiers debated what to do with his robe they thought of the clothes that swaddled their own young babies?  I wonder if while people shouted at Jesus to save himself they thought of the feelings of his mother, standing by?  I doubt it.  But I can’t judge them, because sometimes the story of Jesus can become so familiar I lose its heart, its reality.  I forget that people like me walked with him and loved him and thought they lost him to the booing crowd.  I forget that God sent his son to become human, like me.  To a woman who was a mother, as I am a mother.  But, when I forget, something happens to remind me that the story of Jesus is full of real people, just as the game of rugby is played by real men; all someone’s son.