Exodus 2.1-10 or 1 Samuel 1.20-end; Psalm 34.11-20 or 127.1-4.2; Corinthians 1.3-7 or Colossians 3.12-17; Luke 2.33-35 or John 19.25b-27

IF LAST week’s Gospel was one of the longest in the lectionary, this one must be the shortest: a mere three verses. Three verses. Three Marys. Possibly three women — but there could be four of them in total: ignore the punctuation of 19.27, and the ambiguity becomes obvious. I think that there are four women, to set against the four soldiers who cast lots for Jesus’s clothing. That is assuming that the soldiers were four in number, because John refers to four piles of clothing, “one for each soldier” (19.23).

I find two main approaches to this Gospel. One is “spiritual”, the other “emotional”. The emotional approach perceives a dying son securing the future of his mother and his friend, who will soon have need of each other. The spiritual (more common among commentators with a “high” view of Mary’s part in salvation) finds Christ commending humanity (represented by John) to the care of Mary, as she becomes the mother of all humankind.

It is easy to miss the fact that only John’s Gospel records the presence of a male disciple beside the cross. It is easy, too, to be so moved by the drama of the scene that we do not notice that John never calls the mother of Jesus by her name.

I am indebted to an article by Judith Lieu for many insights into this literally crucial passage. She points out, for example, that the mother of Jesus appears twice in John’s Gospel: once near the beginning and once near the end. Then she explores an interplay between Cana and the Cross. That interplay is not confined to minor matters such as Jesus’s addressing of his mother as “Woman”. There is no consensus on whether that form of address is a disrespectful failure to honour the fifth commandment or a standard form of polite address. Either way, it certainly brings home to the reader that even Jesus’s mother stands primarily with the rest of humankind, as being mortal and in need of redemption.

One contrast between Mary’s appearances at Cana and the Cross is in terms of who is driving the action. At Cana, it was all Mary, who went to her son, told him what was amiss, and was expecting him to do something about it. By the time of the Passion, a reversal of roles has taken place. Now, it is Jesus who, though physically still, in his crucified state, acts decisively to respond to a need. His last action for his mother is to entrust her to the earthly care of the beloved disciple (so described here and at 20.2). The Evangelist may also have seen this special relationship of care as extending to the community that later formed in his name.

Jesus’s act of commendation is like an emotional counterpart to the spiritual act that was his “new commandment” to the disciples at 13.34. It shows the completeness of his nurture of those whom he has already called “friends” (15.15) and will soon describe as “brothers” (20.17). It is, moreover, the final step in his earthly journey as the incarnate Word: the very next verse declares that “Jesus knew that all was now finished” (19.28). This confirms that the entrusting of his mother to the beloved disciple is part of a plan, a divine design. We must not think of it as an “Oh, yes, and I mustn’t forget to . . .” afterthought. Once that end has come, he receives the wine, bows his head, and “gives up” — or “lets go” — his spirit.

In one way, Jesus’s final act of care is old-fashioned indeed. Both the Law and the Prophets commended the care of widows, who held a special place in society, being honourable and vulnerable alike. Almshouses in towns and villages all over this country bear witness to a long history of subsequent Christian care for those in need. But that is only one face of the Christian tradition of care for the vulnerable, and honour for every human person, which goes right back into the Church’s first beginnings.

Alongside this straightforward example, set to encourage Christians to prioritise the needs of vulnerable people, there stands a more challenging message. Jesus may not ask our permission — or ascertain our feelings — about what he demands of us. Like the ideal of motherhood itself, he is setting a high standard, of love without condition, qualification, or caveat.