In a culture, as is now, that exalts
aggressive masculinity as a sign of power, Christ is undeterred to express the tender,
feminine and motherly feelings especially at the very climax of His earthly
ministry. Soon after His triumphal entry into Jerusalem as King, He laments
with the yearning of a mother: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the
prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your
children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were
not willing” (St. Luke 13:34). Like a mother’s daily routine of bathing and
feeding the children, He stoops to wash the disciples’ feet and nourishes them
with bread and wine and ultimately lays down His life with the self-giving love
that mirrors a mother’s sacrifice.
The Fourth Gospel boldly records
Christ’s profound dialogues and transformative actions with women, an
extraordinary countercultural witness in a society shaped by rigid gender
hierarchies. These encounters include His tender yet purposeful interaction
with His mother at the wedding in Cana (St. John 2:1–5), His revelatory
conversation with the Samaritan woman at the well (St. John 4:7–26), His
merciful response to the woman caught in adultery (St. John 8:3–11), His warm
exchange with Martha and Mary of Bethany (St. John 11:21–32; 12:1–3), and His
commissioning of Mary Magdalene as the first herald of the Resurrection (St. John
20:11–18).
St. Mary- the Theotokos. (“I will
greatly rejoice in the Lord; my whole
being shall exult in my God, for He has clothed me with the garments of
salvation”- Isaiah 61:10)
The narrative of the wedding at Cana opens with the quiet yet significant presence of the Lord’s mother (St. John 2:1). Ordinarily, the lack of wine would have prompted the relatives and the hosts to seek practical solutions or make alternate arrangements for the provisions of wine for the guests. Yet the Blessed Virgin turns swiftly to Christ, though only a guest at the feast, bringing the urgent need before Him.
The history of Israel is replete with men and women waiting faithfully
in anticipation of the Messiah. The Blessed Virgin, who was brought up in the
Temple, received the annunciation from angel Gabriel, the one who sung the
Magnificat that praises the remembrance of the Lord for His servant Israel
wasn’t a passive agency but one who actively pondered the events in heart (St.
Luke 2:19).
The Blessed Virgin’s simple plea,
“They have no wine” (St. John 2:3), resonates with the ancient cry of
Israel for the wine of salvation during the promised Messianic age: “The new
wine fails, the vine languishes… there is a cry for wine in the streets”
(Isaiah 24:7–11). Yet Isaiah’s prophecy does not end in deprivation. The
following chapter unveils a glorious hope; the Lord Himself will prepare a
lavish banquet and conquer death, ushering in eternal joy. This vision of the
great Messianic Banquet is rooted in these words:
“…the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast
of well-aged wines… He will swallow up death forever… And it will be said on
that day: ‘Behold, this is our God; we have waited for Him, and He will save
us. This is the Lord; we have waited for Him; let us rejoice and be glad in His
salvation’” (Isaiah 25:6–9).
On the surface, St. Mary’s
request may appear as a concern for preserving the honour of the hosts. Yet,
through the lens of Jewish expectation, her words echo the prayer of Israel for
the promised wine of redemption that was spoken of by Prophet Isaiah. Her
instruction to the servants, “Do whatever He tells you” (St. John 2:5), reveals
her profound understanding of her Son’s identity and His mission. At this early
stage of His ministry, her unwavering confidence becomes the catalyst for the
first sign at Cana. Without her intercession and faith, this manifestation of
divine glory would not have unfolded.
St Paul, writing to Timothy, commends the generational
transmission of faith that first dwelt in his grandmother Lois and his mother
Eunice (2 Timothy 1:5). Likewise, the holy tradition teaches that St. Mary
herself was born of the fasting and supplication of Sts. Joachim and Anna. The
Incarnation was thus cradled in the womb of intercession. A later legend has
that after the death of St. Joachim, St Anne purchases property near the Garden
of Gethsemane. Whether this is historically verifiable or not, its symbolism is
poignant. The place where Jesus agonised in prayer, sweating drops of blood,
may have stood upon ground once touched by His maternal lineage woven with
threads of prayer, faith, suffering and grace.
It is often the steadfast faith of the mother that sustains the prayer life of the home, a sacred routine that persist even amid the (pandemic) reality of the father’s absence in spiritual leadership at home. Yet society continues to place the entire burden of virtuous upbringing of children upon women. Tragically, many sermons from the pulpits, far removed from the challenges of domestic life, compound this injustice by casting aspersions on mothers especially during the feast days of the Theotokos.
From the hidden sanctity of the home emerges a mystery that mirrors the altar where the body becomes a vessel of self-giving love. The mother’s blood, transfigured into life-sustaining milk, nourishes the fragile existence of the newborn, a silent Eucharistic echo within the domestic sphere. Against this backdrop, the scene from Calvary resounds with profound tenderness: ‘When Jesus therefore saw His mother..” (St. John 19:26). How often do we pause to see, to acknowledge and appreciate this unseen, uncelebrated labour that sustains homes? Christ’s gaze upon His mother is not mere filial affection; it is also a theological affirmation of the dignity of maternal sacrifice. It is a summon to honour those whose hidden intercessions and embodied offerings uphold the sanctity of life.
“Is He not Mary’s son?” (St. Mark 6:3). What seems a simple question in Nazareth conceals a deeper prejudice. In a society where lineage was traced through the father, naming a man by his mother implied suspicion, a shadow cast upon the honour of the Blessed Virgin. Divine mysteries often challenge and scandalize human reasoning. The virgin birth, foretold by the prophets, became a stumbling block to those unable to fathom grace breaking into history. The apocryphal document called the Gospel of Nicodemus records that during Jesus’s trial, one of the charges against Him was that He was born of fornication. However, twelve men testified before Pilate to refute this claim. While this is a non-canonical tradition, it still whispers a truth; even as Christ stood silent during His kangaroo trial, fulfilling Isaiah’s prophecy of the suffering servant who “opened not His mouth” (Isaiah 53:7), He did not leave His mother undefended. Providence raised voices to guard her honour.
May the prayers and intercessions of the Theotokos move us to defend, through word and deed, the dignity of women against unjust aspersions, to recognise the enduring strength of faith across generations, and to honour the silent sacrifices that make redemption tangible within our homes. In a world that measures worth by paychecks, the Cross declares that unseen labour of love is central to God’s saving work. May we, like the beloved disciple, take this truth into our homes and hearts, living lives that honour the mystery of grace entrusted to us through those who prayed, wept, and believed before us.
The Samaritan Woman (“With joy you will
draw water from the wells of salvation”- Isaiah 12:3)
Yet, for women, the cycle of work rarely pauses. The
Samaritan woman embodies this truth; her life is a cycle of drawing water,
bearing burdens, and enduring social scorn. However, Christ meets her in that
very place of exhaustion, not to condemn her
weariness but to transform it. The well that once symbolised endless labour
becomes the meeting place of grace. In Christ, the dignity of her toil is
affirmed, yet its tyranny is broken.
The immense depth of Jacob’s well represents the cycle of human striving:
labour that never ends, jars that never stay full. How many of us live at that
well? We draw from careers, relationships, achievements, yet remain thirsty.
The woman came for water; Jesus offered a spring. He shifts the conversation
from physical need to spiritual longing: “Whoever drinks of the water that I
shall give him will never thirst” (St. John 4:14).
Jacob’s well in Shechem is more than a geographical landmark; it is a
sacred hinge between the Old and New Testaments. After years of toil in Laban’s
household, Jacob obeys God’s command to return to the land of his fathers
(Genesis 31:13). Yet, before reaching Bethel, the place of his vow, Jacob
pauses at Shechem, purchasing land (Genesis 33:18,19) signalling an intention
to settle, even if briefly.
It is during this dwelling that Dinah, Jacob’s daughter, ventures out
and is violated by Shechem, son of the local prince (Genesis 34). The narrative
unfolds with chilling detail: negotiations, anger, deceit, and bloodshed. Yet
amid the clamour of men, Jacob, his sons, Hamor, and Shechem, one voice is
missing: Dinah’s. Scripture is silent on her feelings, her wounds, her healing.
No one asks what she wants. Jacob even entertains a deal to marry her to her
abuser. Dinah is named yet rendered voiceless.
Shechem’s story ends in a massacre. But generations later, in this same
region, another woman approaches Jacob’s well (St. John Chrysostom, in Homily
31-Gospel of John, shares that Shechem is also the traditional location of
Jacob's well where a Samaritan woman had a life changing conversation with
Jesus Christ as elaborated in St. John Chapter 4). She is nameless, perhaps society deemed her
unworthy of remembrance, but unlike Dinah, she is heard.
Christ’s journey to Samaria is no accident. It is divine closure. He
enters the broken history of Shechem to heal what was wounded. He dismantles
walls of race, gender, and shame. His conversation is long, patient, and tender,
a stark reversal of Jacob’s passive silence. His presence acknowledges the
suffering of those crushed by power structures, especially women.
Dinah is named yet unheard; the Samaritan woman is nameless yet becomes
a herald of grace. She leaves her jar, the emblem of endless toil, and runs to
proclaim: “Come, see a man who told me all that I ever did” (St. John
4:29). Her testimony turns a city toward Christ. Where human silence once
deepened wounds, divine speech now opens wells of healing.
Allow Jesus to enter the Shechem of your heart. No place is too gory for
His grace, no history too fractured for His redemption, no place is too dark
for His light, no heart too shattered for His love. The encounter at Jacob’s
well is not incidental; it is intentional. Women whose labour never ceases,
whose tears and sacrifices go unseen-Christ meets you at the well. Jesus steps into the shadows of forgotten pain
and says, “Give Me a drink”, not because He needs water, but because He
longs to pour living water into our deepest thirst.
“Glory be to Christ, who sat by the well;Seeking water from the Samaritan
She would not give it , and He caused to flow;The medicine of life, which quenched her thirst
And the blood from His side redeemed the Church.”
(Tuesday Matins, Sheema Namaskaram)
At dawn, the temple courts become a theatre of humiliation. A woman is dragged into the public square, her shame weaponised by men who claim to uphold the law. “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of adultery.” The phrase drips with irony. Adultery, by definition, involves two people, but only the woman is paraded before the crowd. This selective prosecution exposes the double standard embedded in patriarchal systems. The law becomes a weapon, not a shield.
The men who brought the allegations of adultery against the woman are
not defenders of holiness; they are manipulators of power. They come armed with
stones and Scripture, their lips speak holiness, but their hearts pulse with
malice. Their aim is not moral purity or justice but spectacle and political
entrapment.
Then comes the moment that changes everything. Jesus stoops, writes in
the dust, forcing all the accusers to go away beginning with the elders. The He
speaks to her. The men who dragged her into the temple spoke about her,
never to her. She was treated as an object, a pawn in their game. Jesus
disrupts the dynamics of the culture where women are spoken for or spoken over.
He turns toward her and says, “Neither do I condemn you.” She is no
longer a passive exhibit in a morality trial but one on whom dignity and
equality is bestowed. But Jesus does more than speak; He entrusts her with a
future. His command, “Go, and sin no more”, assumes her capacity for moral
responsibility.
‘Go’ conveys movement and agency,
she is free to walk her own path. He does not impose surveillance or control;
He offers autonomy.
‘Sin no more’ is not a legalistic
threat but an invitation to live differently. He does not define her by her
past. Instead, He frames holiness as a journey, not a punishment.
Jesus refuses to reduce her identity to her sexuality or her failure. He
does not condone sin, but neither does He crush her under shame. He treats her
as one fully capable of taking ethical choices, a radical stance in a culture
that often-denied women such agency. Jesus’s act challenges communities to
dismantle structures that erase female agency and to create spaces where women
are addressed as full persons.
Yet the hypocrisy of unequal standards echoes through history and persists
into our churches today. Often shortcomings in men are often framed as
“mistakes” or “temptations” whereas a woman’s failure, real or perceived, becomes
a scarlet letter. Our parishes face a critical blind spot: the
conflation of forgiveness and reconciliation. A troubling, yet common reality
involves women being urged to forgive and reconcile with unfaithful, addicted,
or abusive spouses “for the sake of the children” or “for the sake of society.”
While forgiveness is a Christian imperative, reconciliation is not automatic.
It requires accountability, repentance, and safety. When the community
(including the clergy) confuse these two approaches, they risk perpetuating
cycles of harm. Women are pressured to return to unsafe environments under the
banner of “Christian duty,” while perpetrators evade accountability. This is
not biblical mercy; it is institutional complicity.
The story of St. John Chapter 8 is not merely about an adulterous woman;
it is about all of us- stone-clutching accusers and sinners alike. And it is
about a Christ who restores voice and agency to the silenced, and who calls His
church to embody an ethic of grace that liberates rather than oppresses and
to create spaces where mercy and justice walk hand in hand-even in a world
still marred by gendered hypocrisy.
Martha, and Mary of
Bethany (“You show me the path of life. In Your
presence there is fullness of joy”- Psalm 16:11)
The Scripture is silent on the identities of the parents or the birth
order of the siblings. However, it seems that Martha would be the
elder one. Her behaviour resonates with the eldest daughters- one who at an
early age typically bore the weight of domestic responsibility and upholding
family’s honour. Martha’s story resonates with anyone who has ever felt crushed
under the weight of responsibility. Her hands speak the language of service,
but her soul aches for rest. Martha embodies the world’s economy of worth: you
are valued for what you do.
Yet Jesus interrupts this narrative. His gentle words: “Martha,
Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things, but few things are
needed—indeed only one.” (St. Luke 10:41), are not a rebuke but an invitation. He does not
dismiss her service; He redirects her focus.
Mary, on the other hand, defies cultural expectations. Her choice is
radical, almost scandalous. Yet Jesus affirms her, signalling a kingdom where
devotion outranks decorum and where women are welcomed as learners and lovers
of God.
Mary’s posture is as eloquent as Martha’s protest. She sits at Jesus’
feet, her silence louder than the clatter of dishes. Her choice is not
laziness; it is courage. To sit when others expect you to serve is a quiet act
of rebellion against a world that measures worth by productivity. Mary reminds
us that contemplation is as holy as action. She teaches that the soul’s deepest
hunger is satisfied not in doing but in being-being with Christ.
The tension between Martha and Mary mirrors an ancient rivalry: Leah and
Rachel, two sisters contending for the love of a man. Leah, unloved, bore sons
in a desperate bid for Jacob’s affection. When Rueben, Simeon and Levi are
born, Leah exclaims every time that henceforth her husband will love her. Yet
after Judah’s birth, her cry changes: “Now I will praise the Lord”
(Genesis 29:35). She shifts from striving for human love to resting in divine
love. Leah ceases bearing. Martha’s journey is similar. Jesus calls her to move
from anxious service to adoring surrender. In Him, the competition ends; both
sisters are cherished.
It is tempting to pit Martha against Mary, as if one represents error
and the other truth. But Jesus does not condemn service; He sanctifies it. The
issue is not activity but priority. When service springs from anxiety, it
becomes bondage; when it flows from intimacy, it becomes worship. The Church
needs both Marthas and Marys; hands that serve and hearts that listen. In
Christ, action and contemplation are not rivals but partners.
This story is not merely about two sisters; it is about the human soul’s
struggle between doing and being, between the societal expectations of gendered
tasks and the freedom of grace. In a world that glorifies hustle, Jesus offers
a better way: “Come to Me, and I will give you rest.” At Bethany’s
table, we learn that the true feast is not what we prepare for Him but what He
prepares for us.
When
Jesus arrives in Bethany after Lazarus has been dead and in the tomb for four
days. Martha steps forward to express her brokenness
boldly: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (St.
John 11:21). Yet, the logical, reasoning, resilient Martha, steeped in her grief,
articulates the highest Christological affirmations- “Yes,
Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into
the world.” (St. John 11:27).
Mary
falls at Jesus’ feet, repeating Martha’s words: “Lord,
if you had been here…”. While Martha’s theology is voiced in bold
confession, Mary’s theology is embodied in tears. She does not
argue; she weeps. And Jesus does not rebuke her. Instead, He is “deeply moved”
and weeps with her (St. John 11:35). In a culture that often shames women’s
emotions, Christ Jesus validates lament. He shows solidarity with women’s
sorrow, honours their voices, dignifies their pain and teaches us that vulnerability is not weakness, it is a language heaven
understands.
St.
John includes an interesting note about the meal following Jesus's raising of
Lazarus from the dead: “There
they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those
reclining with him.” (St. John 12:2). Lazarus, fresh from the grave, reclines in
resurrection’s calm while his sister labours. Is Apostle John subtly calling
him out for not sharing the load? Or is Lazarus a living parable; that those
who have tasted death know the futility of anxious striving?
Mary Magdalene (“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine.” Isaiah 43:1)
In a
world where womanhood was often confined to marriage and motherhood, Jesus
opened a radical horizon, inviting women to live beyond cultural norms, even
embracing celibacy for the sake of the Kingdom. Mary Magdalene’s devotion was
not tethered to domestic honour but to divine love, and in that choice, she
became a signpost of freedom.
Yet what might those seven demons look like today? Perhaps they are not raging monstrous spirits but subtle tormenters-whispers that wound, weights that crush. They haunt boardrooms and bedrooms, pulpits and pews.
1) The Demon of Exhaustion: The relentless loop of expectations-home, work, church, society. A treadmill disguised as duty. She runs until her soul frays, forgetting that Sabbath was made for her too. But Christ calls her to “choose the good part”.
2) The Demon of Expectation: The crushing weight of cultural norms- exclusive focus to get married by a certain age, to bear children by a certain age, to endure abusive relationship, no cries, no complaints. These chains masquerade as ‘christian virtues’, but Christ calls women beyond roles into autonomy and purpose.
3) The Demon of Shame: The demon developed by gossip and judgment. Conversations about mental health, especially postpartum depression in new mothers, remain shrouded in taboo, forcing women into silence. But Christ stretches out His hand and writes a new name in the dust: grace instead of disgrace.
4) The Demon of Fear: Fear of abandonment, fear of violence, fear of being “too much” or “not enough.” Fear that shrinks dreams into corners. Yet, Christ’s perfect love casts out fear.
5) The Demon of Comparison: The endless race of measuring against others in aspects of beauty, success, milestones, even holiness. A finish line that never arrives, whispering, “You are still not enough.” Yet Christ does not demand perfection; He simply calls us to come as we are.
6) The Demon of Isolation: Surrounded yet unseen. Bearing burdens in silence because vulnerability feels unsafe. In the garden when she is isolated and vulnerable, Jesus calls her by name.
7) The Demon of Silence: The voice that says, “Good women do not speak and do not question” and cultures that prize compliance over courage. Yet, the Lord’s mother reasons with the angel, Jesus listens to Martha’s frustration and honours her bold confession and entrusts Mary Magdalene to share with the apostles the greatest proclamation in history. In Christ, women’s voices are not muted; they become messengers of hope.
Twice her voice trembles: “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and
we do not know where they have laid Him” (John 20:2, 14). For Mary Magdalene,
someone has stolen hope itself—someone has taken the Lord of the oppressed, the
Friend of the poor and needy. How piercing the shame if our own parishes became
such tombs, where seekers as well as the believers whisper, “They have taken
the Lord away.” A Church without Christ is not merely empty; it is a shadow
that darkens the world it should illumine.
Mary Magdalene’s encounter with the risen Christ in chapter 20 throbs
with longing; the kind of love portrayed in Song of Songs: “I sought him
whom my soul loves; I sought him but found him not…..When I found him whom my
soul loves, I held him and would not let him go.” (Song of Songs 3:1-4).
“Mary” (St. John 20:16). Jesus calls her by name- not by any role as
someone’s mother, wife or daughter. He restores her identity. This call echoes
the Good Shepherd’s promise: “He calls His own sheep by name” (St. John 10:3).
Yet Jesus’ words, “Do not cling to me,” do not scold her affection, they
sanctify it. In the Song, the bride brings her beloved into her mother’s house,
a sanctuary of intimacy and belonging. Mary Magdalene seeks that closeness, but
the risen Christ calls her to a communion deeper than touch, a love that must
now become mission- “Go and tell my brothers.” The arms that once held Him must
now herald Him. Here love is transfigured where affection becomes apostolic,
and longing becomes proclamation.
Mary
Magdalene longed for Christ when He had nothing to offer, no
miracles to marvel at, no crowds, only the stillness of death. Her story calls
the Church to be a garden, not a grave; to nurture spaces where love liberates,
where voices restore dignity, where mission
moves forward with courage and where women’s gifts are not silenced but are
woven into the fabric of ministry and not just displayed as ornaments for
special occasions. For in that garden, the risen Christ entrusted the greatest
news in history to a woman-and heaven has never apologised for it.
In Christ,
Rincy
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