The notes are difficult and unpredictable, the rhythms complex and confusing. Rossini’s “Stabat Mater” is the hardest thing I’ve ever sung by a longshot. But it’s worth the effort, even if you’re not much of a Rossini or classical music fan. That’s because what the “Stabat Mater” conveys, the sorrows of Mary witnessing the crucifixion of her son, is worth pondering.
Originating sometime in the 13th century, this poem spread throughout the church quickly. By the 14th century, it was chanted at both devotional and liturgical occasions and employed as a sequence hymn before the Gospel acclamation on Good Friday and the Feast of Our Lady of Sorrows.
Sadly, the “Stabat Mater” is rarely chanted at those liturgies. Today, its simplest version is most commonly used at Lenten parish devotions, with congregants stumbling through a single verse to close each station of the Cross.
Frankly, the “Stabat” deserves more than that. And that is why countless composers, both sacred and secular, have written musical settings for it. In 20 brief verses of three lines each, it paints a profound and compelling scene: the Blessed Virgin Mother standing — who knows how? — beneath the cross. Perhaps no other image has the power to stir our hearts to wonder and love more than this one.
As a more literal translation of the text itself asks: “Is there a person who would not weep seeing the Mother of Christ in such agony? Who would not be able to feel compassion contemplating Christ’s Mother suffering with her Son?”
The love of God expressed by the extreme suffering of his son — and his willingness to do so on our behalf — should overwhelm us. Likewise, the fidelity of Mary, and her strength in God’s grace, should amaze us. We do not see the Virgin Mother of God crumpled up in despair, but standing. Mary is full of sorrow, but not devoid of hope.
She does not use her own suffering as an excuse to walk away from Jesus while he hangs on the threshold of death. Instead, she receives it as a vehicle to draw even closer to him. Together with John, the youngest apostle, and Mary Magdalene, from whom seven demons had been cast out, the Mother of Sorrows stands at the foot of the cross, a perfect and compelling witness to God’s merciful love.
The “Stabat Mater” invites us not just to view the scene, but to participate in it.
“O Mother, font of love, make me feel your sorrow so that I may grieve with you.
Make my heart burn in the love of Christ God so that I may please him.
Holy Mother, grant that each wound of the crucified is driven into my heart.”
It bids us to learn compassion and courage from Mary, to make the Mother of the Savior our Mother too. “Grant that I may bear the death of Christ, share his Passion, and remember his wounds.”
Sentiments like these are not merely pious; they are contrary to everything that belongs to this world. Apart from grace, we are too weak to endure suffering, let alone to accept it willingly. We fear pain and avoid it at all costs. To save our own skins, we turn away from those who suffer, even those we love dearly.
The “Stabat Mater” shows us another way. It teaches us that suffering is not our enemy, but the purifying fire that makes us more like Christ. If we are disciples of Jesus, following in his steps, suffering will draw us, not repel us. That doesn’t mean that the saints are masochists, even less that they are sadists.
But what it does mean is that we are called to embrace the way of the master, who came among us to suffer with us and for us. The way of discipleship is the way of the cross. Our faith requires us not to betray, deny or abandon those who suffer, but to suffer with them. We are challenged to stand and stay — as Mary did — at the foot of the Cross.
No matter how hard we may try to finesse or avoid it, we cannot escape the truth of Christ’s Gospel. In this world, there are only two places where Christians belong: hanging on the cross or standing beneath it. That is where the road to heaven begins.
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