John Chrysostom
When the widow cried out in grief, our Creator, Christ the God, approached her. The all-knowing God, who perceives everything even before creation, recognized her. “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you came forth out of the womb I sanctified you” (Jeremiah 1:5). He, the father of the fatherless and the judge of widows, transforms sorrow into joy, has turned the entrance of Nain into a house of worship, and the bier of the dead into a sacred altar. Where the gift of resurrection resides, there lies the beauty of this altar; and wherever the hands of the Word of God extend, the fullness of resurrection is realized. The departing became a sacrament, and the outpouring became an invitation. What does the evangelist convey?
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“But when Jesus saw her”—that is, the Savior and the Word of God, Christ—"He had compassion on her." What did He see? A widow, bereft of a child, aging without a companion, bent under the weight of her sorrow, disheveled, with ashes upon her head, eyes heavy with tears, her garments torn in despair, striking her chest, unable to utter a cry, yet remaining in her right mind. Observing her distress, Jesus felt sympathy and approached her, saying, “Do not weep.” She, engulfed in sorrow and blind to His identity, expressed her anguish, “You bid me not to weep? Yet, what comfort can You provide? Even if the world were to shift to offer me solace, it would be insufficient. What could possibly bring a mother more comfort than her child? Especially a widow whose sole support is in her son? How can You say, ‘Do not weep’? My son is mourned by strangers, should I remain silent? The stones cry out, and I am to be mute? My hope is extinguished, my life has ended, my strength is shattered; I see nothing but despair in life, and so do I feel hopeless. Death has eradicated my hopes, rendered me hopeless; it has taken him away, severed my roots, and clipped away my branches; it has left the trunk standing yet deprived me of the youthful shoot; I am left with only the old woman, and taken away the young man. I have no one left to look to. If I had borne another son, perhaps I could have eased my grief, finding solace in his life, but now nothing remains to offer joy. I see only the likeness of my son, which reminds me of his father; in him I saw unity, never considering my status as a widow. He alleviated my hardships and cared for me more than my husband did, serving as my comforter in times of sorrow. Whenever despair gripped my spirit, he would embrace me tenderly, showering me with youthful affection, dispelling my gloom; and you say to me, 'Weep not for your son!' Who are You to instruct me thus? Some in the crowd approached her, saying, 'Why do you, O woman, challenge God? The Lord is here, speaking to you; come, beseech Him earnestly; His presence is purposefully among us.' The widow wiped her eyes, adjusted her garments, covered her chest, and fell before the Master, responding to Him, ‘Grant me a son, and I will heed your words. I acknowledge my natural old age (yet) I recall Sarah and her promise.’ Falling at the feet of Jesus, she pleaded, ‘Forgive the boldness of your servant, O Master, and my sorrow-fueled words. You understand a mother’s grief when grieving for her children; for it is Your command. I raised him with hope. I have lost my husband; at least grant me a son; uphold my old age; I am already frail. I do not say, like Martha, ‘If you had been here, my brother would not have died’ (John 11:21); for while You are present, You hold his soul, and in apparent absence, forsake nothing. Lord, grant me small mercies! You shed tears for Lazarus, whom by Your might You resurrected; should I not weep for my son?’ O son of the widow.