Good Friday
March 21, 2008
John 19:1-19:42
“They stare and gloat over me; they divide my garments among them; they cast lots for my clothing.” (Psalm 22:17)
Jesus is hanging on the cross, and at his feet were Roman soldiers acting as if he already were dead. Each soldier took something from him as his own, his booty, a small benefit for the unpleasant task of playing guard at execution. When it came to his tunic, they decided it would be a waste to tear up a perfectly good tunic. So they left it intact and cast lots for it – or drew straws or whatever one did back then to settle things. And so his inheritance was divided.
As the soldiers cast lots, Jesus hung over their heads, his life draining from him. And as they split up his meager belongings, Jesus looked down and said to the Virgin Mary: “Woman, here is your son.” He looked to the beloved disciple and said, “Here is your mother.”
His dying concern was that his mother would be cared for, that in her grief and loneliness she would have someone to look after her needs and to console her.
We all have experienced this in our lives in one way or another, or at least seen it at work in other families. Someone is dying. Perhaps lying in a hospital bed, perhaps at home, but experiencing the cross wherever they are. The end of life has come or is coming, and there is a swirl of concerns and emotions.
The family worries about arrangements: How do you make funeral arrangements? Can we afford it? What about the hospital bills, the medicine and bedside care? Who and how to sort through all that?
The friends worry about the family: Do they need anything? Can I bring a casserole, or will I just be in the way? Can I sit with the dying person so the caregivers can take a break? Or should I wait to be called?
And the dying person also has worries: Am I really dying? What if I don’t want to die? What if I don’t say everything I need to say, bid farewell to all those I should? What if I don’t have the energy or the wisdom to say I love you.
So many worries. And we don’t always concentrate on the right things. Tempers get short. Those who have been caregivers may have run out of steam, run out of ideas, run out of patience. And they can’t be blamed, though it’s easy to misunderstand them at a time like this.
Friends and neighbors can be well-meaning but often say and do inappropriate things. I remember a friend with a terminal illness who was the mother of a 15-year-old. An acquaintance asked her, “Since you won’t be here, have you already planned your daughter’s Sweet 16 party? It’s important.” That person thought she was being helpful but …
You see, we often get our priorities out of whack in times of crisis. And a death is a time of crisis – a time of pain for the survivors, a tearful good-bye no matter how well-lived a life that is being remembered. And it is a time of transition from this world to the next – a glorious move, but as we all know, any transition, any change is difficult. Even the smallest good-bye brings pain.
And so, with our priorities out of whack, we sometimes turn on one another – and forget the love that we are commanded to have for one another.
We squabble over inheritances, no matter how large or small. Who gets the silver, who wants that chair, who was promised the chifforobe?
We’ve all seen it. Perhaps we’ve been a part of it. That chair or that setting of china – it won’t change our lives. It’s probably just acting out. Unresolved conflict among brothers and sisters. Maybe a show of rebellion that’s been bottled up since adolescence. As with the soldiers, it may be a sign of indifference – that this death is so meaningless that material things, the baubles and trinkets of this life, are more important than the human emotion swirling about us.
Or maybe it’s just grief. Grief that doesn’t know how to show itself. Grief that grabs us and won’t let go, won’t let us be who we really are, who we want to be. So the grief makes us act in ways that make us ashamed later, when we’ve calmed down. Grief can make us say harsh things, or maybe make us say nothing at all. Grief can make us forget who we love or why we love or that we love at all.
There is no one proper way to grieve. There is no one way to handle the passing of life – our own, or those of our loved ones.
That is why the example of Jesus is so important to us. He knew death was coming, that nothing could be done to avoid it – yet still, he asks his Father if this cup could pass from him. It’s natural for us to want to put off death – our own deaths, the deaths of those whom we love.
And it’s important for us, like Jesus, to accept the will of the Father and drink the cup that is handed us. Not with joy, not with eagerness, but with the understanding that we all shall pass and that it will bring grief. To us, to our loved ones. And that reluctance and grief are not sins, but human emotions appropriate to our condition.
So it is right and proper for us to contemplate Christ on the Cross. To contemplate his knowledge that those around him suffered with him and for him. His compassion for those who suffered, even though most of the world looked on with indifference. Even though the most important death in all of creation was taking place, the world went on, uncaring and unmoved.
Yet Jesus, wrenched with pain, looked down and cared for his mother. “Woman, here is your son.” And he looked down to the disciple whom he loved and said, “Here is your mother.”
The Romans cast lots for his clothing. They gave him sour wine to drink. But when he said, “It is finished,” he said it with love on his lips.
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