"Collapsing at the Foot of the Cross"

“Collapsing at the Foot of the Cross”

Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, (North Quincy, Massachusetts)

Good Friday Reflective Service, John 18:1-19:42

Sam Melton, MDiv ‘19

This past week I read a short article written by a hospital chaplain that described what it is like to be in the room when doctors tell parents that their child has passed away. She describes in vivid detail how she is often called into a private room, where the parents have been invited to speak with the doctors, nurses, and chaplains. She tells us how these doctors will always ask the parents to take a seat, but how usually at this point, the parents already know that something is wrong. Often, they begin demanding answers and as the doctor insists they sit down, they refuse until they have more information. She writes about how in medical school doctors are taught to tell parents to sit down because instinctively, every parent, upon hearing that their child is no longer alive, collapses violently to the ground.

She tells us how in every one of these rooms that she has been in when those doctor’s share a parent’s worst nightmare with them, that every single time, those parents collapse, falling to the ground as gasps, shrieks, and sobs fall from their mouths. She tells us that in her role as a chaplain, she has learned to stand behind the parents when she senses this news is coming, because she knows the collapse will follow. She goes on to explain how she feels the heaviness in that room, as the parents world goes completely dark, and yet it is in this darkness that it is her job to make sure that when that collapse comes, she is there to catch them.

Though I have never been in one of these rooms and I hope that it is never a room that any of us find ourselves in, it is a scene that seems to paint a vivid picture in our minds. I can feel my stomach dropping throughout it. I feel my heart sink as I picture the concern that draws itself on the parent’s faces as the doctor slowly closes the door behind them. I can feel my body tense up as the parents begin to violently sob and collapse to the ground. I can feel their pain in my body. It feels heavy, and deeply painful, and incredibly dark.

I wonder how imagining this room makes you feel? And I wonder if it makes us feel similar to the story of Jesus’ death? John has this way of reminding us of this very real and very human Jesus that hangs on the cross. He has this way of calling us to remember that Jesus’ physical body is every bit as real as those children and parents and doctors and chaplains we just heard of.

So, I wonder if we can take a moment to focus on the reaction of our own bodies too? I wonder if can we feel this story? If we take a moment to feel this, what is your body actually doing right now? Are you tense or heavy? Is your heart racing? Are you sweating, avoiding eye contact with others, or feeling a pit in your stomach? The reaction of our bodies in this moment is telling us something about this story, and I want us to pay attention to those very real reminders of our own humanness too.

As Jesus’ body stands, hanging, bleeding and mangled on the cross, we stand in awe of the very humanness of Jesus. In this moment, the Savior has a body, he feels pain, he feels emotion, he sees those around him, looking upon him with mockery or disdain. And it is in this very real moment of pain and anguish that we hear Jesus speak this phrase to his favorite disciple;“Here is your mother,” learning then that the disciple takes his mother, Mary, and makes her his own, he brings her in and makes her part of his own family.

It is this body and this very human emotion that we find in this brief exchange in which we are reminded of the importance of relationships in Jesus’ life. Even in this moment, as his last breath approaches, he speaks out to his disciple with a word of love, asking him to love his mother as his own; asking him to take her in and ensure that she in welcomed into this new future, this life without the physical body of her child.

It is here, that I begin to imagine Mary as one of those parents that the doctor has called into that dimly lit room. It is Mary, that I imagine as she hears the news of the death of her child that she instinctively collapses to the ground. I imagine her holding the lifeless body of her own child, the one whom she bore and breastfed, and swaddled, and taught to walk and talk, this child ー that she watched grow from an infant, to a boy, to a teenager, and then to this man ー it is precisely at this moment that we see Mary as Jesus’ mother--- as the mother who only sees darkness in this moment.

What is her body feeling? Though she knows the prophecy that this child was born to fulfill, I have a hard time imagining that as she holds her own child in her arms, that she can see the hope of this future. In this moment, Mary is a grief stricken mother watching her child in agony and pain, feelings that reverberate throughout her entire body.

And what about us? Where are we right now? Where are we in this darkness? For those of us that struggle with depression and anxiety or find ourselves grieving, moving through difficult periods of life --- this darkness that we find today in the story of Good Friday may feel all too real. Do you also find yourself identifying with its sadness and darkness? It is a moment when finally the liturgical calendar matches those feelings of depression, sadness, darkness, and despair. If you find yourself identifying most closely with Mary today, she is here with you and she welcomes all of you, all of your grief and pain and anger and fear and sadness. Maybe you find yourself sitting loved ones in the midst of health difficulties or for the first time, or find yourself as the patient. Perhaps, you are feeling heavy today as you contemplate the future for your loved ones. Maybe there are difficult decisions ahead, or you find yourself thinking about the safety of your own children. In our moments of grief and struggle, in these moments that call out the darkness and makes the hope difficult to see, we find Mary there with us today.

On Good Friday, the pain of Mary, the mother of this child, seems to be calling us into a conversation that invites us to collapse at the foot of the cross, laying our emotions out in the open too. Mary allows us to see that we get to have these feelings too, that we have time and space to feel them, and to really feel them today. Mary lets us know that it’s okay if we don’t see the hope today. She lets us know that at the foot of the cross, the hope is coming, but on Good Friday, today, this is the space to simply feel. Mary lets us know that there are no expectations of us today. She gives us permission to throw away the expectations of others, knowing that we get to toss away the need to pretend to be okay, because today we simply get to collapse at the foot of the cross.

On Good Friday, we have the privilege of knowing that there is hope coming, that just as Jesus cares for Mary, there are people here caring for you too. As outsiders in that hospital room, we get to see that there is someone there to catch you when you collapse, but if we find ourselves in the place of those parents or in the place of Mary, Jesus’ words gives us full permission to simply collapse if we need to. Mary gives us the freedom to come as we are today.

As we end, I invite you into a few moments of silence as I ask you to close your eyes, to pay close attention to your breath, and to allow your emotions to wash over you, and ask yourselves “what am I feeling today”, “what is it that I simply need time to feel?” If we take a deep breath and we allow our body to feel what it is feeling, what is it that our body is trying to tell us? What are those feelings inviting us to lay at the foot of the cross this evening? And what can we lay at the foot of the cross that we wish to find hope in on Sunday morning?

Amen.