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There is something here within us
which doesn’t let us sleep, which doesn’t let us rest,
which doesn’t stop pounding deep inside . . .
As I try to visualize the events of that Friday, I can see John, Mary, and their small group of friends standing near the cross. It seems that standing is not the standard deportment that we would expect from people in a part of the world where, as socio-cultural studies tell us, mourners are expected to show their pain visibly through lamentation and wailing. Instead, as the story is described, they are holding the pain as if to absorb it just as Jesus is absorbing it.
John tells us that He gets up in the middle of the meal. Other gospel writers did not want to interrupt the supper, but the youngest disciple thought it was important to let us know that, somewhere between the appetizer and the main course, Jesus cannot continue with the meal. Something is wrong. The host is petrified. (Codes of hospitality were, still are, in the highest esteem in the Middle East.) The problem is not with what is or isn’t on the table. The problem sits around the table. The disciples are breaking bread together, and they are also dividing up Jesus—or better said, they are hoping for a helping of the Messiah’s prestige and power.