Releasing Grief as an Act of Resistance
Luke 23:27-31
Today is Good Friday, and grief is in the air. Mary’s son is being paraded through the streets of Jerusalem to his execution. The procession is fraught with folks from all walks of life—his disciples, envious religious leaders, wealthy people, poor people, curious people, people transformed by his teaching, preaching, and miracles, people who do the bidding of the empire, people who are informants for the empire, young people, old people, foreigners, natives, soldiers, civilians. In the words of Luke, “a great number of people are following him.” A great number of people are about to witness the public and violent execution of an innocent man.
Jesus, having been flogged by the order of a coward of the Roman Empire, Pilate, is exhausted from his injuries while walking “The Golgotha Mile.” As Simon of Cyrene is conscripted to carry the cross for him, Jesus hears the ritual acts of mourning by women who are beating their breasts and wailing for him. He turns to them and tells them not to mourn for him but for themselves and their children. I’m sure Jesus means well by his statement, and scholars say he is speaking to the future destruction of Jerusalem to come. However, his comment in the moment is not only insensitive, as if barren women are unable to grieve for children, not their own, but it also devalues the important work these women are doing in the face of unbearable grief.
Other than the descriptive moniker ascribed to them, “Daughters of Jerusalem,” we do not know much about these wailing women. Perhaps they are some of the women who brought their children to Jesus for healing, perhaps they were among the multitude he fed with fish sandwiches, perhaps they witnessed him cure friends and relatives, or they heard him teaching in the synagogues. Some of them could even be his play aunties or synagogue mothers. Or maybe, they were members of the ancient Near East “Mourner’s Guild Association”—trained professionals who were paid to journey with families in their time of grief. Regardless of who they are, these women are not only engaging in cultural practice but from Luke’s vantage point, their work is also an act of resistance to the systems and structures responsible for the procession leading to Golgotha.
Interestingly, Luke does not allow the women to respond to Jesus’ interruption of the grief ritual, but if I can use my sanctified imagination, I imagine them telling him to let them do their job because their work is not just for him but also for the people whose lives have been upended by the tragedy befalling him. Jesus may call himself the Son of God, but to these women, he is the son birthed from Mary’s womb. He may have told Pilate that his kingdom is not of this world, but to these women, he is kinfolk from the town of Nazareth. He may want them to mourn for themselves and their children, but to them, he is one of the children they probably helped Mary and Joseph raise. He may speak of future things to come, but they are dealing with the reality of the present. I imagine a wise elder saying to him, in the sweetest and kindest church mother voice, “Baby, let us do our job and help people release and process their grief. This is too much for any of us to handle alone.” Even though they know and see the fate that lies ahead of him, they resist the verdict through their ritual acts of lament.
Today is Good Friday and grief is palpable—not only in what we read happening to Jesus in the text, but what is happening in our world, our nation, our cities, our communities, our lives. We are three hundred eighty-plus days into a pandemic that has isolated us from our friends, family, and loved ones. The lack of physical human contact has plummeted many of us into depression. We have lost over five hundred fifty thousand plus lives—many of whom died alone in their homes or in hospitals. We have witnessed the unveiling of white supremacy in what some want to believe is a post-racial America. We are exhausted from listening to or hearing political pundits dissect stories to which they have no proximity. We have discovered that the traditions and practices that brought balance to our lives cannot be replicated in the virtual spaces to which we have been relegated. We are carrying the grief of these tragedies in our bodies that are impacting our physical, mental, and emotional well-being. But grief is not meant to be held within, but rather to be released.
The “Daughters of Jerusalem“ show us this in the text. Their piercing wails, the rhythmic pounding of their chests, is an invitation to release the grief our bodies are carrying. Their actions are a reminder to us that we do not have to wait to get through our tragic experiences before releasing or processing our grief. No, engaging in ritual acts of grieving is work that we should do as events unfold in our lives. It’s work we should do to resist the powers and principalities of empire. It’s work we should do because we know that living conditions in white supremacy systems and structures is not what God wants or intends for us. It’s work we should do because we believe in God’s vision of liberation for all creation. It’s work we should do not just for ourselves but also for the sake of our neighbors. As these sisters further show us, rituals acts of grieving is not only a personal endeavor but also communal.
One of the earliest and most vivid memories I have of experiencing grief rituals is of my four-year-old self watching members of the rural community where I grew up, in Liberia, West Africa, surround my parents, especially my mother, in their time of grief. I don’t remember all the details, but I have vivid images of people, mostly women, coming in and going out of the small room where my mother sat on a mat mourning the loss of her son, my baby brother. As they entered, they would sit on the floor beside my mother and mourn with her in rhythmic chants of lament in our native language, Bassa. Between those laments were also moments of prayer, singing, eating, laughter, remembering, sharing stories of hope, and offering words of encouragement. Those women knew the journey through grief was not our family’s alone to bear, so they showed up so we wouldn’t be alone. Their presence and acts of love provided a firm foundation for our path towards healing and restoration.
Today is Good Friday, and grief is in the air; grief is palpable; grief sits in our bodies, minds, and souls, depleting us of strength, creativity, and courage. Grief brought on by living conditions in an empire that cares very little about our humanity. An empire built on the lie of white supremacy. An empire that values capitalism over equality and equity. An empire that uses its power to silence the voice and vote of its people.
Yet, the good news is we have a God who shows up amidst our grief. We have a God who uses the actions of the “Daughters of Jerusalem” to show us how to resist the taunting, ridicule, apathy, and evil of a world governed by empires. We have a God who invites us to release our grief as an act of resistance. What and how that looks will be different for each of us. Perhaps it is as bold and overt as the actions of the “Daughters of Jerusalem”—wailing and beating your chest in lament. Or perhaps it is as quiet as the recommendations of another wise elder, who from the onset of the pandemic has invited us to:
Breathe.
Drink water.
Stretch.
Pray.
Rest.
Play.
Move.
Cry if you need to do so.
Repeat often.
Whatever you do, remember that God sees you, hears you, and is in the struggle with you--embracing, holding, chanting, wailing, and beating Her breasts as an act of resistance and as an act of love.
Reverend Chenda Innis Lee has been in pastoral ministry for over ten years. A gifted preacher and teacher, she has served as an associate and senior pastor of churches in the northern Virginia region. Her ministry is deeply influenced by Jesus’ message of inclusion for those on the margins of society and a desire for all God’s people to live fully and freely in the abundance of God’s grace. A native of Liberia, West Africa, she came to the United States when she was sixteen, after surviving Liberia’s civil war. She and her husband, Asa, met during their time at Wesley Theological Seminary. They arestewards of four spirited daughters—Akeemah, Jaanaiya, Cydah, and Camaini.