A Good Friday Homily on John 19:25-27 / by the Rev. Tracey Kelly / April 3, 2026
“Meanwhile, standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.” (John 19:25-27)
Mary stood at the foot of the cross and watched the suffering of her firstborn child. John’s Passion Gospel gives us this intimate and devastating image: a mother witnessing the death of her son. She does not turn away. She does not keep her distance. She stands close—near enough to see, near enough to hear, near enough to feel the weight of what is happening.
Any parent who has stood beside a hospital bed knows something of this posture. Any person who has loved deeply and lost painfully can recognize themselves in Mary’s vigil.
Mary stood at the foot of the cross and watched her son die. What was she thinking? Did she remember the feel of his infant weight in her arms, the scent of his hair? Did she think of the toddler she taught to walk and speak? Did flashes of laughter come back to her—shared moments, inside jokes, ordinary days now made sacred by memory? And as she saw the blood pouring from his wounds, did she remember the small boy whose scraped knees she once bandaged?
Mary’s vigil is anguished. But Mary is not alone.
Beside her stand the other women—Mary the wife of Clopas, Mary Magdalene—and the beloved disciple John. They are there, close to the cross, with her and for her. It is as if they know they must see this, must bear witness, so that the truth of this moment is not lost to the world.
And when it is over, they will not scatter into isolation. They will return to the upper room together. They will keep vigil together through the long nights of grief.
****
In the summer of 2018, in the waters of the Pacific Northwest, a heartbreaking scene unfolded. A mother orca carried the body of her dead calf for more than two weeks.
Orcas, those beautiful black and white mammals of the ocean, are also known as killer whales. But, actually, orcas are the largest members dolphin family.
Orcas are highly social creatures, and they live in tight-knit family groups called pods. The orca population is fragile — threatened by pollution, overfishing, and noise.
This particular pod, the one that made international news, had not had a live birth in three years. The calf this mother orca bore was rare and precious, and it lived for only about half an hour.
What followed was an extraordinary expression of a mother’s grief.
In Christian art, a pietà is an image of the Virgin Mary holding the broken body of Jesus. One can find many pietàs in Europe – frescos, icons, paintings and, mostly commonly, statues.
The most famous pietà was carved from a single block of Carrara marble by Michelangelo and is found in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. The body of Jesus is draped fully across her lap. Her left knee supports his legs. Her right knee supports his back and her right arm cradles his shoulders. In the moment of grief captured by Michelangelo, Mary’s face is serene. She looks down tenderly at her son, holding onto him even in death.
The grieving orca became a living pietà.
She balanced her calf on her head and carried it for a thousand miles. She surfaced again and again, as if she needed the world to see. As if grief itself required witness.
It was a visible and public lament. A public act of mourning. By day seven, she was exhausted and falling behind.
But she was not alone.
Beside her swam her pod. They were there, close by, with her and for her. And in time, they even took turns carrying the calf themselves—sharing the burden, holding the grief together.
Finally, after seventeen days, the mother orca’s public lament was over.
What needed to seen, was seen.
Farewells and blessings were given.
The mother dipped her body below the surface and her released the body of her calf.
****
At the foot of the cross, Mary knew, in some way, that this day would come. Years earlier, Simeon had told her, “A sword will pierce your own soul too.” And now, at the cross, that prophecy is fulfilled.
And yet—even here—Jesus sees her. Something else is revealed: grief is not meant to be carried alone.
Jesus points to John and tells his mother “Here is your son.” He looks at John and says “Here is your mother.” In his final moments, he binds people together in care, in presence, in love.
Like the orca’s pod, like those gathered at the cross, we are given to one another so that no one bears the unbearable by themselves. We are called to stand near, to remain present, to share the weight of sorrow when words are not enough.
Because the truth is that we all will stand at some kind of cross. We all will know loss. We will all carry grief that feels too heavy for us alone.
And in those moments, Christ still speaks: Stay. Stand near. Care for each other.
A pietà is not only a work of art. The word itself means, in Italian, compassion—a suffering-with, a love that refuses to turn away.
This is our calling, and it is also our hope:
To be people who do not look away from suffering—our own or another’s.
To be a community that stands close, that keeps vigil, that shares the burden of grief.
To trust that even at the cross, love is still at work—quietly binding us together.
And the same Christ who saw Mary sees you. He sees your grief, your fears, the quiet heartbreaks you carry. And he does not leave you alone.
He gives you one another. He gives you himself.
And even here—especially here—
there is grace enough to hold us,
and hope enough to carry us
until the day when our grief gives way to life.
© 2026 Tracey Kelly. All rights reserved.