John 10:31-42

The stones are already in their hands. Rough, cold, and weighty, they fit perfectly in their palms as if molded by years of fear and resistance. Their fingers tighten around them, their knuckles whiten. It is not enough that Jesus speaks of God; it is that He speaks of God within Himself. That is too much. Too scandalous. Too disruptive. So, they do what humanity has always done when faced with the unbearable weight of mystery—they reach for something solid, something that gives them the illusion of control. They reach for stones.

And yet, Jesus does not flinch.

He stands before them, vulnerable and strong, fully God and fully human, fully known and yet rejected. He asks a piercing question: For which of my works are you stoning me? The silence is deafening, but the answer is clear: Not for the works, but for the truth you speak.

What a terrible and beautiful thing it is to tell the truth.

On this day—this particular day when I reflect on this passage—it feels deeply personal. It is my birthday, a threshold between what has been and what will be. It is Lent, the season of undoing, of surrender, of walking toward the cross with open hands. And it is a moment of reckoning, because I find myself standing beside those who hold stones, and I wonder:

What have I been carrying?

Some stones, I have picked up unknowingly—small judgments, quiet resentments, the kind of hardness that builds slowly over time like sediment settling in the soul. Other stones, I have clutched in defense—wounds turned into walls, rejections that hardened into self-protection. And still others, I have felt thrown in my direction—words meant to wound, dismissals that cut deeper than they should, misunderstandings that left bruises on my spirit.

But here is Jesus, standing in the center of it all. Not running. Not retaliating. Not bending to the fear of others. Instead, He invites them—and us—to see.

To see the works of God already unfolding in our midst.

To see the truth not as something to fear, but as something that sets us free.

To see that every time we reach for a stone, we are closing our hands to grace.

Lent is a time for dropping what we no longer need. It is a time for standing barefoot on holy ground, feeling the weight of what we carry and asking, Do I really need this? Do I need the certainty that protects me from mystery? Do I need the grudge that keeps my heart from breaking open? Do I need the fear that stops me from stepping fully into the life God is calling me toward?

As I mark another year of life, I am learning—slowly, imperfectly—that faith is not about securing answers, but about surrendering to love. It is about standing, as Jesus did, unshaken by the stones of others and unwilling to throw them in return. It is about letting go of what is heavy and opening to what is holy.

So today, I place my stones at the feet of Christ.

I lay down the need to be understood by everyone.

I lay down the wounds I have carried for too long.

I lay down the fear of stepping fully into my calling.

And instead, I hold onto the hands of the One who walks ahead of me. The One who was rejected, yet never stopped loving. The One who was wounded, yet brought healing to the world. The One who, even when the stones were lifted, never lifted one in return.

As we walk through Lent, through the wilderness, through the mystery of our own unfolding stories, may we remember:

We are not meant to carry stones.

We are meant to carry grace.

And we are held—always—in the hands of the Holy.

Amen. Amen.

Meditation by the Very Reverend Allison Burns-LaGreca
Rector, St. Mary’s Episcopal Church, Stone Harbor
Diocese of New Jersey