Sorrow

This is something I wrote a while back, but I figured I'd throw it out there, anyway, mostly because a certain monkey told me I shouldn't.

It’s a pretty ridiculous understatement, but some things, most things about God are difficult to understand. Not so much the “what” of them as the “why.” Miracles can usually be grasped in one sense or another, because they happen. But God’s motivations, that’s something else. I think most people struggle with trying to understand them at some point. I know I did. But the thing that was always hardest for me to get my mind around, though, was the Incarnation: God becoming man, solely for the purpose of dying, and the forgiveness of sins. And dying solely to save all who believe from dying in the truest sense. It just doesn’t make sense, unless you understand one basic thing about God.

In spite of our iniquity (and maybe because of it), God loves us. John 3:16 tells us “For God so loved the world…..”

Why? The world didn’t love Him. It’s evident everywhere you turn in the bible. There are too many affronts to God to even list them all (blasphemies, the massacre of the innocents, beheadings, rapes, murders, disciples put to the sword, stonings…). Yet we are forgiven (another incomprehensible thing). I think Psalm 8 says it best:
When I consider your heavens and the work of your fingers, the moon and stars that you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him…? (Ps 8:3)

What is man that God sent his Son to be tortured and executed for people who, for the most part, would not recognize him for who he was?

What, indeed?

Once again, man is loved, even though we really aren’t even close to worthy of it. For some reason, God loves us so much, he was willing to do it. Willing to come down to our disgusting level and be born in a barn, and laid down in a feed trough. He was willing to experience the gamut of human emotions, all in the name of our undeserved salvation. Not the least of which was maybe the worst emotion of all; despair. It doesn’t seem right, considering that it is only through Him we can truly find hope.

The bible refers to Jesus feeling sorrow many times, but the incident that always affected me most was when He was praying in Gethsemane the night before his arrest. He takes his inner circle off to pray, and then he goes off a short distance from the rest of them and literally throws himself on his face. Jesus says that his soul is overwhelmed with sorrow, to the point of death (Matt 26). He knows what’s coming, yet he perseveres. He knows the people he’s come to save will largely ignore his message, yet he perseveres. I believe he would have persevered even had the Romans not been there to hammer the nails and he had to do it Himself. He loves us that much. That kind of altruism hardly seems possible now, considering the way people react when a person claims to be motivated by anything other than avarice.

Really, there are few certainties in life, beyond those few basic truths that have been so pounded into our psyches they’ve become clichés. We’ll always have to pay taxes, unless the government figures out someway to create revenue from rhetoric, and then we’ll truly be the richest country in the world (some would argue that the United States is actually bankrupt—in the moral sense). And unless a person subscribes to the belief that a cryogenically preserved human being will one day be revived with all their intellectual faculties intact, then everyone except Ryan Seacrest will eventually die as well. And who could really believe cryogenics will ever work? Does anyone actually believe Ted Williams’ frozen head will one day return honor to baseball? Other than that, who really knows what the future holds?

No one is guaranteed to find a good job (or a job at all, in some cases). Not everyone gets married, has a family, or buys a house.

So what else is certain, then?

One thing we can absolutely depend on having occur in our lives at some point is suffering, and the pain of loss. Eventually, we’re all going to lose someone close, and maybe even have some sense of our own impending death. Pain takes many, many forms, and there’s a little something out there for everyone. Why should we not have to experience even the smallest part of something that God himself did, and in a way that no human being ever could? And when we’re in that moment of pain, when it just hurts so much (for whatever reason) that you begin to question whether or not it’s worth it to continue, isn’t that when God is closest?

I’ve heard people say that if you haven’t experienced pain, you haven’t experienced life. How true.

There’s a pivotal scene in Four Weddings and a Funeral where one of the characters is eulogizing his lover, who has just passed from a heart attack at the film’s third wedding. He mentions that the deceased “preferred funerals to weddings because they’re a ceremony which everyone stands a chance of eventually being involved in.”

Stating the obvious, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

There’s really no way to describe what it feels like to lose someone you love to a person that hasn’t experienced such a loss. To me, death is one of the worst things that can happen in a person’s life—if it is a life without Christ. Not to minimize the pain of a bad divorce, or a betrayal of trust, though. It its own way, that is nearly as bad. You feel forsaken. Having someone leave is in a way just them saying “I don’t want you.” Never mind the fact that they often say “it’s not you, it’s me.” Or, “I’m not right for you.” All we hear in that instance is that we’re unworthy in some way. We’re not attractive enough, or not something enough to the extent that the person we love does not want us anymore. We are not worthy of their love any longer, and by extension, maybe not worthy of anyone’s love. At least, sometimes it feels that way.

“Now there’s tears on the pillow
darling where we slept
and you took my heart when you left…”

That’s from a Bruce Springsteen song called My City of Ruins. The entire song is a lament about the protagonist in the song coming to terms with the slow death of his beloved city—Asbury Park, NJ, but I think it’s also the perfect allegory for most failed relationships. I think the above lyric says it exactly. When someone leaves, or when a friendship ends (which happens a lot more than it ought to), it takes part of your heart for a while, sometimes a very long while. And with a betrayal of trust, in addition to the loss of the person, you also have to rebuild your ability to trust another person. That’s terribly difficult. Why trust someone else? They could do the same thing to you. They probably will, in fact. Or at least it feels that way. The pain, though emotional in nature, is almost palpable. And the only thing that will really stop the hurt is finding another person to befriend, or to love, or to trust. It sounds a little ridiculous to put it this way, but in a lot of cases, it’s much the same with the death of someone close. I’m simply talking about salving the pain of loss, not the actuality of replacing the person with another person. That’s impossible. The problem with this is that in any case, you’re filling a void with something temporary. Why not fill it with something that will last forever?

So what can you do with your pain, then? How can you heal the wound created by the person that is gone, whether gone from your life, or gone from life, period?

Well, that depends. Some people actually seem to deal with their pain quickly, and then move on with their lives, whether it be over a death, or a divorce, or whatever it happens to be. I’m not convinced, though, this is always the case. Simply telling yourself you’re over something doesn’t mean you are. It just means you’ve stuffed your pain into some closet in your psyche and haven’t necessarily dealt with it in a permanent sense. You haven’t cured your hurt (or your heart). You’ve just frozen it in time. Maybe even convinced yourself that the thing which caused the pain is something that’s a part of the person you were when it occurred, and not the person you are now. That is avoidance, for the most part—letting your hurt deaden you, letting it deaden your spirit.

I did this for more than a decade. I told myself I was OK, even though everyone that I wasn’t able to chase away realized I was sinking into depression, and occasionally even lashing out in anger, though I wasn’t angry at anything in particular, except possibly (probably) God. Pushing people away was easier than getting close to them and then having them taken away. Not trusting someone was better than having them betray me. And I told myself that the grief and anger I felt over the deaths that had occurred in my life, that the pain I’d endured from them and every other bad friendship or relationship, from every bad circumstance in my life was something that was the past—that I’d learned from it and it wouldn’t happen again. I wouldn’t get close to people, because people are fragile, and they die. I wouldn’t love anyone, because I would eventually be hurt, or left. My “cure” for my pain was simply withdrawing from it and becoming emotionally deadened (and also becoming a complete jerk much of the time), and trying my best to not get close to anything or anyone else, because nothing is permanent. Nothing lasts forever.

Nothing.

The problem with this tactic is that it eventually it catches up to you. Pain must be dealt with, must be cured, and avoiding new pain is not something that does it. It’s really a Band-aid on the problem, not a cure. Another way to deaden the pain, like substance abuse, or other types of addictions.

So what else can you do?

One option is wallowing in the pain and letting it rule you, becoming one of those people who mourns perpetually and hides behind a veil of hurt.

I think everyone knows at least one person who doesn’t seem happy unless they’re unhappy—the “look at me, my life is such a burden” people—martyrs. It’s so much easier to be defined by your suffering than to do anything to break free of its grasp—and to blame people for your suffering that actually have little to do with it. It’s so much easier to just be sad, rather than find out (by delving into the depths of your pain) what the genesis of the pain is. Sometimes it isn’t what you think. Sometimes we have something buried so deeply inside (love isn’t the only emotion that lives in our hearts)—it begins to work on us like a slow moving poison or a cancer of the spirit. If it is not healed, we ultimately become our pain. Become defined by it. Or our pain becomes us, and the thing that’s so awful is that we lose sight of the reason we’re sad in the first place—the loss of someone dear. The suffering of someone we love. The pain becomes less about the void created by the absence of the person we loved, and more about the ill deed done to our life. Why me, God? Why did you do this to me?

Well, let’s think for a minute. What is sorrow, anyway?

I think most people would define it as grief over a person or circumstance. OK. That sounds right. So what do you do with it? Sorrow, for its own sake, is harmful rather than edifying. But Godly sorrow, that’s something else entirely. If the pain in our hearts leads to repentance, then we draw closer to God, and are lifted up (2 Cor 7:10). But, “worldly sorrow brings death.”

Godly sorrow. Sounds strange, doesn’t it? Who among us has been “sorrowful to the point of death?” Not many, and none in that context. I think it’s safe to say that no person other than Jesus has had to deal with the knowledge they’re going to be sacrificed for the world’s sin.

It’s so easy, though, to use pain as a reason to turn away from God. So easy to convince yourself that, even though you know there’s a God, He doesn’t care about you because he took the person away that you loved, in one way or another. This is one of Satan’s most successful tricks—convincing us that God doesn’t care.

He’s not called Father of Lies for nothing. God cares about us enough, loves us enough, to lead His own Son to the altar, and to have Him experience maybe one of the worst, most horrible deaths possible; for all people, but also for someone more specific; for you. For me.

Jesus can heal your pain, he can fill the gaping wounds in your heart and the voids in your life with the only thing that is truly permanent; the love of God. Your pain can bring you nearer to Him. Your pain WILL bring you nearer to Him if you simply reach out.

In Paul’s second letter to the church at Corinth, he tells the Corinthians, in no uncertain terms, where to find solace, and why they are comforted:

”Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also abounds through Christ. Now if we are afflicted, it is for your consolation and salvation, which is effective for enduring the same sufferings which we also suffer. Or if we are comforted, it is for your consolation and salvation. And our hope for you is steadfast, because we know that as you are partakers of the sufferings, so also you will partake of the consolation.
For we do not want you to be ignorant, brethren, of our trouble which came to us in Asia: that we were burdened beyond measure, above strength, so that we despaired even of life. Yes, we had the sentence of death in ourselves, that we should not trust in ourselves but in God who raises the dead, who delivered us from so great a death, and does deliver us; in whom we trust that He will still deliver us, you also helping together in prayer for us, that thanks may be given by many persons on our behalf for the gift granted to us through many.” (2 Cor 1:3-11)

In other words, Paul is telling the Corinthians that God comforts us in our troubles, in our despair, so that we can comfort those also in need with (and by) God’s grace received through our own comfort. Paul is consoling the Corinthians, encouraging them, and when he says “we,” he’s referring to his group of fellow disciples, his church. He’s telling the Corinthians about the adversity he faced, about the lessons he learned from both it and from the blessings as well, so they might be able to relate their own tribulations to his experiences. He tells them that when he was in fear of death—he describes it as “so burdened we despaired even of life,” it was so that they (he and his people) would rely on God, who raises the dead, rather than on themselves or their own understanding. In spite of everything he went through, Paul continually expresses faith in Christ’s deliverance.

He knows the Corinthians are going through difficulties, and their church is at best in disarray, and he offers them his own example, and the comfort he received through Jesus, that they might have a better understanding of how to weather their own trials, troubles, or tragedies. Paul was maybe the greatest man in the New Testament, next to Jesus, but even he had quite a few human “problems,” or “issues” in his life, not the least of which was learning to trust more in God than in himself or his own ability, a struggle that is arguably one of the hardest aspects of the Christian faith to grow accustomed to.

You’d think that we’d take note of this, that we’d be more willing to ask God for deliverance from despair. Who wouldn’t want to be helped, to lay their burdens down and have someone else pick them up? I think the difficulty lies not in the receiving of help, or healing, or hope, but in the asking for it. No one wants to ask for help. We want to be able to handle things ourselves, to be independent. This is something that’s not possible, not really, not if you truly believe. When you put your trust in Jesus, you must trust him with everything. Trust Him with your heart, your soul and your mind, and with your job, your family, and your life. Trust Him with the mundane and with the extraordinary. It’s only when that happens, when you are able to completely surrender to God, that healing can begin. That you can begin rid yourself of the sorrow and pain that have bound you.

It is not, however, a one time thing. God does not make every adverse circumstance in your life go “poof” and disappear. Indeed not. Were it not for the adversity we face, were it not for the pain we suffer (both physically and emotionally), we would not have anything from which to build our character. What could you learn about life if you never struggle? I say this with hindsight, of course, because only a fool or a masochist would look back on pain with fondness. I look back on the painful events in my life and see that they were necessary for me to draw near to Him. Simply that. One does not cry out for help if help is not needed. I think God does what it takes for us to invite him to heal us.

Jesus will take your pain, if you ask him to. He will heal you. He will shoulder your burdens. But you have to ask, and you have to be specific. To do this, you need to identify the areas in your life where you’re hurting. Ask God to reveal them to you. You might think you know the areas in your life where you need help, or healing. Jesus knows them all. He knows the secret rooms in your heart, the dark places where you’ve hidden your pain away, and how to stitch up the wounds that are costing you closeness with Him. Ask him for help. It’s why He came in the first place. Jesus wants to heal us, to take our pain. As a friend so eloquently put it, He pursues us. There is no pain too bad, no wound too deep that Christ cannot ultimately heal. Romans 8:18 says, “For our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.”

How amazing is that? Paul is saying that no matter what happens in life, no matter what trials we face, no matter what suffering we endure, it is nothing compared to the glory we will have revealed one day. That we can have revealed.

Loving Jesus is the only way to reveal it—seeking him with all your heart and throwing yourself at his feet and asking Him to take your burdens up. He will do it. Christ will carry the weight of your pain, the weight of your sin. Make no mistake, though, it will not be totally “sweetness and light” once you’ve asked God into your life. You will still experience pain, maybe a lot of it. But with Jesus in your heart and at your side, you will be able to fight it, to not let it break you. God will not stop “bad things” of any sort from coming into your life, but when the bad comes again, He will be there. And as the gospel of John says, “…whoever comes to me, I will never drive away…”

The difficulty lies in remembering that God has a purpose for us, and that when things are incredibly bad, and life just about presses you into the ground, He has something in mind for us to learn from it. Ask Him what that is when it happens.

Jesus, what can I take away from this? What can I learn? Show me how I can take this and use it to help me be the person that you’ve always intended. Heal my heart, Lord). Show me where my true sadness lies. Show me the reason for my despair. Show me what it is that’s keeping me from drawing nearer to you that I may focus all my heart, soul, and mind on healing it through your love.

By no means do I profess any extensive biblical knowledge. I am neither pastor nor apologist, and have only known the Lord for a little less than five years. All I know is that about six months ago, a friend mentioned that he thought it might be beneficial for me to try and confront a few places in my past where it seemed obvious that I had “issues.” Namely, the ones I had concerning my parents and certain events that had occurred in my childhood. I had always thought that my childhood was something I dealt with in my childhood, but in the interest of furthering myself and my walk with Jesus, one Sunday morning (early, because I didn’t want anyone in the neighborhood to think I was casing houses for burglary) I drove to my parents old house in Santee. I parked outside the house and I sat in my car and prayed. I thanked Jesus for saving me by his blood. I thanked him for loving me in spite of my unworthiness. I thanked him for giving me his Word and showing me the narrow path is possible to walk. I talked to Him. I told him (even though he already knew) how I’d always felt about the deaths of my parents and various friends, and how I thought it had held me back from Him. Then I asked Him to show me what I could learn from it all. He did. He showed me that in my sadness there was a lesson. And on that morning in Santee, with the rain tapping the roof of my car and crying for the first time in years, I learned it.

Trust the Lord. Trust him with things large and things small. Talk to Him daily. Hourly. He is abba, father, healer, El Shaddai. He loves me now and always has, and he will never drive me away. He wants to heal me, to shoulder my burdens, to cradle me in my brokenness and pain, to lift me up and help me to draw nearer to Him. He will give me a shoulder to lean on when I stagger, and be my strength. He will show me life, and love, and possibility.

“But if you will look to God and plead with the almighty, if you are pure and upright, even now he will rouse himself on your behalf and restore you to your rightful place. Your beginnings will seem humble, so prosperous will your future be…” (Job 8:5-7)

If I give my heart to God, and remain true to His will, he will restore me to his kingdom. My rightful place is His kingdom. I was created to be with God for all eternity. Everyone is. We are all made in His image so we may glorify Him, worship Him, love him and trust him in all things. In becoming more Christ-like, we draw nearer to Him. Maybe it seems ridiculous to spend a lifetime striving for that which is unattainable. I disagree. Jesus says, “be holy, as I am holy.” I’m going to go ahead and take Him at his word. I can’t think of anything less ridiculous.