He Wept
Jesus wept,
And in his weeping,
he joined himself forever
to those who mourn.
He stands now throughout all time,
this Jesus weeping,
with his arms about the weeping ones:
“Blessed are those who mourn,
for they shall be comforted.”
He stands with the mourners,
For his name is God-with-us.
Jesus wept.
Ann Weems, Psalms of Lament
Among my favorite encounters in all of the Gospels is that which follows the death of Lazarus. Word had reached Jesus and the disciples that their friend had fallen gravely ill, and so it quite likely came as a bit of a surprise to the group that Jesus did not lead them back toward Bethany for another two days. By the time they arrived, Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days. This is where Martha tells Jesus that “if only you had been there,” that her brother would still be alive, and then Mary also approached to meet him:
32 When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” 33 When Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. 34 He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” 35 Jesus began to weep. (John 11)
Often translated even more simply as “Jesus wept,” these are words that carry with them incredible power. Knowing full well what he was about to do, raising Lazarus, foreshadowing his own resurrection, Jesus still shed human tears in the face of the grief. He cared deeply for this home, and this family; a place he visited often, and he knew that those past few days had been unbearable. I find it a very comforting implication, that not only is the very creator of the universe not distant from the cosmically insignificant grief we experience as humans who appear to live but an all-too-fleeting number of days on this floating rock, but the creator of the universe actually joins us within that grief, thereby cosmically rendering it anything but insignificant. We mourn, but never alone. We lament, and cry out in anger, or despair, but never alone.
Draped over the chair behind me is the suit I need to press for tomorrow morning, when I will serve in one of the pastoral capacities that I find simultaneously sacred and surreal, presiding over a memorial service. In this case, for a family that has experienced far more than their fair share of grief in the time that I have been privileged to walk alongside them. A beloved daughter and sister taken far too soon. There are no “answers.” This is not “everything happens for a reason,” or any of the other platitudes that (while well-meaning) get thrown around and invalidate the vital experience of calling it what it is: a death.
Within our own community of Meadows Place, there is continued shock over the sudden passing of John Francis, a devoted husband, father, and public servant; and we join (and will remain) with the prayers of many for the family and community who will continue to experience his absence most acutely. [A GoFundMe is set up for his family]. In these circumstances, there is no going back to the way things were. Even in the rare cases in which a passing is expected and “prepared for,” the family and community system(s) in which it occurs changes forever.
There will be no reversal in four days. Though we cling to the hope of reunion on the other side of the veil, it will remain a mystery, and our beloved will still be gone. The road of grief is not linear. It shifts with the wind and the seasons, and returns in the cycle of memories and milestones, and it is messy, and painful, and beautiful. Grief, it has been said, is love enduring. May it be a comfort that our loving creator, redeemer, sustainer, endures along with us. When words fail, and all we have is tears, Jesus weeps with us.
——
A Benediction for the Unfamiliar Void
A voice comes from the eternal throne:
“See”, it says, “The home of God is with His people.
He will live among them, and they will be His. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning no more, crying no more, pain no more, For the first things have gone away.”
Lord God, pour your Spirit in comfort, upon those left behind. Enfold us all within your fellowship of love, and in the family of faith.
May this empty chair at our table be a reminder,
That your servant now sits at your banquet feast.
And offer us hope to rest in the assurance,
That to this goodbye - You, in your infinite goodness,
By the triumph of Christ Jesus, have added the resounding words…
“For now. Only for now.”
©Mike Yager
