Monday, August 13, 2012

Be the Hands

"If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together. Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it." - 1 Corinthians 12:26-27

It was in the year 2009, at my Uncle's wake, that I clearly remember seeing the effects of sorrow on my loved ones, on my very family. And it was then that I also began to understand the importance of joining people in their mourning - the importance of sharing sadness together as a group, and supporting one another in that experience. As Eugene Peterson says in his book Five Smooth Stones For Pastoral Work, "When private grief is integrated into communal lament, several things take place. For one thing the act of suffering develops significance. If others weep with me, there must be more to the suffering than my own petty weakness or selfish sense of loss. When others join the sufferer, there is "consensual validation" that the suffering means something. The community votes with its tears that there is suffering worth weeping over." 

I remember the atmosphere was very hushed at that funeral home. We whispered when we spoke, and walked as lightly as we could manage. We sort of floated in and out, between the main viewing room and the lobby - some people would step outside occasionally for a cigarette, some would wander over to the Guest Book and gaze over the names written in it. Friends and relatives put on their strongest faces, and some even managed to smile hopeful, but sad, smiles. There were hugs all around, yet it was eerily evident that we were all as equally inside our own heads as we were present in that place. It was hard to be present - it was hard to be there with each-other. It was even harder to think of what to say. What is there to say?

My aunt pulled me aside at one point. She gave me a long hug, and I could tell she'd been crying. I asked her how she was doing.

"You know, it's hard to really understand, it hasn't really sunk in. You know?" I nodded in agreement. "But I'll tell you what - I had the strangest dream last night, you wouldn't believe it. I'm not sure what to think of it. I was alone in the house, and even in the dream, I knew Tom was dead. I could feel it. And then, before I knew it, there he was - he'd walked right into the room. I was so shocked, I cried and laughed and ran to him and gave him the biggest hug. He took my hands and held them, and we stood there talking for such a long time, just talking - talking about everything. It was so strange, he almost looked young again. After awhile, he looked back over his shoulder, then looked back to me and said "Well, I have to be going now." I knew what that meant, and I tried to convince him to stay - I knew if he left, he wouldn't be coming back. I tried and tried, but he kept saying "It's time for me to go". I wouldn't let go of his hands, I just held on tighter and tighter. He started to disappear, slowly fading away, and all the while I was still gripping his hands in mine. He looked at me and said, "Don't be afraid - don't cry. You aren't alone!" By this time he had faded away almost completely, everything but his hands in mine. I still held on to them. And then slowly, he reappeared - but it wasn't him anymore, it was your dad, it was Stan. I was holding his hands, not Tom's. And he stood with me, he cried with me ..." My aunt paused for a long time. "I don't know where that dream came from, but it sure was nice to be reminded about that."

And it was true. Throughout the time my family was gathered together to mourn the loss of Tom, and to celebrate his entrance into the presence of the Lord, my dad was there. He was present for everyone, a shoulder to cry on, a rock to stand on. It wasn't that he was cold about the situation - on the contrary, he entered into grief just as we all did. Tom was, after all, his brother. But he made himself available to grieve with his loved ones, and then most importantly, move the family towards steps forward, away from the grief, out of the darkness. He led the family not with a hard heart, but with careful, Christ-centered, empathy. He acted as Christ would act - with compassion, and with the attention needed to reflect into every experience the message and power of the Gospel.

I don't know if this dream that my aunt had was a vision from God, if it was a message of comfort from beyond the grave, or if it was just the result of grief and her restless mind. But I do know that it pointed to an important truth, a truth that was very necessary for her to understand at the time, and a truth that was very necessary for me to dwell upon and take to heart. 

We live in a culture that avoids emotional transparency, avoids any amount of public vulnerability. When you ask someone how they're doing, nearly without hesitating, they will answer "Good" or "Fine", and then repeat your question back to you. You then say "Good" or "Fine", and continue. It's a meaningless exchange, seemingly something we feel we are required to do before getting to what we really want to talk about. But this is a shame, to treat such an exchange with such carelessness. There is no way to judge the truth behind the response that you get, even if you wanted to. The walls are put up, and your ability to help, your ability to be a listening ear or a supportive shoulder, is stopped dead in its tracks. But is this response due to the fact that so many people who ask the question in the first place don't really want to hear the honest answer? When I ask someone how they have been, do I really want to hear them say "Not so good"? Because then I'm required to act. Then I'm forced out of a false comfortable place where everyone is fine all of the time. I'm required to either take on my role as a representative of Christ, and show this person love and compassion, to share in their burden, or else I reject the call and leave the person vulnerable, open, and essentially emotionally abandoned. It is a serious decision to consider. Let me say this to you, reader - don't ask the question if you're not willing to hear the honest answer and act. Don't inquire into peoples lives only looking for a positive response, and then become sheepish and awkward when you don't find what you were hoping for. We are called to be the hands of Christ in the world. We are called to hold the hurting, bring comfort to the weak - and this does not mean just "fixing" peoples problems (we are not called to be Emotional Mechanics). This means entering into suffering with our brothers and sisters, sharing the sorrows of life. Often there is nothing to fix, only something to bear. This life is wearisome, and we are called to weather the storm together. Through this act of obedience and love, we are given the opportunity to point to the saving truths of the Gospel. We are given the chance to bring comfort to those in need, by acting as a representative of the King of All Comfort, the Only One who can truly save and heal. We are given the gift of being able to speak truth and hope into the lives of broken and hurting people, not through our own power, but through His. And this is a great gift, indeed!

"Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ." - Galatians 6:2