Shortreads
Suffering, Mourning, and the Way of the Kingdom
(Or, One Order of Beauty Please—and Skip the Ashes) Marie Hoffman
The importance of having a correct theology of suffering
The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me; because the LORD hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted … to comfort all that mourn; to appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that he might be glorified. (Isaiah 61:1–3)
Consider the profoundly comforting words of Isaiah 61:3: that God will give to those who mourn “beauty for ashes.” Not intended as spiritual alchemy, the “stuff” God uses to bring about his redemptive plan is ash—the ashes of our suffering and the loss of our loves, dreams, illusions, and human omnipotence. And the process that transforms the ashes of suffering is mourning. But what happens to this redemptive cycle in a Christian culture that perceives both suffering and mourning as emblematic of failed faith or immature spirituality?
A Clinical Vignette
Polly, a young mother of two, was busily involved in all facets of her church community. She came to see me after several attempts at counseling that proved only minimally helpful. Polly suffered from depression that had deepened to suicidal ideation shortly after her mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s dementia. What immediately struck me about Polly was that no one in her church community knew the depth of her despair. Her isolation was profound. And Polly’s narrative is regularly repeated: “I am desperately suffering and no one knows how much pain I am in …”
The Theological and Psychological Value of Suffering
A Christian culture of denial wreaked havoc in Polly’s life. Though Polly’s history was devoid of maternal love, she believed that one day her mother would care. Her prayers would be answered! Refusing to look at her mother’s impact on her life, she remained distracted by Christian service, her internal emptiness only marginally bearable. But with her mother’s diagnosis, hope waned. There was no place to turn, for she was the exemplar of Christian victory.
“…the ‘stuff’ God uses to bring about His redemptive plan is ash—the ashes of our suffering and the loss of our loves, dreams, illusions, and human omnipotence.”
In our therapy sessions, rather than her pain being minimized, it was witnessed. And as a result of my own suffering and mourning that had been witnessed and comforted, I was able to comfort her with what I had “received from God” (2 Corinthians 1:4). As Polly mourned, a necessary disillusionment with the unlikely possibility of a good mother settled in. And into that void, Polly became more receptive to the care I offered. She became known by me in ways her mother did not care to know her. Consequently, Polly became more transparent with others as well. As Polly and I mourned together, we experienced redemptive and authentic Christian relating—one person who has mourned and is comforted, witnessing and comforting another. And these authentic bonds become the very relational fabric of the present and coming Kingdom of God.
Karl Plank, a fellow sufferer, reflects on our need to mourn together as a community of believers, and on the perils of not mourning, even as we await the restoration of all things. He writes:
To approach the cross with too much faith, to stand in its shadow with certain confidence of Easter light, is finally to confront no cross at all, only the unrepentant echoes of our religious noise. Amid the creation which groans for redemption, the church must stand as if before Easter: open to its inbreaking, but unassuming of its prerogative. There, in the community of victims and witnesses, the faithful silently wait together for the Kingdom of God. (From “Procession of the Crucified: A Lenten Devotion,” in Mother of the Wire Fence: Inside and Outside the Holocaust)
