I don't normally just write from a raw place, especially in terms of theology. However, I feel like tonight, I have observed enough of my own grief to know that what I write is true. I woke up this morning to the news that the 16 year old son of one of my best friend's had died in a car accident the day prior. The sad thing is I heard the sirens, I prayed in my heart that whoever the sirens were for, was okay...and I went about my evening like nothing was happening.
The young man that died was an amazing teenager. He didn't see people as others saw them; he saw people as who they truly were. I remember one night I was going to meet his mom at the gym, and she was telling him that she was going to meet me and she said "I don't want to go to hard on Rai, but I also want to get my time in fully." He looked at his mom and said "Have you met her? Don't underestimate Rai, because of her weight...she may outshine you!" That night we went to the gym, I went mile for mile on the treadmill, when we did weight machines, I did pound for pound and then some. His mom called him and told him "You were right!" He said "I know..." This young man always had my back!
At Christmas, I was at his mom's house and we all decided to decorate the tree. He asked me "what I was thinking about." I told him "My past!" His mom had tried for years to convince me that I wasn't who everyone seemed to think I was. He looked at me, as I was hanging ornaments on the tree, came over, put his arm around me and said "You are not who everyone thinks you are!" I don't know if his mom heard him say that or not, but to me it meant the world!
I often referred to this young man as my "best buddy" or my nephew from the heart! So today, when I found out about his death, immediately I felt numb. I've not been able to feel today...I've not been able to think. I've just been existing and maybe it is too early to say this, but I think merely existing at this time is okay--especially when you can't see things properly from the fact that you have tears in your eyes.
You see grief, even when you are first in wading into the waters, is a hard place to be. But the Christian is promised that although weeping may endure for a night, joy will eventually come in the morning. But we are never told how long that night will be or how long our season of grief may last. Your theology and your faith are shaped as much by those seasons of grief as they are by glimpses of a joyful morning.
A theology for grieving people must make room for tears, weeping, wailing, pain, and anger. Too often we need a place to grieve, but sadly, we are often pushed through grief--too fast by cultural, political, and theological forces — to quickly forgive those who trespass against us. We are rushed to the space of forgiveness and healing before we can even bury the dead or evaluate the scope of our loss. But the cross reminds us that we cannot quickly race to Resurrection Sunday; we must sit with the pain of Friday’s crucifixion and with Saturday’s silence. There must be room for rage and anger and despair. There must be room to ask about being forsaken and abandoned.
Death is not natural; it’s an aberration that jars against the core of our being, regardless of our attempts to rationalize it. In fact, our cries point toward God rather than away from him. At the heart of the Christian faith is One who says he’s always with us—and who stared grief and loss square in the face. Isaiah described him as a “man of sorrows and familiar with suffering” and “acquainted with grief” (Isa. 53:3). When Jesus experienced the death of his close friend Lazarus, he wept (John 11:34). On the cross, Jesus took grief and loss to unfathomable depths, such that the forsakenness he endured caused him to cry out the Why? question of Psalm 22.
And when grieving is over...hope eternal; then on that day, God will personally wipe away all our tears and bury our grief for good.
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