Grief is love seeking someplace to land. It is our refusal
to let what was once precious come to nothing.
George Saunders’ novel Lincoln in the Bardo haunts
me this week. In the story, the souls of the dead
speak from beyond the grave. “What I mean to say
is, we had been considerable. Had been loved. Our
departures caused pain. Those who loved us sat
upon their beds, heads in hand; lowered their faces to
tabletops, making animal noises. We had been loved,
I say, and remembering us, even many years later,
people would smile, briefly gladdened at the memory.”
Some of you feel this like a stone in your chest. You
sat on your bed this year, head in hands. Or stood at
the graveside and watched the earth receive what
you could not release. That terrible finality. In a few
moments, we’ll read names out loud, the saints
we’ve lost this year at Second. And as we do, we will
whisper names in our own hearts. We will remember.
We will smile. We will weep.
That’s what today is for. To say before God and one
another that our loved ones were considerable. That
their departures caused us pain. To name what we
have lost in sacred community.
But there is another grief today. It threatens the
witness of the saints we honor. There is a rising
meanness dressed in Christian language. There is
callousness called conviction. Empathy labeled toxic
or sinful. Compassion called dangerous. Care for the
vulnerable makes us naïve. We must choose truth over
feeling. I want to be clear about what this costs us.
The logical effect of this theology is monstrous. It
says, “Care less. Feel less. Weep less for others.” But
scripture has a name for one whose heart is hardened
in the face of human suffering. Pharaoh. He heard the
cries of the enslaved, and he felt nothing.
Now, God heard their cries, and God moved toward
them in compassion. It is a familiar story, repeated
throughout the pages of sacred scripture. In the
psalms we hear God’s steadfast love will last forever.
God’s compassion has no end. In the prophets, we
learn that God prefers mercy over ritual. And in the
gospels, we hear the good news that God is found not
in total victory but in utter vulnerability.
The arc of our scripture bends toward empathy.
And so, to attack it is an assault on the image of
God in one another. To turn from compassion does
not just fail to grasp who we are; it fundamentally
misrepresents who God is.
Where in the Gospel does Jesus say to his disciples,
“Be careful not to care too much?” You can look. You
will not find it.
Love your neighbor as yourself.
Just as I have loved you, so you also should love one another.
Jesus showed us the way. He drew close to suffering
souls and broken bodies. He washed the feet of his
friends. And never—not once—did Jesus Christ put a
cap on our empathy.
Lazarus had been dead for four days. The tomb
smelled like death, and there was no fixing this. Jesus
arrives, and Mary falls at his feet, still raw in grief and
disappointed in her lord. “Lord, if you had been here,
my brother would not have died.”
And then it happens. Not the miracle. Not yet. First,
Jesus weeps. He grieves his friend Lazarus. And I
cannot prove it, but I do wonder: What if Jesus could
not call Lazarus forth out of the tomb without first
descending into his own grief? What if the tears
were not a delay but a necessity? What if Jesus had
to let death break his heart before he could break
death’s power?
Afterall, this is the grammar of resurrection. There is
incarnation before glory. Descent before rising. Tears
before new life.
It’s how God always works. Jesus does not bypass
the tomb—he enters it. Doesn’t avoid the tears—he
feels them. And only then, from deep within his own
grief, does Jesus speak life. And so, I submit that we
cannot follow a Christ who descended into death if
we keep ourselves distant from suffering. That without
weeping, there will be no raising.
You cannot claim to follow Christ and refuse to do
what he did. You cannot worship a God who wept
at the tomb and call weeping weakness. You must
choose to follow Jesus to the place where hearts
break, or follow a god of ruthless power. But do not
call that the way of Christ.
If you look around, you will see it, this eclipse of
empathy. It says, “Harden your heart and call that
strength.” It mocks compassion, makes cruelty
entertaining. Says, “Don’t care. Don’t feel. Don’t weep.”
But, friends, eclipses are optical illusions. The light is still
there. Our call is to shine, not adjust to the darkness.
You can be certain of your theology and still have a
heart of stone. You can quote chapter and verse from
the good book and feel nothing for the people God
loves. You can do it, but you will miss Jesus, because
he is standing outside the tomb, weeping tears for his
friend. And the saints, they know where to find him.
For decades, a small group of men in my previous
congregation gathered every Thursday morning to
cook breakfast and pray together. Ted Bayley was one
of those men. Ted Bayley was one of that church’s
saints. An elder in the church, he came every
Thursday morning for as long as his health allowed.
And when he was no longer able to drive, he would
walk the short path from his house to the church. It
was one of the final paths Ted knew how to walk. He
suffered with dementia that slowly stole his memory.
Not long after his diagnosis, on a Thursday morning,
Ted showed up for breakfast. That day, when his turn
came, he prayed these words: “Dear God, they tell
me my memory is failing, and I’m afraid. Yes, God, I’m
afraid. I’m afraid that I won’t recognize my friends. I’m
afraid that I won’t remember their names.”
The group sat in silence. Ed Carithers sat across the
table, next up to pray. Ed could have said, “Now Ted,
don’t talk like that. You’re fine. We all forget things
sometimes.” Ed could have changed the subject,
prayed about something else entirely. But he didn’t
do that. Ed sat there. Across from his buddy Ted.
And as he began his prayer, his voice cracked.
“Father God, please help Ted to know that even if
he forgets who we are, we will remember who he is.
And so will you.”
It’s way of the saints. The truth of the gospel.
Remember. Remember. Remember. Empathy is not
weakness. It is the strength that shows up for a friend
in need. It is the courageous witness of unguarded
tears. It is the bold heart of our call to one another.
There’s a food pantry downstairs. Serves 750 families
a month. And right now—right now—they are
preparing for more people than they’ve seen in many
years. More need. More hunger. More neighbors who
don’t know where their next meal will come from.
As systems meant to protect the most vulnerable
are being threatened, programs disrupted, workers
unpaid, here’s what we will do. We will open our doors
wider. We will brace for the demand, and we will meet
each person who comes through those doors with
dignity and, yes, empathy.
Some Christian voices are writing books and
preaching sermons, calling empathy dangerous. Toxic.
They say it compromises our convictions, or perhaps
it risks rewarding the undeserving, making suckers
out of those who practice it.
You know what I believe? I believe that is the bitter
fruit of a false gospel, that we can reject the lie that
our neighbor’s need is not our problem. The cry of the
stranger is not a nuisance. It is a summons. Scripture
is clear on this point. Their cry is God’s voice. And if
you listen closely, you will hear your name.
By God’s grace, we have capacity to respond. By
God’s word, we are compelled to respond. And by
God, we will respond. It’s the work of the saints, to
know where Jesus stands—not by the throne, but at
the tomb, weeping, before he calls us to life.
Lazarus, come out!
Not by brute force, but by the tenderness of love,
death will be defeated.
And so, we remember the saints. I remember Ted and
Ed, who joined hands in prayer across the breakfast
table. We remember Mary and Martha, joined in their
grief by a God who wept with them. We remember
the saints today. We remember those who showed us
the way, who held us up, who found courage when it
mattered most.
A great cloud of witnesses surrounds you today. And
you should let their lives speak in yours.
They refused to harden their hearts. They loved and
were loved. They were considerable. And today, the
saints stand against empathy’s eclipse. Their light still
shines. And their voices whisper in our ears, “Now it’s
your turn.”
Do not make peace with darkness. Follow Jesus to the
tomb. Stand outside in your tears, and keep showing
up. Don’t look away. Remember those who came
before you. Mark the path for those who will follow
after you. Friends, if we turn from the cries of our
neighbors, we turn from the Christ who weeps beside
them. Listen. Without weeping, there is no raising.
Let us pray: God who weeps with us, teach us to
weep with each other. Form in us the heart of Christ.
Amen.