On Not Getting Over It

On Not Getting Over It--May 11, 2018

"For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, grown inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies." [Romans 8:19-23]

It is an important thing--a vital thing, even--to be able to grieve.

I think decades of children's television and elementary school lessons on "feelings" had it only half right--I can remember hearing plenty of times some variation on "It's all right to cry..." which seemed at face value to affirm the place for lament, but which also had a sort of undercurrent of "... if you really have to, I guess, it's ok... if you're that weak." 

I think that's the position a lot of us have inherited in adulthood. We learned somewhere that it's technically "permissible" to be sad, that one should tolerate it if a child or bereaved person is tearful, but that it's almost a character flaw, or a weakness to be put up with, while the rest of the supposedly "strong" just keep a stiff upper lip and recite the old war mantra about "keeping calm and carrying on."  And so we have internalized the idea that we shouldn't exactly criticize someone else who is groaning in sorrow, or whose heart is weighed down with loss, with emptiness, with regret, or with sorrow... but that we are being kind and charitable to allow them to have a moment of tears.  That allows us to pat ourselves on the back for being charitable in our own eyes, and still to smugly put ourselves just a little above those who grieve around us.  But all in all, however we dress it up or wrap it in polite pleasantries, we still have this notion that grieving, in whatever its forms, is something to be "gotten over" as quickly as possible so that one can move on to more "useful" things.

That strikes me now as a rather privileged position to take, because it assumes that everything is really "fine" already, and that anybody who is really troubled or disheartened must simply have a weak constitution.  It assumes that just because I can't see any reason for sadness myself, or because things are going pleasantly in my little world, there must not be any reason for grief or heartache in anybody else's world.  And that's hardly any better, really, than Marie Antoinette's "Let them eat cake."

Maybe we aren't really supposed to "get over it," when we or those we love feel like they are trudging through grief, because the world is still broken.  Maybe, in fact, the real problem is that we who imagine ourselves "strong" are really just protected by distance, capable of insulating ourselves from the very real hurts, heartaches, pains, and troubles that are constantly going on all around us.  Maybe the fact that I have plenty to eat becomes a convenient way of distracting myself from the reality that many more around me do not have enough to eat.  Maybe the fact that I have not been separated from my family makes me comfortably indifferent to those who have been separated from their children, or who wonder about their parents or relatives far away.  Maybe the fact that I don't live day by day viewed with suspicion or looked down on or followed through a department store makes me think that nobody really experiences those things, and that anyone who complains of such things must not be as "strong" as I think I am.  Maybe the reason I think others should "get over" whatever they are lamenting is really that I don't have to go through what they are going through... and so I assume that they are not going through any thing at all.

In fact, maybe the real strength to be found in the world is the strength to grieve--to lift up the brokenness of the world and to name that it is broken, rather than pretending all is right with the world.  Maybe it is not merely "ok" to cry, but in fact maybe it is precisely the right and life-giving thing to do to call attention to the wounds and empty places around us and to lift them up so that they may be healed, rather than just pretending we are being "tough" by not mentioning them.  Maybe the capacity to grieve over the broken places of our lives and of the world is the gift of honesty for the world, a world that often would rather hide in the comfort of illusions and lies that everything is "fine."

Paul certainly seems to think of grief this way--as a sort of gift of the Spirit--that makes truth-telling possible, and thus that makes our wounds heal-able.  Creation itself is already groaning, Paul says.  That is not said in a condescending tone, as though Paul thinks creation itself should "get over it."  Paul is saying that the universe itself, and the wounds of the little blue planet on which we live in that universe, cry out to God for freedom, for restoration, for healing, and for peace.  It is not a moral failing of creation that the world in which we live groans over our violence, our destructiveness, our exploitation of one another and of God's creations, our indifference, and our cruel self-interest.  It is not a moral failing at all that creation itself grieves how much it is marred by what good old-fashioned theologians call "sin."  We sin by stepping on one another's necks. We sin by reducing one another to objects for our own gratification. We sin by treating some as less important, less human, than others... and conveniently pushing ourselves up to the top of the heap.  We sin by acting like truth and fairness do not matter, so long as we come out "winners."  We grieve creation itself, and the bitter irony of it all is how much of the time we tell the ones who get wounded in all of that sin that they should "get over" their wounds, because we don't think they are really hurting.

How dare we?  In all honesty, how dare we (and I know I have done it and surely still do it in ways I may or may not let myself be aware of) pretend that our lack of pain is evidence of our superior "strength" and that other's cries of grief are evidence of their supposed "weakness" or "oversensitivity"?  N0--not when the apostle himself says that the ability to groan with creation while we long for healing in the world is a sign of the Spirit's presence within us?  Because the world is groaning in grief--over the reality of death and injustice and cruelty and exploitation and hatred--the Spirit groans over it all, too.  And because the Spirit grieves over the brokenness of the world, we are led all the more to grieve and lift up the brokenness so that it may be named and dealt with and healed.  

The apathy that comes from privilege is not a mark of strength--it is a sign of being insulated from real hurts or that we are dead inside... or both.  It is a symptom of my own sickness--a neuropathy of the soul on my part, not a deficiency in others.  The fact that I do not personally feel some loss or wound that others around me do feel and grieve over does not mean that I am "strong" and they are "weak." Rather, it most likely means that I am sheltered and they are exposed, and I have simply lied to myself to make myself think that I am made of stronger stuff than they.

So here is the bottom line for the day: one of the things the Spirit of Jesus enables us to do in this life is to see with crystal clarity how much is broken in this world, whether I have felt or experienced it personally myself or not, and to say out loud, "This is not okay."  That means the Spirit will be pushing us to see where things are not right, where people are treated as "less-than" and to act along with them to treat them with dignity and with faces.  It means the Spirit will be leading us to show compassion even for people whose situations are very different from our own, and even if their difference seems strange or frightening to us.  It means that the Spirit will be leading us to be honest where our hearts are raw from our own losses, rather than faking smiles because someone, somewhere told us that we should be feeling better or "getting back to normal by now."  And it means that the Spirit will allow us to, as Paul will put it later in this same letter to the Romans, "weep with those who weep," rather than imposing our own timetable or judging their wounds by telling someone else to "get over it."

Maybe we were never meant to just "get over" things, but in a sense, the losses and wounds of the past become the very things that enable us to care for someone else's wounds (or even see them in the first place!) in the future.  If Dr. King was right that "injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere," then it also means that for the people of God, sorrow anywhere calls for us to share griefs and heartaches everywhere, because the Spirit who dwells in us groans anywhere and everywhere that the world is out of sorts with cruelty, violence, and death.  

Today, don't "get over" it, whatever the "it" is. Rather, where there are wounds you can feel--your own or those of others--name them, groan over them, and then there can be healing in time.  Let the Spirit give you the gift, and the courage, that comes from "not getting over it" until the day when all creation is wholly made new.

O Spirit of Christ, where we are numb, quicken our hearts to feel again, and to love as you love, carrying our wounds.