Nothing to Say--July 24, 2019

"Nothing to Say"--July 24, 2019

"When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, 'Where have you laid him?' They said to him, 'Lord, come and see.' Jesus began to weep." [John 11:33-35]

Sometimes, I think, the most Christ-like thing you can do is not to try to explain.

Sometimes, I have come to believe, the way to most faithfully reflect Jesus into the world is just to stop thinking that there is some perfect sentence to speak that will be "The Answer" for the heartaches of the moment. And instead, the way to be most Christ-like is to do the thing Jesus does when he steps into the aftermath of missing the death and burial of his friend Lazarus, and bearing the heartbroken faces of his family. Jesus just weeps.

Yes, I know--and you surely do, too--that before the scene is over, Lazarus will have been raised to life.  And yes, I know that Jesus people are supposed to be Easter people.  But Easter's resurrection can only happen after having come through Good Friday and the grave.  And in that terrible, holy space, there is silence... rather than theories, explanations, or (God forbid!) diagrams.  Between the cross and empty tomb there is the space to grieve.  And as Jesus himself grieves for his friend Lazarus, he is able to let the holy silence be.  

He weeps.  But he doesn't try and explain why it happened.  

He sobs.  But he doesn't offer a defense of why it has taken him four extra days to come.

He breaks down.  But he doesn't have some pat answer for why God lets bad things happen.

In the face of such terrible pain, Jesus has nothing to say--not because he doesn't care, but just the opposite. Exactly because he loves Lazarus and Mary and Martha and knows that what they need in that moment is simply the space, the time, and the permission to be heartbroken.  Jesus can absorb their anger at not having come sooner.  He can bear their looks of disappointment and confusion.  He can take the hellish ache of the empty space where he friend was.  And the way he does that is to leave the space for silence.

Sometimes that is our calling as well: to set aside the trite Sunday School answers and insufficient clichés about "heaven needing another angel" or how "God doesn't give us more than we can handle," and just to be OK (even if we're not OK) with the silence of shared grieving.  Whether it is literal death, or the friend who loses a job, or the marriage that is ending, or the friendship that is falling apart, sometimes we are called upon, as followers of Jesus, simply to let there be the holy terrible silence of lament.  Sometimes our calling is not to try to fill the quiet with religious-sounding words, but to learn to be OK with there being nothing to say in the moment.  We can offer presence, perhaps.  We can offer the promise of walking with others through those many losses into the future.  But we don't get to fix things with some combination of "right words."  

Sometimes, then, the way to reflect Jesus is without a word--even at the risk of feeling (or seeming or being) inadequate--because we know that when our hearts are heaviest, what we need is not an explanation, but the presence of the God who weeps, the God who knows what it is to keep a silent vigil between Friday and Sunday.

Lord Jesus, we have no words.  Let that be ok.