The Whole of Human Suffering (or How the Love of God Makes Me Think of a Bench)

To be honest, the topic of adversity, trials and suffering is not one of my favorites. It’s a topic that comes up frequently in church talks and lessons, but it’s simply not a topic that I particularly enjoy. And, when I actually stop to question why, the reasons for my dislike and discomfort become pretty clear. I’m not a person who has suffered much in life, and, as such, it can be pretty guilt-inducing to think about those who have/are going through hell; I know I’m no better than them, so why am I getting off so easy?

Secondly, these kind of talks and lessons are extremely anxiety-inducing; they very effectively remind me that it’s not a matter of if I will suffer greatly in life, but only a matter of when and how much and in what various ways. The inevitably of future suffering is a hard fact to face square-on at any time, especially on a peaceful Sunday that has, up to that point, consisted mostly of pleasant family time and social interactions. 

If you’re anything like me, then you’ve felt yourself building a barrier between your heart and this topic and you’ve deliberately let your mind wander during these types of lessons. So much easier the wall than the vulnerability. So much better the distance than the fear and the foreboding. I’d much prefer a lesson about following the spirit or serving others –something I can fully engage with during class and then start attempting to implement right away. How do you implement a lesson about adversity in your day-to-day life aside from “waiting for the other shoe to drop” and hoping for the best? Hoping, that, when the time comes, you will be able to keep your heart open through the suffering and not lose your faith and not lose yourself? While, at the same time, being careful not to think too much about the suffering that’s coming, so as not to diminish your enjoyment of the good times that are happening right now?

I don’t know the answer. But I have thought a lot about human suffering in recent years. I’ve thought about the enormity of it. Suffering is a topic we should think about because we cannot, indefinitely, avoid thinking about. My goal is to find new and healthier ways to think about it. And, I’d like to somehow find a balance between enjoying today’s fair weather while still, at least to some extent, preparing for tomorrow’s storm (as completely unprepared as I feel and undoubtedly am).

Human suffering is immense; we come to understand it gradually and continually up until the moment of our deaths and possibly beyond. But we never understand the full spectrum of human suffering; we know it would kill us if we did. I believe that Christ did, and that the only reason that it didn’t kill Him was because of who He was and who His father was. However, even being spared the fullness of it, the longer we live, the more of it we taste, the more of it we understand. Hypothetically, if I live to be seventy, having suffered only mildly to moderately during the majority of my “trials,” my understanding of suffering at that point alone would be enough to completely overwhelm and incapacitate my twenty-year-old self (assuming it were possible to transfer understanding to past versions of ourselves). So, it’s probably a good thing that the process happens gradually. The rate of the exposure/learning isn’t constant, but the process never stops. And, when all is said and done, we hope to be better because of it. More empathetic. More human.

Everyone can give examples of how his/her understanding of suffering has increased in recent years. What are yours? For me, the obvious ones are: a better understanding of the potential pain of losing a child (I’ll hit five years of parenthood come October), a better understanding of the agony of helplessly watching a child suffer (watching both kids go through bouts of the flu or other minor traumas), and an increased empathy for those who lose a spouse after half a lifetime of companionship (as Dave and I approach the ten-year mark). These aren’t things I have actually suffered, but I better understand the potential suffering nonetheless. And as I do actually suffer them --please, please not these exact trials, but whatever does come into my path-- my understanding, and hopefully my empathy, will only increase –exponentially.

My understanding of suffering has also widened as I’ve watched others, particularly immediate family members, go through things that I wouldn’t have (and they probably wouldn’t have) ever imagined. It’s been “up close and personal” for me as they’ve dealt with depression, debilitating anxiety, losing a child, struggling to raise a child with disabilities, watching their financial prospects dissipate, undergoing a crisis of faith/leaving a religious group, or even watching my dad’s face as his peers and best friends grow old and begin to die.

On top of all this, other exposure to suffering (although I try to limit it) seems to affect me with its "realness" more powerfully than it once would have, as my muscles of empathy stretch to take on the load: stories of war/genocide, of oppression, of innocence lost too soon. And the heart-wrenching posts in my Facebook feed of young mothers made widows, debilitating sicknesses, chronically ill children. The extent of it honestly takes my breath away sometimes. How can this possibly be right? What order can be seen in this seemingly endless, senseless chaos? What do we do with all this suffering?!

Like most people, I can think back to a time when I was struggling deeply with something (something that seems silly now but didn’t seem silly at the time) and then…I found a measure of peace. For me, like for many of us, that peace came when I opened my heart to God (knowing that “God” means so many different things to different people). When I felt like screaming at the sky, “This can’t be right! I’m-so-so-angry-I’m-so-so-confused!” the answer that came back wasn’t a shout at all; It was a calm and simple “I love you. I’m here with you.” That was all. Somehow, that was enough. To me, the love of God is best visualized as an old friend sitting on a rickety park bench. The friend has been sitting there a long, long time and will continue to sit there forever –just beyond your line of sight but ready to step in at a moment’s notice, no matter how long it’s been since you sent that last greeting card. The friend waves at you from his bench, and tries to get your attention from time to time, but is never pushy, never going to rush or force you. The friend just loves you. And understands you wholeheartedly.

That’s how I would describe my experiences in resolving suffering, anyway. And it’s exactly the type of experience that I hope to think back on to get me through upcoming difficulties. But just remembering it isn’t going to be enough. How could it possibly be enough in the face of future suffering so intense that I cannot now begin to comprehend it?

There are many ways to respond to suffering, many of them destructive and unhealthy, and we all engage in them from time to time: bitterness, jealously, numbing ourselves, self-hatred at our perceived impotence, and a fear-inspired mask that keeps us at a distance from everyone and everything. The alternative? Take a deep breath…Courage. Keeping our hearts open to God (or a higher power or our own “better angels” or whatever God is to you). Learning about vulnerability and practicing it. Staying “real” and connected to others as “naked” as it sometimes makes us feel. Respecting our limits and setting boundaries when possible. Loving and forgiving ourselves. Giving ourselves time. And, for me, turning to God and turning the suffering over to God. Again. And again. And, imperfectly, again.

I’d like to be better at remembering Christ whose heart was bruised beyond any of ours will ever be, but who remained open and giving and brave as he prayed for others during his own excruciating death. So, without having done anything to celebrate Lent or even having done anything particularly spiritual to celebrate Easter (I was too sick to even go to church on Easter Sunday), I’d like to resolve here and now to be better at doing just that. To be better at remembering Christ as the friend who always stays, as the friend sitting on the bench, as the friend who teaches us how to suffer.