I’ve always been a sucker for crying when overcome by joy, but it wasn’t until after my time in the Marines that I found myself tearing up at others' pain. Something about my deployments to Iraq opened new channels for tears of sorrow. Sometimes it’s embarrassing, and I wish I didn’t do it, but whatever broke open in Iraq hasn’t mended. But perhaps that’s okay; perhaps it’s okay to cry. 

When I think of my time in Iraq, it’s not hard to know why this happened. The horrors that haunt our world broke into my life: a few days after arriving, a young man in my platoon was killed after the force of a roadside bomb crushed his skull; several friends and a mentor had their lives cut short when a man clothed in explosives killed twenty-five people gathered for a peaceful meeting; children playing soccer in the street accidentally tripped a roadside bomb, leaving only little parts of their bodies strewn across the dirt for family members to sort through. The horrors that wreck our world run much deeper than what can be fixed with better education, jobs or leaders. There is evil, and it doesn't ask permission to break into our life. 

The past few weeks I’ve found some of these old feelings resurfacing, as we live in this strange state of quarantine. Hollywood had it wrong; the supervirus that overtook us didn’t lead to suspenseful scenes of survival, but a slow dehumanizing as we are isolated by six feet of space and face masks. Sure, there are fights, but they aren’t over food--we’ve got plenty of that--but over who gets the last package of toilet paper; or they’re between husband and wife because they just aren’t used to spending this much time together. 

Seeing others' sorrow pulls out the thread of sorrow in my own heart. I weep for their wounds, for mine, for our world’s. I’d never really thought how the threads of sorrow connect us all until I preached from John 11 about a year ago. It’s that famous scene where Jesus comes to Lazarus’s grave and weeps. I realized Jesus is weeping not just because a friend died, but because there is death, and he will soon taste it himself. The death of Lazaurus pulls into the forefront the death of deaths that Jesus will soon face, and he weeps. Jesus doesn’t observe death as a spectator, but as one who will soon experience its horror. 

This week I discovered the poem “Jesus of the Scars” written by Edward Shillito, an English pastor who also happened to be a veteran of World War One. The last stanza of his poem reads:

The other gods were strong; but Thou wast weak;
They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,
And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.

So during this time, as the threads of suffering pull on us all, it’s okay to cry. We all have wounds. What a comfort it is that we are not alone with our wounds! Our God has wounds as well. He’s collected all our tears, and he promises to one day wipe them away, never to return. The resurrection transformed Jesus’ wounds into testaments of God’s faithfulness. One day the same will happen to you: your wounds, no matter how deep, will be transformed to speak of God’s faithfulness. So go ahead, it’s okay to cry; Jesus wept too. 

In Christ,
Pastor Jon