The Ministry of Grieving Together
The day started with crusty cinnamon raisin bread and news of war. I padded around our sunlit kitchen, dabbing melted butter into each tiny crevice of my toast and listening to stories of young Ukrainian men pulled off of buses, forced to stay and fight while their loved ones moved on to Poland.
Yesterday while I made an impromptu stop at the good bakery, families said goodbye to each other. Teachers picked up rifles, and computer programmers looked up recipes for Molotov cocktails.
It’s almost too ridiculous to digest. The human suffering in Ukraine (and several other places in the world) happens only in the background of my life. I read stories in between school pickup and soccer practice.
In the midst of human tragedy, our lives continue on. We throw in loads of laundry, log on to Zoom calls, and pull out ingredients for dinner. And in the back of our heads, we wonder, what would I do?
My life feels small today. Maybe it’s supposed to.
I carry a small load of clean laundry up the stairs and listen to another episode of The Daily. There’s something about how young these men’s voices sound that makes my eyes burn.
I whisper a prayer while folding tiny pink socks. I want to believe in the power of prayer. Help my unbelief.
I think of a God who never felt that he was above suffering with others. When his dear friend Lazarus died, Jesus must have known that he was going to bring him back to life. He knew that all of the sadness would be taken away in an instant. But that didn’t stop him from sitting in the grief of others. He was there.
“ When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled.
“Where have you laid him?” he asked.
“Come and see, Lord,” they replied.
Jesus wept.”
Maybe listening to the stories of ordinary Ukrainian people and crying while I set out school uniforms for tomorrow is not wasted time.
Grieving alongside the oppressed is a form of worship, and we don’t have to fly to Europe to do it. There are quiet moments of suffering all around us.
Despair threatens to swallow me, and I let it. I do not want to hear stories of war and go about my day unaffected.
What if we’re meant to get swept away with it all? How could we possibly not feel tossed about by that level of anguish in our fellow humans?
We are not meant to meet suffering with a shrug, to see human lives ruined and spit out shallow rationalizations. Injustice is supposed to burn, and not just the ones living it.
I look at grainy pictures and see ashes from the bombings falling over the city like dark snow. Just like the ones pressed against my forehead today in the sign of the cross.
Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
God calls us to be there and here. To grieve with those who are suffering and to be here in the ordinary. The already-here but not-quite-yet Kingdom of God can hold it all, and maybe we can too.
Buttered toast and tragedy
Carpools and awe-inspiring courage
God, be with us and our neighbors today.
Help us to know that no offering is ever wasted.
Make us instruments of your peace, and help our unbelief.
Show us what is rising from the ashes.
We want to believe.
Amen
