Heart to Heart Talks, Part 4: Grieving Alone Together

John 11:1-45      

When so many things seem to be happening so fast we begin to lose our ability to gauge the passage of time. Something that happened a week ago may as well have been two months ago, because it feels like forever ago. How long have we been “social distancing?” It feels like forever.

At the seminary I attended, every student was required to participate in a cross-cultural trip. The destination varied from year to year but the length of the trip was always the same: three weeks. When we asked why three weeks, the answer was this. During the first couple of weeks it just feels like a vacation. You feel like a tourist abroad; you are a foreigner in a strange land, observing the natives in their habitat. But when you get into that third week, you begin to push past that barrier and something shifts. You no longer feel like you’re just passing through. Now this is the place where you live.

I have tried to keep some perspective about the length of time we have been dealing with this pandemic, because it all seems to get blurry when I try to look back. So I looked it up on a reliable source – Google.  The first we became aware of this unknown virus was on December 31. The first known case of the virus in the United States was diagnosed on January 20. On January 30, the World Health Organization declared the virus a “public health emergency of international concern.”

It wasn’t until March 11 that the WHO declared the spread of COVID-19 to be a pandemic. On that day there were about 1200 diagnosed cases in the United States. As of Wednesday, over 68,000 and rising.

How long have we been “social distancing” – a new verb in our vocabulary? In Maryland, schools closed on March 12; since then, piece by piece, our world has been getting smaller and smaller.

So, it’s like we are now into that third week when we feel like we have always lived this way.

You no longer feel as alarmed as you did in the beginning, because you’ve kind of gotten used to it. You no longer feel as confused as you did, because it all feels strangely normal now. You might even feel a little numb to it.

But still, now and then something happens that reminds you we didn’t always live this way. You reach out to shake someone’s hand, or you feel the impulse to give someone a hug. Suddenly, you remember you’re not supposed to do that, but man, do you ever wish you could.

We might all feel a little numb. It’s natural. The numbness is like a dose of anesthetic that helps you get through hard things. But still, a little jolt of reality kicks through the numbness here and there. Maybe it’s hearing a song that moves your soul, or maybe it’s hearing the voice of someone you love. A little jolt breaks through the numbness – and then, maybe you cry.

I have certainly had my moments in these past couple of weeks. The first time was two weeks ago, the last time we were open for worship. I saw that morning how many of our people didn’t feel safe coming out to worship together and it broke my heart.

Over the days that followed, as I saw the boundaries closing in, I felt my heart break again and again. Maybe you felt it too.

In a strange way, even though we can’t be together, we are all grieving together. We might be grieving many things right now, but not least of all, we are grieving the loss of our communal life.

It is true that we are finding new ways to connect, we are working hard to find these ways – and this is something for which I am so grateful. But the trouble is, when it comes down to basics, we are embodied human beings. And we need embodied connection.

As long as we are living in these flesh and blood bodies, I don’t think we will ever get beyond that need. And so we grieve – and it is good to do so.

Many years ago, I led a group of children in acting out this story of the raising of Lazarus. We had fun with it. One child played Lazarus and we wrapped him up from head to foot in toilet paper – which seems terribly profligate in these days of toilet paper shortages, doesn’t it? Another child playing Jesus ordered the tomb to be opened. Another child playing Martha said in her best King James English, “But Lord, he stinketh! He’s been dead four days” And when Lazarus finally shuffled forward like a mummy, we all helped to free him from his tissue graveclothes, laughing as we did.

But the one thing I wanted the children to know most of all that day was that one little verse that we all know as the shortest verse in the scriptures: Jesus wept. When he came together with this crowd of weeping, grieving people, Jesus also began to weep. And I wanted the children to know that when they cry, Jesus cries with them.

When we cry, Jesus cries with us.

And from this we may draw comfort and strength – to know that, in spite of how it feels, we are not grieving alone.

When we rejoice we always feel like we are rejoicing with others. But when we are grieving we feel like we are alone. Celebration is a communal activity but grieving feels so solitary.

I believe this is because each one of us grieves in our own personal way. When a family experiences the loss of a loved one, you can see how each member responds differently. Some cry silently alone, others sob loudly on someone’s shoulder. Some are stoic. Some get angry. Some keep themselves very busy so they can avoid feeling whatever kind of feeling is coming.

Grieving is hard, at least in part, because it feels so very alone. But the good news is that you are not alone. Brothers and sisters, you are never alone.

I am sure you have worked hard these past couple of weeks to hold on to connections with other people, hold on to some sense of normal life. Last Sunday I encouraged you to do things like calling people, writing to people. Staying in touch even though we are apart; remembering and caring for others even when you can’t see them. And I know that at least one of you took my words to heart and has made phone calls to dear old friends. That’s really good.

But even if you are doing all these things, there are moments of sadness. It just can’t be helped.

Because there is sadness in life, even if you are trying to do everything right. Because, in this world, there is death, there is sickness. There are all kinds of suffering I would never want you to turn a blind eye to – your own suffering or someone else’s suffering.

Yet the message of this season of lent is that Jesus walked through every bit of that suffering. Jesus did not come here as a tourist, observing the natives in their habitat. Jesus came here as one of us, and every bit of sadness, hurt, fear, anger, and loneliness we feel – he felt it too.

And because he walked every bit of this human walk – and then some – we are never without hope.

Lent is a sacred season – a season of walking that walk that can feel so lonely, even in the best pandemic-free years. But soon the day of resurrection will come.