It’s been said that to suffer is to love. Similarly, it’s been said that one cannot know love, until they know suffering. This is a poetic notion, easy to embrace from a distance. But the truth of this claim, I’m learning, cannot be fully understood until it is lived. It has to be explored from within. That is to say, it has to be experienced.
It’s a wonder I’ve made it nearly 37 years without experiencing significant, life-altering suffering. We could talk all day about why that might be. Yes, I have had my share of disappointments, failures, and unexpected twists. I have certainly felt the pain of loss and the pain brought about in prolonged seasons of disorientation. I certainly get flipped upside-down from time to time by the mundaneness of daily life. And I battle futility, shame, and sadness along with everyone else. But by and large, I have not, until now, been handed the kind of anguish that digs like nails into the solar plexus.
In this period of distress, I’ve been turning to scripture for truth that will meet me in the suffering with both hope and courage. Job has become a good friend these recent weeks. So has Jeremiah. And of course the psalter remains a good guide through the breath of human emotion. But this week, a familiar passage from Matthew’s gospel spoke to the heart of the pain in an unexpected way.
Let me tell you about it.
When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place. Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns. When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick. As evening approached, the disciples came to him and said, “This is a remote place, and it’s already getting late. Send the crowds away, so they can go to the villages and buy themselves some food.” Jesus replied, “They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat.” “We have here only five loaves of bread and two fish,” they answered. “Bring them here to me,” he said. And he directed the people to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke the loaves. Then he gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the people. They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces that were left over. The number of those who ate was about five thousand men, besides women and children. (Matthew 14:13-21 NIV)
Anyone who has dipped a toe in church life has heard this story.
Sometimes called “the feeding of the five thousand,” this passage highlights one of Jesus’ well known miracles. It is a story rich with truth about who Jesus is and what the Kingdom of God is like. It tells us something about God’s economy of abundance. (My friend and co-pastor, Jeremiah, just preached a message about this yesterday, by the way—listen here). It reminds us that Jesus is in the business of drawing everyone into the feast. It invites us to consider the way we’re called into partnership with God. These are good and important truths to excavate.
But here’s the bit that opened my heart wider this week:
When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place. Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns. When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick. (Matthew 14:13-14 NIV)
What happened that implored Jesus to withdraw from the crowds?
What happened that sent Jesus straight to solitude, straight to the Father?
We have to look at the story preceding to understand:
On Herod’s birthday the daughter of Herodias danced for the guests and pleased Herod so much that he promised with an oath to give her whatever she asked. Prompted by her mother, she said, “Give me here on a platter the head of John the Baptist.” The king was distressed, but because of his oaths and his dinner guests, he ordered that her request be granted and had John beheaded in the prison. His head was brought in on a platter and given to the girl, who carried it to her mother. John’s disciples came and took his body and buried it. Then they went and told Jesus. (Matthew 14:6-12 NIV)
And then,
When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place. (Matthew 14:13 NIV)
I’ve been imagining what Jesus must have felt hearing the news about the gruesome death of his beloved cousin and partner in ministry.
Did John’s death remind Jesus that this new movement of God was really getting serious? That this message of Good News was becoming a real threat to imperial powers, so much so that those bold enough to proclaim it were faced with flogging, imprisonment, and even death? Might this be what sent Jesus straight into communion with the Father?
Did John’s death remind Jesus just how misguided humankind can be? Might this truth have been enough to send him straight into lament?
Did John’s death cause Jesus to consider his own fate? Was Jesus becoming more aware that he too would suffer a gruesome and violent death? Could this have been the grounds that sent Jesus away from the crowds and into solitude?
Or, was Jesus just deeply grieved over the very real loss of his friend? Could it be that anguish had gripped his solar plexus, so much so that his only choice was straight into the arms of the Father?
Maybe it’s a little of all of that. I’m left wondering…
Look what Jesus does next:
When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick. (Matthew 14:14 NIV)
It seems—from within in his own place of pain, suffering, and anguish—Jesus still moves towards the crowd and heals their sick. How is it that Jesus can go from suffering to love so seamlessly? How is he able to turn towards the pain of others while he himself is (presumably) also in pain?
The easy answer is, “Because he’s Jesus.”
But I’m choosing to believe something else is true as well, something that sends a different kind of twinge through my solar plexus and stirs something deep in my heart. I have to believe it is Jesus’ own personal experience of pain that drives him to meet others so acutely in their personal experience of pain. I have to believe Jesus’ love is formed within the crucible of his own suffering. I have to believe that God mourns heavily over the reality of death, so much so that he comes into the world to save all humankind from it once and for all.
…he had compassion on them and healed their sick.
Many saints through the ages have written eloquently about this word “compassion,” a word that derives from the Latin words cum (with) and patior (to suffer). The latter is close to the Greek word pathos (suffering) and broadly means “suffering with another.” This is the kind of suffering-love I see in Jesus. It’s what American theologian Frederick Buechner is getting at when he writes, “compassion is the sometimes fatal capacity for feeling what it’s like to live inside somebody else’s skin.” More than empathy or sympathy, compassion is meant to bring us into solidarity with the suffering. To call us closer to the suffering—our own and another’s—so that our hearts break open too.
Do we dare?
Can the path of suffering become the crucible that forms us into better lovers too?
I do not believe that God wants (or causes) humankind to suffer.
I do believe that the suffering/loving life of Jesus helps us understand that when we do, we’re not alone. Jesus embodies the promise that nothing is outside the redemptive power of God—that even the darkest most painful experiences can bring life, healing, and hope to the world.
May it be so. Amen.