Today, November 28, 2023, marks the 19th year since Jonathan, our oldest son, died at the young age of 22.
Soon after his death, a dear friend who had experienced a similar suffering gave us a sculpture with the inscribed words, "You will always have my heart." The figurine was inspired by a young cancer patient whose courageous spirit and kind smile brought so much love, comfort, and joy to others.* Though speaking of the human affection between a child and those who love and care for him, it also reminds me of the eternal love and compassion of our Heavenly Father for his children in their suffering.
Since the day of our son's death, no truth of Scripture has comforted my heart more than Hebrews 4:15-16:
For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sypmpathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet without sin.
Unique to our Christian faith is the fact that we serve a God of infinite compassion who personally identifies with our deepest fears, searing grief, and human frailty. Such truth gives us hope!
I'll never forget entering the mortuary in Seoul, South Korea, where our son's body was embalmed. The smell of incense pervaded the dark, eerie room. The flicker of lit candles cast a dancing showdow over the numerous statues of Budda where adherents mourned their loved ones. There sat the detached Buddha—arms folded, eyes closed, legs crossed, a half-smile plastered on his iconic lips, a stoic look on his austere face—seemingly immune to the silent agony of those in the throes of grief. I could almost hear the Buddha's hopeless words: "Birth is suffering; decay is suffering; illness is suffering. Presence of objects we hate is suffering; separation from objects we love is suffering; not to obtain what we desire is suffering." What then shall we do in our suffering of loss? The Buddha replies: "Let therefore no man love anything; loss of beloved is evil. Those who love nothing and hate nothing have no fetters."[1] The depressing atmosphere of hopelessness in that morturary only served to heighten my own emotional distress and left me at a breaking point.
At that moment, in my own heart and mind, I turned away and fixed my gaze on the disfigured, lonely figure on the cross—arms outstretched, eyes open, feet pierced, lips parched, a compassionate look of infinite love on his face—assuring me of his intimate, tangible presence in my suffering. I was reminded of Jesus' suffering presence with my son even as those toxic fumes of carbon monoxide enveloped his body. I remembered, too, that it is the truth of God's presence in my suffering—not that he in some way planned my suffering—that brings deep and lasting comfort. And I took comfort in Jesus' hope filled words that give assurance of his suffering presence now, with us—Jonathan's parents and siblings—who continue to endure the pangs of an empty place around the table of our hearts.
The God of the Bible is not like the stoic Buddha removed from the fray of human ills and stripped of all emotion. A multitude of biblical passages demonstrates that our Three-in-One relational God experiences a broad range of emotions, enabling him to identify with those created in his image. For example, when God saw the evil of mankind, "His heart was deeply troubled" (Genesis 6:6). The prophet Isaiah describes God's profound emotions regarding the distress of his people, "In all their distress he too was distressed" (Isaiah 63:9). In relation to the Spirit of God, we are told not to grieve the Holy Spirit (Ephesians 4:30) who intercedes for us with "wordless groans" (Romans 8:26). Finally, Jesus Christ—the pure reflection of what God the Father is like—was a man of sorrows who shed tears (Luke 19:41, grieved loss (John 11:35), experienced sadness and sorrow (Matthew 26:37), and felt distress (Luke 12:50). Little wonder that the God of the Bible is frequently described as being a God of compassion, a term derived from two Latin words cum ("with") and pati ("to suffer").
The Hellenistic philosophy of stoicism that permeated the Greek world at the time of Christ argued that God, by his very nature, was beyond all feeling. On the other hand, the Epicureans of the day believed the gods lived in the perfect bliss of happiness, totally detached from the suffering in this world. As for many of the Jewish leaders, their view of God (not at all represented by the Old Testament) was that his holiness kept him from sympathizing with humankind. But it was into this world—the world of the Stoics, Epicureans, and Jews—that Christ as the very image of God came and suffered for you and me.[2] As Dietrich Bonhoeffer once wrote, "Only the suffering God can help."
And help he does! The God of the universe does not withdraw from our suffering, but draws close in our suffering. As the "elder brother" of all who believe (Hebrews 2:11-12), he took the high road, which is the wise road of humility, sacrifice, and suffering in order to vanquish the self-seeking arrogance of our sin. Jesus' scars are a badge of honor that renders him capable of compassionately identifying with you and me in our deepest moments of grief. Only through an obedient life, enduring temptation, and the agony of the cross could Jesus be our deliverer, our "Pioneer" in suffering (Hebrews 2:10). As such, he is our trailblazer, our path finder, the captain of a company of suffering followers to whom he gives this assurance: "You will always have my heart."
In the months following Jonathan's death, our youngest son, Justin, received a similar sculpture (depicted above) from one of his aunts. It reminds him (and us) of an enduring love between siblings that cannot be broken by death. The same holds true for all spiritual siblings of our Lord Jesus Christ, from whose eternal love nothing can separate us.
For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39 (ESV)
So let us not waste our sorrows! As Jesus Christ, our "elder brother," comforts us in our sorrows, we in turn can be channels of that same comfort to others (2 Corinthians 1:3-7).
This blog is adapted from the author's Life with a Limp: Discovering God's Purpose in Your Pain (Leadership Books, 2022).
*The sculptures are known as Willow Tree figurines and can be found at willowtree.com.
[1] From the mournful chant of the Buddha in his famous Benares sermon as cited by John B. Noss, Man's Religions. 6th ed. (New York: Macmillan Publishing Co. 1980), 119-120.
[2] For this comparison, I am indebted to William Barclay, The Letter to the Hebrews (Philadelphia: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), 39-40.
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