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“The wailing of broken hearts is the doorway to God” —Rumi,
13th Century Poet/Mystic
Do you ever feel like you are walking through life with no
skin on? When everything hurts. Your entire body tenderized. People’s words
feel like arrows as you hobble along not knowing if you can endure one more
blow. Death feels like the best option and yet hopeless because you are
already living death. Loneliness and exhaustion become your food, your
stomach tying knots around those knots.
I have only felt the futility of death so poignantly a few
times in my life. I have tried different modes of coping, whether a
cacophony of addictions or contempt and violence toward myself. If making
myself the villain didn’t work (it never does) I would just project it onto
others as an attempt to make my heartache less painful. I have tried zoning
out in front of the TV, endless games of Scrabble and chess (okay, Candy
Crush too) on my iPhone. They all numb me for moments, but none actually
mend what is broken inside.
Yet over the past couple years I have tried a new approach,
which is to feel. To touch, smell, see, taste, and hear the fullness
of loss. At times the weight is so heavy on my chest that my bones bend and
my heart rips in ache. This is the impression of death and its tumultuous
outpouring, the stage of acute grief. When you lose big, when you
courageously risk, put your love on the line, and end up empty-handed and
confused.
The problem then lies in the unconscious vow we make in
light of the pain. We vow to play safe, to remain isolated, love
half-heartedly, never going all in again. The drawback with this vow is
that joy and grief are on a continuum. If you never allow yourself to feel
the pain of loss, the betrayal of hope, you will certainly not feel the
depth of true joy. Grief serves as a shovel for the soul. It digs, mines,
and excavates painfully, at times violently. Grief digs to make space for
deep delight to enter those vacant spaces. This is the posture of
vulnerability; it is both terrifying and stirring, and a prerequisite for a
broken heart and full life.
We see an example of this in the scripture. In Acts 7:54,
Steven is about to be stoned to death by the Sanhedrin, when “He looked up
to heaven and saw the glory of God.” In the midst of Steven’s most gruesome
death, the glory/joy of God was on him. Steven had the courage to enter
death and thus experience a soulful resurrection. Suffering and joy are
never far apart and always parallel in the journey of a Christ follower.
The Apostle Paul reminds us of the same in Romans 8:17: “We share in his
sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.”
To heal from heartache we must follow our Savior’s example,
asking us to invite the brutality of the crucifixion, which is an
invitation to enter into our own death stories. This is Good Friday, the
weeping, anguish, and devastation of a love lost. When we give ourselves
permission know the texture of our own agony, rather than trying to escape
it.
Then comes Holy Saturday, when we must taste the obesity of
death, allowing ourselves to sit with the unknown darkness, with futility
and powerlessness. To continue mourning and feeling the pain that comes
with losing someone or something that you were most loyal to.
Finally—yes, finally—comes Resurrection Sunday. We savor the
wonders of our rebirth. We are humbled, exhausted, and relieved, as we
learn to rest in the wonder of a holy miracle. When we are in Friday we
can’t see Saturday. When we are in Saturday we don’t know if Sunday will
ever be true. When Sunday comes, we are fully aware of the goodness and
joy, yet never losing sight of the fallen world in which we live.
We are called to live into the tension of all three days,
moving in and out of each, and living honestly into both grief and joy.
Truly our wailing hearts are the doorway to God.
 Andrew Bauman is a licensed mental
health counselor. He holds a Master of Arts in Counseling Psychology from
The Seattle School of Theology & Psychology and is currently working on
his Doctorate degree from Northeastern University. He is a Fellow at The
Allender Center. Andrew is married to Christy Bauman, who is also a
therapist.
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