Bearing the Pain

“Maryam” by Eman Harman – from the permanent collection of Dar Al Kalima University, Bethlehem

Over the past few days, I listened to a podcast of painful interviews with some of the Israelis who had been held hostage in Gaza. The front page of the newspaper carried heartbreaking photos of Palestinians who have lost homes and family members in Gaza. The civil war in Sudan still rages.  I exchanged sorrowful emails with an artist friend whose family is in Beirut. Another friend who is living in China posted photos of flooded streets in her city. My neighbors told me about their family members who are doing what they can to help neighbors whose houses in North Carolina were washed away by Hurricane Helene. As my FaceBook friends in Florida mark themselves safe from Hurricane Milton, parts of central Europe are still trying to dry out from floods in mid-September, and yesterday parts of England were also reporting severe flooding. Meanwhile, misinformation and scare-tactics fill the political conversation. The bad news just never stops.

When Jesus asks his disciples if they can drink from the cup that he must drink,* he is asking me if I can bear all the pain that is implied in these short snippets of news and more. Despite the glib promises of James and John that they can and will, it is as clear to me as it is to Jesus that I am not able to do so. Indeed, no individual human being is able to hold the enormous agony of all the individual people who have lost a parent or child or partner or friend to war, to flood, to fire, to disease, or any of the other disasters that beset humans somewhere on earth every single day. We can only do what we can do, and let God do the rest.

As I sit silently seeking God’s guidance in the beautiful, peaceful room where I meet with others in worship every Sunday morning, my heart aches with the weight of it all. I feel paralyzed by my inability to change any of the awfulness that seems to be growing in every direction, invading my inner life even as I live in outward safety and privilege. As I pray, I remember that I am called to go on living and loving. I am called to listen to my friends tell me both of their sorrows and their joys, and to share mine with them. I do what small things are in my power to do to serve others, and trust that others will do their parts, too. And that has to be enough, because it is all that I have.