THE INTERPRETATION OF SORROW.
"So much we miss
If love is weak; so much we gain
If love is strong; God thinks no pain
Too sharp or lasting to ordain
To teach us this."
--HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
There will always be mysteries in sorrow. Men will always wonder what
it means. It is impossible for us, with our earthly limitations, to
understand it. Even the strongest Christian faith will have its
questions, and many of its questions will have to remain unanswered
until the horizon of life is widened, and its dim light becomes full
and clear in heaven. Meanwhile, however, some of these questions may
be at least partially answered, and grief's poignancy in some slight
measure alleviated. And surely no smallest gleam of comfort should be
withheld from the world that needs comfort so sorely, and cries out so
hungrily for it.
Human hearts are the same everywhere. Sorrow's experiences, while
strangely diverse, are yet alike in their general features. Wherever
we listen to the suppressed voices of grief, we hear the same
questions. What has been answer to one, will therefore be answer to
thousands more. Recently, in one day, two letters came to me from
sorrowing ones, with questions. Whether any comfort was given in the
private answers or not, it may be that the mere stating of the
questions, with a few sentences concerning each, may be helpful to
others who are carrying like burdens.
One of these letters is from a Christian man whose only son has been
led into sinful courses, swiftly descending to the saddest depths. The
story is too painful to be repeated in these pages. In his sore
distress, the father, a godly man, a man of strong faith and noble
wisdom, cries out: "What is the comfort even of Christ and the Bible
for me? How can I roll this burden of mine upon God?"
In answer to these questions it must be remembered that there are some
things which even the richest, divinest comfort cannot do. For one
thing, it cannot take away the pain of grief or sorrow. Our first
thought of comfort usually is that it shall lift off our burden. We
soon learn, however, that it is not in this way that comfort ordinarily
comes. It does not make the grief any less. It does not make our
hearts any less sensitive to anguish. "Consolation implies rather an
augmentation of the power of bearing than a diminution of the burden."
In this case, it cannot lift off the loving father's heart the burden
of disappointment and anguish which he experiences in seeing his son
swept away in the currents of temptation. No possible comfort can do
this. The perfect peace in which God promises to keep those whose
minds are stayed on him, is not a painless peace in any case of
suffering. The crushed father cannot expect a comfort which will make
him forget his wandering, sinning child, or which will cause him to
feel no longer the poignant anguish which the boy's course causes in
his heart. Father-love must be destroyed to make such comforting
possible, and that would be a sorer calamity than any sorrow.
The comfort in such a grief, is that which comes through faith in God
even in the sore pain. The child was given to God in his infancy, and
was brought up as God's child along his early years. Who will say that
he may not yet, in some way, at some time, be brought back to God? The
daily burden may then daily be laid in the divine hands. The heart's
anguish may express itself not in despairing cries, but in believing
prayers, inspired by the promises, and kindled into fervency by blessed
hope. Then peace will come, not painless peace, but peace which lies
on Christ's bosom in the darkness, and loves and trusts and asks no
questions, but waits with all of hope's expectancy.
At the same time we are never to forget, while we trust God for the
outcome of our disappointments, that every sorrow has its mission to
our life. There is something he desires it to work in us. What it may
be in any particular instance we cannot tell; nor is it wise for us to
ask. The wisest, truest thing we can do is reverently to open our
hearts to the ministry of the sorrow, asking God to do his will in us,
not allowing us to hinder the beautiful work he would do, and helping
us to rejoice even in the grief. The tears may continue to flow, but
then with Mrs. Browning we can sing:--
"I praise thee while my days go on;
I love thee while my days go on;
Through dark and death, through fire and frost,
With emptied arms and treasure lost,
I thank thee while my days go on."
The other letter referred to is from another father, over whom wave
after wave of sorrow had passed. Within a brief space of time two
children were taken away. The one was a son who had entered his
professional career, and had large hope and promise for the future--a
young man of rare abilities and many noble qualities. The other was a
daughter, who had reached womanhood, and was a happy and beloved wife,
surrounded by friends and the refinements of a beautiful home, and all
that makes life sweet and desirable. Both of these children God took,
one soon after the other. The father, a man of most tender affections,
and yet of implicit faith in God, uttered no murmur when called to
stand at the graves of his beloved ones; and yet his heart cries out
for interpretation.
He writes: "In one of your books[1] I find these words: 'Sometimes our
best beloved are taken away from us, and our hearts are left bleeding,
as a vine bleeds when a green branch is cut from it. . . . Here it is
that Christian faith comes in, putting such interpretation and
explanation upon the painful things, that we may be ready to accept
them with confidence, even with rejoicing. . . . A strong, abiding
confidence that all the trials, sorrows, and losses of our lives are
parts of our Father's husbandry, ought to silence every question, quiet
every fear, and give peace and restful assurance to our hearts in all
their pain. We cannot know the reason for the painful strokes, but we
know that he who holds the pruning-knife is our Father. That ought
always to be enough for us to know.'"
Having quoted these words, he continues: "Now I do not question the
Father's husbandry. I would also 'silence every question' concerning
his wisdom and his love. I would not doubt them for a moment. When I
found that my only son, my pride and my staff, must die, I prayed with
such strong crying and tears as only they can know who are in like
circumstances, yet feeling that I could give back to God what he had
lent me without a murmur. By his help, I believe even the slightest
murmur has been repressed concerning the painful things, and that in
some measure I have been ready to accept them with confidence, even
with rejoicing. But my faith has not come in, as you suggest, to put
'such interpretation and explanation' upon them, as perhaps I ought to
do. Why has God thus dealt with me? Why was a double stroke
necessary? Is his dealing with me purely disciplinary? What are the
lessons he would teach me? How am I to test myself as to whether his
purpose in afflicting me has been accomplished? Or am I not anxiously
to inquire concerning the specific lessons, but rather to let him show
in due time what he designed? Such questions multiply without answer."
Has not this writer in his own last suggestion stated what should be
done by those who are perplexed with questions as to the interpretation
of sorrow? They should not anxiously inquire concerning the specific
lessons, but rather let God show in due time what he designed. No
doubt every sorrow has a mission. It comes to us, as God's messenger,
with a message. If we will welcome it reverently, and be still while
it gives its message, no doubt we shall receive some benediction.
Yet we must look at this whole matter carefully and wisely. We are in
danger of thinking only of ourselves, and of the effect upon us and our
life of the griefs that smite us. We think too often of our
bereavements, for example, as if God took away the friend, ending his
life, just to chasten or punish us. But we have no right to take so
narrow a view of God's design in the removal of loved ones from our
side. His purpose concerns them as well as us. They are called away
because their work on earth is done, and higher service in other
spheres awaits them. To them death is gain, promotion, translation.
The event itself, in its primary significance, is a joyous and blessed
one. The sorrow which we experience in their removal is but an
incident. God cannot take them home to glory from our side, without
giving us pain. But we must not reverse this order and think that the
primary end of the calling away of our beloved ones is to chasten us,
or to cause us to suffer. No doubt there is blessing for us as well as
for them in their leaving us, since all things work together for good
to them that love God; but we unduly exaggerate our own importance when
we think of God as laying a beautiful life low in death merely to teach
us some lesson or give to us some blessing.
When we look at our bereavements in this light, and think of what death
means to our beloved ones who have been taken from us, we find new
comfort in the thought of their immortality, their release from
suffering and temptation, and their full blessedness with Christ. It
is selfish for us to forget this in the absorption of our own grief.
Should we not be willing to endure loss and pain that those dear to us
may receive gain and blessing?
Even in life's relationships on the earth we are continually taught the
same lesson. Parents must give up their children, losing them out of
the home nest, that they may go forth into the world to take up life's
duties for themselves. Then also the separation is painful, but it is
borne in the sweet silence of self-denying love. We give up our
friends when they are called from our side to accept other and higher
places. Life is full of such separations, and we are taught that it is
our duty to think of others, bearing our own loss in patience for their
sake. Does not the same law of love "that seeketh not its own" apply
when our beloved ones are called up higher?
Of lessons to be learned in sorrow the first always is submission. We
are told even of our Lord that he "learned obedience by the things
which he suffered." This is life's great, all-inclusive lesson. When
we have learned this fully, perfectly, the work of sanctification in us
is complete.
Then another lesson in all sorrow comes in the softening and enriching
of the life in order to greater personal helpfulness. It is sad for us
if for any cause we miss this blessed outcome of grief and pain.
Christ suffered in all points that he might be fitted for his work of
helping and saving men. God teaches us in our sorrow what he would
have us tell others in their time of trial. Those who suffer patiently
and sweetly go forth with new messages for others, and with new power
to comfort.
Beyond these two wide, general lessons of all sorrow, it usually is not
wise to press our question, "Why is it?" It is better for us so to
relate ourselves to God in every time of trial, that we may not hinder
the coming to us of any blessing he may send, but on the other hand,
may receive with quiet, sweet welcome whatever teaching, correction,
revealing, purifying, or quickening he would give us. Surely this is
better far than that we should anxiously inquire why God afflicts us,
why he sent the sorrow to us, just what he wants it to do for us. We
must trust God to work out in us what he wants the grief to do for us.
We need not trouble ourselves to know what he is doing.
Mercifully our old duties come again after sorrow just as before, and
we must take these all up, only putting into them more heart, more
reverence toward God, more gentleness and love toward man. As we go on
we shall know what God meant the grief to do for us; or if not in this
world, we shall in that home of Light, where all mystery shall be
explained, and where we shall see love's lesson plain and clear in all
life's strange writing. There is no doubt that sorrow always brings us
an opportunity for blessing. Then we must remember that in this world
alone can we get the good that can come to us only through pain, for in
the life beyond death there is to be no sorrow, no tears. An old
Eastern proverb says, "Spread wide thy skirts when heaven is raining
gold." Heaven is always raining gold when we are sitting under the
shadow of the cross. We should diligently improve the opportunity, and
learn the lessons he would teach and get the blessings he would give,
for the time is short.
"But if, impatient, thou let slip thy cross,
Thou wilt not find it in this world again,
Nor in another; here, and here alone,
Is given thee to suffer for God's sake.
In other worlds we shall more perfectly
Serve him and love him, praise him, work for him,
Grow near and nearer him with all delight;
But there we shall not any more be called
To _suffer_, which is our appointment here."
[1] "Practical Religion," page 107