When Headlines Bring Weeping

I’ve never been a big one for watching or reading the news. The constant barrage of what always seemed to be bad news, political haranguing, and sensationalism at the expense of those who’d suffered loss in tragic accidents, floods, hurricanes - not to mention the unrest and injustice that circled the globe - always seemed to me to be a senseless exercise in bystander gawping, that ugly side of human nature that seems to sit on the sidelines of life, drawn in by the tragedy of others, all the while silently grateful that they were not the ones in the midst of the unfolding drama.

Until recently. Until the Ukraine. Until I saw a photo in the NYTimes yesterday of a heap of bodies, a random but powerful tableau of the violence the day; of how men can descend into the madness of war and violence. A mother, two teens and their escort, a church volunteer who was helping them escape away from the fighting - killed intentionally by soldiers intent on the destruction and the conquering of a country. And then? I wept.

I wept for the sheer madness of the violence. I wept for the loss of four lives, for the loss of a family and the legacy they represented. I wept for all the others who’d lost their lives, or their homes, or their families. I wept for the husband and father of this family, pictured with the photos of his family, now standing alone in the midst of the unraveling of his world. I wept for the ripping apart of the very fabric of humanity, and for the gaping wounds that will fester long into the coming generation with the pain of loss and sorrow and hopelessness. I wept, and entered into the pain of the Ukraine.

I used to shy away from entering into that kind of pain, thinking it would do me no good; that I couldn’t effect change, that I couldn’t fix it. I’ve lived through enough wars, sort-of-wars, and the violence that is as good as war in my own country to have been exposed to injustice in my own homeland. I’ve known, up close and personal, the effects of humanity’s ongoing inhumanity to other human beings; of people intent on destruction, whether it is the bombing of entire buildings, school shootings of innocent children, or of the random gang violence that has infiltrated cities around the country. I felt hopeless and helpless to do anything to change things, and so I turned away my eyes and my heart. I said a prayer for those affected, but more than that? No. It was too painful, too hard.

But I just cannot do it anymore. I cannot pretend that suffering doesn’t exist. I cannot pretend that the suffering of others doesn’t affect me. I just can’t - not anymore.

The more I enter into that place within me that seeks to know and understand those things that are sacred and of God, the more I’ve come to see that I can no more isolate myself from the pain and suffering of others than I can isolate myself from the joys and triumphs that life also brings. The full range of the human condition is of the same God: heartache, loss, grief, suffering; peace, mercy, tenderness, joy. Our willingness to enter into the suffering of others, as well as their joys is what makes us truly human. When we enter into the pain and suffering of others, we enter into and affirm our Divine identity. We affirm the goodness of our humanity - even in the face of what may not be good, or kind, or loving.

I may not understand the “why” of intentional cruelty to other human beings; of why they insist on conquering, controlling and destroying others, and I doubt I will ever understand. But that does not give me a free pass to skirt around the issue. I do not understand, and I cannot do anything to prevent or alleviate the suffering in the Ukraine, but I can enter into their suffering. I can share with them the heartache of loss of families, of home, of legacy. That I can do.

I have come to understand that by my entering into that place of suffering with others; that by allowing myself to feel deeply of their sorrow, I am changed by that sharing into a more compassionate and loving human being. It’s not good enough to recognize only the “good” of life, for it’s only one dimension of a life well-lived. Our journeys necessarily involve suffering, even for those of us fortunate enough not to have suffered great tragedies in our own lives. But by willingly entering into the collective suffering of a people, of a nation, of a race, we are changed within. My acceptance of Ukraine’s suffering; my own heart’s breaking for the incredibly tragic losses of an entire nation, change me, change my heart, and bring me a greater ability to understand the suffering of those around me.

It’s what Jesus did so well. He entered into the suffering of those around him. It wasn’t just his healing touch; but it was also his immense compassion and mercy for those around him - the oppressed, the sick, the demon-possessed, the disenfranchised. He entered into their turmoil and pain, he entered into their suffering, sharing in it and understanding it, bringing healing on many levels. I firmly believe those he touched with his compassion far outnumber those who recounted their miraculous stories of physical healing.

I’ll never be a big reader of international news, or one who gobbles up the stories of tragedies and catastrophes willingly or easily. But I will work on being more open to inviting into my heart the suffering of others, joining in their sorrow and pain, entering into a dialogue of prayer with them (not just for them). I will try to be more open to that place of grace that is the ground of suffering. I intend to at least try, and see what comes forth.

I am reminded of my dearest friend who passed away in August of 2020. She was an avid news junkie, and if there was any disaster whatsoever, wherever - she followed each word and picture on TV with rapt attention. On 9/11 she was glued; during the coverage of the Newtown school shooting, she was obsessed. During floods and tornado coverages, she knew every detail, each tragic story. And I’d always ask, “why? Why do you do that to yourself?” And I never forgot her words, though it took me years to come to a place of seeing her wisdom: “I want to feel their pain, I want to understand what they are living. I’ve had tragedy in my life, and by entering into their stories, I feel less alone, but I also am strengthened by their courage. When I share their suffering, I’m stronger, wiser, kinder. That’s why.”

Yes, dear friend. I see it now. That’s why.