Jesus Wept

(Begun on Sunday, July 13)


Katherine asked me today why this happened. Taken off guard, I scrolled through my index of theologically sound explanations. I stopped at the end where a Forest Gump one appeared: S*** happens.

She was enduring the indignity of having her diaper changed at the time. (At least she doesn’t try to flip over the way James does.) Atypical tears started flowing as she lip-synced, “I can’t talk! I can’t walk! Why?? Why, Mom??? ”

By this point, my own were raining down on her freshly made-up face, which is a new Sunday tradition meant to mimic Church Best. (There are usually a lot of visitors on Sunday, and we want to put our best foot forward.) I tried to wipe them off without disturbing the recently applied blush.

I said, “I don’t know why. But I do know that God didn’t cause it to happen. He is not the author of suffering like this. God only allows those things which he can ultimately use for good in the lives of his children.” Although I do happen to choose to believe that statement, it sounded hollow and pre-fab as it came out.

A few minutes later, she said, “I’m mad.”

“Good,” I replied, “ I’m mad as hell.”

“Yes! I am, too,” she mouthed.

“But Katherine, you don’t cuss.”

“I know!” in the new Wisconsin accent, “You shouldn’t either.”

Unfortunately, some habits die hard.


One day a while back, I walked out of that ugly old hospital into another delicious California afternoon. But instead of rejoicing in it, I said (silently) to no one in particular: “THIS SUCKS.” Now even though I threw in the towel ages ago and finally gave up asking people if they knew the direct object of that verb, it still sounds rather rough to me. (I didn’t give up until I heard it used on a newscast, a weather report, and from a pulpit. Then I figured it had pretty much joined the vernacular.) Just as I was getting all geared up to feel like a bad person for losing my perspective, surprising words entered my head. “I know. Jesus wept.” Instead of condemnation, I felt embraced by a rush of hot love.

Jesus wept: a perennial favorite of kids challenged to memorize a Bible verse. It may be the shortest sentence in the Bible, but it is also one of the most profound and transformational. God cried. The Lord of Heaven’s Armies, voluntarily bearing the frailties of flesh intrinsic to the skin he was in, groaned in anguish. The NLT version (which I love) says, “When Jesus saw her weeping and saw the other people wailing with her, a deep anger welled up within him, and he was deeply troubled.” In verse 38, it says he was “still angry.” (John 11:33-38)

God is not unmoved by his children’s sorrows. He is torn with grief at our suffering. He is angrier when I hurt than I am when one of my babies hurts. And that’s pretty damn (I mean darn) angry.

He hates it when children die of cancer, when beautiful, brilliant college girls like Eve Carson are senselessly murdered, when young soldiers like Evan Marshall are killed in Iraq. He grieves about our broken hearts, broken relationships, broken bodies. He despises the suffering inherent in sin, the unnecessary agonies we bring upon ourselves; He agonizes over our self-destructive tendencies, sympathizes with us in our weakness and failures.

I believe there will come a day in the fullness of time when He’s gonna do something about it. In the meantime, I must cling to the bedrock of belief in the goodness of His deeply compassionate nature. I steel myself to hold onto the Rock even when those violent waves keep trying to knock me off of it. Anything else is unthinkable.

And, yes, in spite of my fickleness and double-heartedness, I do believe that He would not have allowed something that angers Him as much as Katherine’s broken wings must do unless it would be used for good.

GREAT good.




(Will somebody please remind me of that the next time I start cussing and grumbling?)