Surely he has borne our griefs
And carried our sorrows.
The crosses were veiled in scarlet, then white, now black, as we remember our sins, the punishment that was our due, and also our grief and our sorrows. Grief itself is a shroud, veiling not always hope, but often joy, often life outside.
The Good Friday veils, while reminding us of what separates us, also remind us of what lengths our Savior went to to draw us near, to share and bear our griefs and our sorrows. He brings our sadness, our regrets, our pain, our sins, and our discontentedness into the grave with him. And they're not getting out.
God didn't abandon us to our grief. He gave it as a proper gift when the time was right, and then he takes it away. Sometimes it hurts to have our grief removed. We might grieve the loss of grief. But Jesus doesn't take our grief away from us as if depriving us of a gift, he takes its weight upon himself to relieve us of a weight, a burden that would drag us to the grave with it. He carries our sorrows to say, "I'm in this with you. I feel what you feel. I've lost what you have lost. And because I love you, I will share your grief."
When we grieve, even though they can't say "I know how you feel," it does help to know that we're not alone, that someone will sit with us as the tears fall, as our voices shake, as our noses run, and our fists are clinched, and just be with us to say, "I don't know how you feel, but I will be with you as you feel it." I have felt my grief, you feel your grief, and we can grieve together. In a strange way, the grief which differentiates us and can scatter us, can also bring us together.
Joy shared is joy doubled. Sorrow shared is sorrow halved.
An old proverb I heard once and have always enjoyed. When we share our sorrows and our grief, we watch the clouds begin to part. The veil seems to be thinning, and maybe--just maybe--we catch a glimpse of hope, of joy which, when shared, is doubled. And Jesus shares in every sorrow, because he was
A man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.
And he didn't just lift the veil, he tore it right in two. Good Friday reminds me that grief is good, that it is important that I face the reality of sorrow, of death, of sins and grief, but that the black veils will be torn in two. Let us sit, together, as with the Blessed Virgin Mary, whose soul was pierced with a sword, and whose heart was filled with bitter pain, for our Savior sits with us too, bearing our griefs and carrying our sorrows. Mary's grief was carrying Jesus, and Mary's grief was carried by Jesus.
Mary did not grieve alone, though no one could understand or know the grief she felt. No one knew Jesus like she knew Jesus, and yet, as she grieved we all grieve. La Pietà. Her full arms say, "Here is a place for grief." His open arms say, "Here is a place for sorrow."
And here is a place for sorrow shared.
O God of unchangeable power and eternal light: Look favorably on your whole Church, that wonderful and sacred mystery; by the effectual working of your providence, carry out in tranquility the plan of salvation; let the whole world see and know that things which were cast down are being raised up, and things which had grown old are being made new, and that all things are being brought to their perfection by him through whom all things were made, your Son Jesus Christ our Lord; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. -BCP
And carried our sorrows.
The crosses were veiled in scarlet, then white, now black, as we remember our sins, the punishment that was our due, and also our grief and our sorrows. Grief itself is a shroud, veiling not always hope, but often joy, often life outside.
The Good Friday veils, while reminding us of what separates us, also remind us of what lengths our Savior went to to draw us near, to share and bear our griefs and our sorrows. He brings our sadness, our regrets, our pain, our sins, and our discontentedness into the grave with him. And they're not getting out.
God didn't abandon us to our grief. He gave it as a proper gift when the time was right, and then he takes it away. Sometimes it hurts to have our grief removed. We might grieve the loss of grief. But Jesus doesn't take our grief away from us as if depriving us of a gift, he takes its weight upon himself to relieve us of a weight, a burden that would drag us to the grave with it. He carries our sorrows to say, "I'm in this with you. I feel what you feel. I've lost what you have lost. And because I love you, I will share your grief."
When we grieve, even though they can't say "I know how you feel," it does help to know that we're not alone, that someone will sit with us as the tears fall, as our voices shake, as our noses run, and our fists are clinched, and just be with us to say, "I don't know how you feel, but I will be with you as you feel it." I have felt my grief, you feel your grief, and we can grieve together. In a strange way, the grief which differentiates us and can scatter us, can also bring us together.
Joy shared is joy doubled. Sorrow shared is sorrow halved.
An old proverb I heard once and have always enjoyed. When we share our sorrows and our grief, we watch the clouds begin to part. The veil seems to be thinning, and maybe--just maybe--we catch a glimpse of hope, of joy which, when shared, is doubled. And Jesus shares in every sorrow, because he was
A man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.
And he didn't just lift the veil, he tore it right in two. Good Friday reminds me that grief is good, that it is important that I face the reality of sorrow, of death, of sins and grief, but that the black veils will be torn in two. Let us sit, together, as with the Blessed Virgin Mary, whose soul was pierced with a sword, and whose heart was filled with bitter pain, for our Savior sits with us too, bearing our griefs and carrying our sorrows. Mary's grief was carrying Jesus, and Mary's grief was carried by Jesus.
Mary did not grieve alone, though no one could understand or know the grief she felt. No one knew Jesus like she knew Jesus, and yet, as she grieved we all grieve. La Pietà. Her full arms say, "Here is a place for grief." His open arms say, "Here is a place for sorrow."
And here is a place for sorrow shared.
O God of unchangeable power and eternal light: Look favorably on your whole Church, that wonderful and sacred mystery; by the effectual working of your providence, carry out in tranquility the plan of salvation; let the whole world see and know that things which were cast down are being raised up, and things which had grown old are being made new, and that all things are being brought to their perfection by him through whom all things were made, your Son Jesus Christ our Lord; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. -BCP