A short look back through my recent texts and Instagram messages reveals something that I have come to believe is essential in the life of a Christian, but I don't think is generally looked at as a virtue. Vulnerability. The dictionary defines vulnerability as the "quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally." Put in that light, it rather looks like a weakness or even a vice. Who would want to intentionally expose themselves to harm?
But after these last few weeks, I've seen more than ever the reality that harm will come. Pain and suffering are waiting just around the corner, and if we're not walking through something now, we should plan for it. It's coming. The human instinct is to insulate ourselves from this, from feeling the sting of acute suffering. We want so badly to plan our lives in the way of relative ease: seasons only of growth, milestones met at the appropriate times, gain instead of loss, joy instead of sorrow, strength instead of weakness. We want the warmth of the sun on our faces as we breathe in what we hope for and breathe out an easy plan to attain it.
"But God". In the same way that the authors of scripture use those two words to strike awe into our hearts at the promise of redemption, we also see another phrase that should move us ever more toward the possibility of being exposed: "he had compassion." We see this phrase (or those like it) in several places in the bible, but I'm talking specifically about the compassion of Jesus toward those that were weak and in need. The stories usually go something like, "he saw...he had compassion" ( Mat 9:36, Mat 14:14, Mat 15:32, Mar 6:34, Mar 8:2, Luk 7:13, Luk 10:33. Luk 15:20). Jesus saw the needs of others and he moved toward them. It's true that he could see their suffering unexpressed, but we also see those reaching toward him completely exposed in their grief.
These last few weeks have taught me to be ever more vulnerable with others about my own grief as I lean in to walk with them in theirs. While this might not appear to be the case, it's not the easiest for me to share the deep recesses of my heart that stood in frank rejection of our Heavenly Father. Yet even that part of my story is almost understandable, as I wasn't aware of the good news of the gospel. The story I haven't told in public detail yet is the season of affliction-sin-affliction-sin I rollercoastered through after we adopted Leeona. But I have been profoundly convicted to bring it to the surface, to brave the looks of others as I open up my heart, and to use this vulnerability to express compassion toward others in their suffering.
Yet it matters little the circumstances, in my opinion. Elisabeth Elliot defines suffering as "having what you don't want, and wanting what you don't have." Therefore, we all have a base understanding of suffering, even if we've mapped out our lives to avoid it (comfortable childhood, secure adolescence, orchestrated young adulthood as marked by university-engagement-career-marriage-family-promotion-vacation, raising family to do the same, retirement, rest, fall asleep in Jesus). The mapping and hoping aren't wrong, but it's the avoidance of vulnerability in inevitable suffering that leads to being unapproachable and indifferent to the pain of others.
Recently I have had the distinct privilege of walking with two friends in their losses. I have wept privately for them both and spent much time in prayer and pleading with the Lord to meet them deeply, to comfort their hearts, and to reveal his gentleness day by day to them as they must journey on now through the debris of loss on the trail. One of these sweet friends mentioned that her loss was nothing as compared to my having lost Tell. Not so! I very quickly replied that many of us are given a Great Grief to carry. Circumstances matter quite little when the heart is crushed beyond recognition. There are indeed differences in the effects of traumatic loss, chronic loss, moral injury, loss of a child, abuse, etc. - yes. But the heart will break in grief; the brokenness is the reason we must be compassionate, not because of circumstances alone. I responded to her by saying these words: The Lord will use you as a comfort to others because he's called you to wade these waters of grief and you are trusting him through it...All grief is an opportunity to enter into the sufferings of Christ. It's in the shared experience of grief that we comfort one another, not in comparison to, but in compassion for the loss.
So I've come to a conclusion: if there be no vulnerability, there be no compassion. This means that if we avoid opening up to others, we cannot possibly experience the comfort that the Body of Christ is called to bestow (Rom 12:15). It also means that we will become hardened and indifferent to the pain that others are navigating (Luke 10:29-32). The world calls us to be strong, whatever that means. Jesus calls us to himself when we are weak because he is compassionate and gentle (Mat 11:28-30). And finally, if there be no compassion we do not share in both the comfort that we've received from God and the sufferings of Christ (2 Cor 1:3-5) And if we believe that Jesus remains at the right hand, continually seeing us in our pain and continually interceding for us (Rom 8:34), why would we hide from joyfully proclaiming the effects of his compassion - our salvation, our comfort, our encouragement, and our peace, knowing that one day all pain, suffering, and sorrow will cease, forever.
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