We Do Not Understand

Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.
— Fyodor Dostoevsky

It is in the first chapter of the Gospel of Luke that we are introduced to the Virgin Mary. As the archangel Gabriel brilliantly illuminated the small and simple room, he told the young girl of fantastical things to come. The first words uttered in response by the trembling Christ-bearer, the young Mother of the Church, were “How can this be . . . ?”

In the eleventh chapter of the Gospel of John, after Lazarus was ill and Jesus sent for, Lazarus’ sisters each collapsed upon seeing the Lord. Inexplicably, Jesus hadn’t come in time to save their brother and now Lazarus was dead—interred in a cold and unforgiving cave. “Lord,” Mary and Martha wept, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

And in the twentieth chapter of the Gospel of John, Mary of Magdala cried upon finding the stone rolled away and the tomb bereft of Christ. Encountering two figures who asked why she was crying, she confessed, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” Meeting a man she took for a gardener, Mary pleaded, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him.”

In recent days, our family has been dealt two blows: the death of my mother and the death of my wife’s brother. One was sad, the other was tragic. We mourn them both. But for some reason, over these dark and dispiriting days, these three Gospel scenarios are what have haunted me. What are these mystifying narratives telling me? 

We do not understand. 

There, in the majestic—if not frightening—glow of a celestial creature, Mary was confused by what she was being told. There, in the bleakness of mourning, the sisters were perplexed that their Lord did not arrive earlier to heal their brother. There, in the abyss of despair, Mary of Magdala flailed about asking anyone who was near to help her, to somehow help her. 

They did not understand. 

Too often, conceptually, I am haughty enough to think: “I get it. I understand the narrative of this divine drama.” We are dignified children of God, tainted with the stain of original sin and broken by daily sin, but redeemable through repentance, reform, and the limitless grace of God. Theoretically, I understand that the brokenness of the world is not God’s doing but ours—ushered in originally by Adam, perpetuated daily by me. And with it comes the topsy-turvydom of the world with murder and disease, pain and suffering—death. I guess, up to a point, I understand.

But when death visits, I struggle. Why does it have to be this hard? Why does God sometimes seem curiously absent when we need him the most? Why, in his capacity for grand miracles, does he sometimes seem to hold back? 

I do not understand.

But then I think about the other side of the Gospel stories that have haunted me. Mary’s misunderstanding is allayed by bearing a child through the power of the Holy Spirit. Mary and Martha’s bewildered grief is ameliorated by the emergence of their resurrected brother from the desolate tomb. And Mary of Magdala’s despair is dispelled with the overjoyed recognition of her risen Lord and God. On the front half of the narrative is abject fear and uncertainty, and on the back side is unvarnished joy and assurance. 

Sometimes I feel stuck in the first part of the narrative and desperately waiting for the second part. It seems there is no eradicating grief on this side of the grave; there is only amelioration through time and prayer. The American author Philip Yancey once wrote, “Faith means believing in advance what will only make sense in reverse.” And a dear friend recently offered this advice, “Keep your eyes on the crucifix and it will teach you everything.” I guess it means that only a God who could suffer for you can claim to suffer with you. I believe this with my whole heart. 

The French writer Georges Bernanos first taught me the notion that God’s grace needs agents—those many or few who serve as conduits (knowingly or otherwise) of the Lord’s holy comforts and assurances. I believe this with my whole heart as well. To be sure, we’ve received incredible outpourings of love, prayer, and support in the midst (and in the wake) of these recent losses. Many of you have been agents of grace for my family. Thank you. 

What have I learned with these two deaths? Simply this.

The presence of pain does not mean the absence of God. 

We simply do not understand. 

But God does. 

And I will trust him.