Hamlet. Seems, madam?  Nay, it is.  I know not “seems.”

      ‘Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

      Nor customary suits of solemn black,

      Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,

      No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,

      Nor the dejected havior of the visage,

      Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,

      That can denote me truly.  These indeed seem,

      For they are actions that a man might play,

      But I have that within which passes show;

      These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

–The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, William Shakespeare

Life is full of sorrow.  There are periods, at times lengthy ones, of joy and contentment and happiness when our souls are brimming up to a bright cusp of anticipation that in a fallen world can point only to the day when it will be remade.  But our lifelong familiarization with disappointment lies dormant in our souls, awaiting the inevitable moment when the pastoral picture of wellbeing we are gazing at will be thrown down before our very eyes by the indifferent hand of fate.  It seems – nay, it is – as if there is a level of anguish that must be maintained throughout our lives, and the occasional pause in its establishment must be punished in a measure sufficient to tip the scales back into their normal bias.  Amid a world of hardship and injustice, this is the one thing we can count on: that we will know pain.

We come into the world feeling this pain, and there is no doubt that when the waters of the Jordan close over our heads, it will still be felt in our hearts.  Its toll is exacted on our bodies, designed as they were for immortality but that not in the presence of sin (were we not made in an Image?).  Creation itself lifts its lament to God daily, groaning unceasingly even as it declares his glory.  Destruction in every form, from the quiet demise of the smallest cell to the deliberate and unhurried unveiling of the greatest supernova, surrounds and permeates our experience at every turn.  Can there be any wonder that we seek to find an explanation for the genesis of the universe other than the fiat of a divine governor?  Just as Chesterton observed that the ironic purpose of an atheist is to oppose the idea of God, the objective of a secular worldview is defined by pushing back against the inexorable approach of a truth it is incapable of imagining: the human mind is unable to reconcile the depth of the pain we feel in our psyche with the capacity for fulfillment we see all around us.  And not without reason either, for such a reconciliation cannot be accomplished at our level.  Epochs of human progress dawn and fade, the brightest and best of the intellects of our race frantically dedicate themselves to the achievement of true immortality before they wither and die in their turn, without changing our predicament in the least.

The ache in our hearts strikes deep.  We are by nature creatures of community; God himself said it was not good for man to be alone.  And yet to sorrow is to be supremely alone.  The heart knows its own bitterness, and no one can share its joy, said the Teacher.  He spoke for all mankind, and in our hearts each one of us knows his words to be true.  Have you ever labored through the passing of a friend or family member, your heart shocked into stillness by the depth of their absence, at once unable to grieve and unable not to grieve, and then in the midst of the funeral service felt the onrush of previously inexplicable sadness coming over you like a dark cloud moving through the rise and fall of the sleeping valley?  Have the tears ever sprung to your eyes unbidden at the most inopportune time, telegraphing your grief to those around you at a moment when you could not possibly bring yourself to talk about it at all, let alone begin to explain what you were feeling?

How do you share something like that?  How do you catalog the range of expression your faculties are trying to convey: sadness, longing, fear, despair, wistfulness, hope, anger, yearning – love?  There is no way anyone else could fully understand what you are going through, unless somehow they could step into your mind and heart and live your story.

But what is impossible with man is possible with God.  No other person, even if they wanted to, could take my place in the loom of history and see what life is like from my eyes.  No one could walk with me through the time when sorrow first touched my child’s heart and gave me my first taste of death, the way I feel when I look up at the stars at night and think about my friends and the people I am close to, the time when I first knew fear because I had broken the Law, the utter desolation that comes over me in the moments when my eyes are opened to the crumbling ruin that is the world I live in, the occasional glance back to the days when I walked with God in Eden in the cool of the day, the way my heart soars when I see God’s hand at work in our church, the holy rage I fly into during my constant and sickening battle with my own heart over sin, the feeling that comes over me when I sing with my brothers and sisters and we are lifted up together into the Holy of Holies – the crushing, precious weight of the cross on my shoulder when I have taken it up for those I care for more than anything else in the world.  No one could; but Someone has.

Someone has taken my sin upon him, and given me a yoke that is easy and a burden that is light to bear instead.  Someone has turned to face the unthinkable wrath of God Almighty with the guilt of my transgressions written on his account, while upon me was sprinkled the kiss of the water of life.  Someone was sent into the desert carrying my iniquity, and I was gently led into a land flowing with milk and honey.  Someone bore my griefs and carried my sorrows, yet for my sake I considered him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted.

It was not for nothing that Jesus was called the Man of Sorrows.  As our Creator he knew the eternity that is set in our hearts, as our Judge he knew the penalty that was due our treachery; but as our Brother he took these two verdicts that should forever have been at odds with each other and put them to rights.  In his body he bore our sins on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness.  And if we think that such a salvation was accomplished without grief, we need look only at Gethsemane.  Let us see the disciples, much as they loved Jesus, sleeping from sorrow.  Let us look beyond their drowsing heads and see the Saviour overcome with horror and sadness, crying out to God in the final extremity of his soul, facing the thing he feared most in his humanity and feeling his own body recoil at the thought.  And let us not stop there, but look on to the very courts of Heaven and see the tears standing in the eyes of God himself, resolute in sovereign wisdom but torn asunder out of love for his only Son, knowing that the stroke of the knife must not be halted in this sacrifice.  Let us look on him we have pierced, and with the angels wonder at so great a salvation.

There is a willow that grows askant the brook, standing in its posture of eternal weeping as a testament to the life that was freely given for ours.  It is here that we understand how our sorrow is to be redeemed.  As we take up the burdens of those we love, seeking their good and delighting to share in their difficulties, there is an image that begins to be formed in our hearts.  It is that of One who willingly endured unjust suffering for our sakes, leaving us an example, so that we might follow in his steps.  Christian at Holy Cross, come with me and see what he will do with our obedience.

Author: Jeremy Vogan

My name is Jeremy Vogan. I live in Staunton, VA with my wife and four kids. I love to write, and seek to honestly explore the intellectual and emotional implications of following Jesus as a deeply broken person in a twisted, cruel world that is full of veiled beauty and meaning. Writing is part of how I faithfully look for Jesus Christ to someday make all things new. I'd enjoy hearing your feedback! JV