Upon a life I have not lived,
Upon a death I did not die;
Another’s life; Another’s death,
I stake my whole eternity.
Not on the tears which I have shed,
Not on the sorrows I have known,
Another’s tears; Another’s griefs,
On these I rest, on these alone.
– Horatius Bonar
As I listened today to a recorded lecture on preaching Christocentrically (guess what that means!), I felt I was getting a glimpse into eternity. And that peak made me think we really know nothing. The life of Joseph was the passage under discussion. Various aspects connecting to Jesus. As I listened, I imagined – no, it felt more like I went on a mini trip into eternity’s dimension – that the whole story, every little detail, was an enactment of things Jesus is and would be. Like when God told Moses to make sure all the measurements for the tabernacle were accurate because they were a copy of things in the heavenlies. Amazing – these peeks within Scripture into the wisdom of God’s heavenly realities. And I realized that all this “application” stuff we do, attempting to fix ourselves, is hot air in contrast. Yeah, we can learn some things that improve our quality of life, our relationships, etc. And some of that is really important. But what if we live our whole lives figuring out earth dynamics and miss REALLY seeing Jesus?
In the Psalm class I attend, we were told last night that praise is always preceded by lament. Otherwise it is a fast-food version without weight. An example was given of a large group of women being facilitated through the Psalms to come into the light and share their sorrows through poetry. I’ve benefited from this very thing myself. Formulating, voicing, sharing – it bonds people and makes room for healing. … And yet… This morning I was thinking about Jesus’ laments. I wanted to see not just David lamenting, but Jesus. And understand HIS pain. His lament is different from mine… perhaps. Alike in some ways, different in others. I want to chew on this more and work the flavor out before I swallow.
I thought of the old hymn pasted above, written long ago in Scotland. And detected a similar flavor. Ah…, Jesus!
As important as it is for me to understand and voice my own pains, I’m gloriously wondering about “Another’s tears; Another’s griefs, On these I rest…” And I sense that I really do not rightly know or understand the griefs of my Beloved. I cry my own tears. And I must. But to see one tear running down my Jesus’ face turns my heart to wonder what passion within Him is tapping wells of Divine pain.
This post is nothing about answers and all about questions. Have I ever tasted HIS griefs or only pacified myself with cut-to-size types laid upon my own sorrows? Have I really been raw-honest with God about the arrows that have pierced my soul? Have I listened, really listened to griefs told from the very Heart of God-with-us? Is it not sorrow – HIS sorrow – that birthed eternal life and the gift of lament over broken image?
Jesus was called Man of Sorrows (Isaiah 53:3). To me, this is perhaps the most Royal title He could have. What does it really mean? What did it look like in His everyday life? What depths of grief did/does He feel constantly as Witness to masses and individuals, all broken image-bearers! He, the Perfect Image, Son of Father. Bound by grief and to our brokenness. The thought stops me in my tracks. This “Another” KNOWS GRIEF. Could I dare call Him friend? Does He dare invite my sobbing heart to the room of tears where salt-waters meet and are re-formed? The floor has cushions for two. The incense smells of myrrh.
Imagine this invitation:
You are invited
For tear communion.
– Jesus
Upon this Life, upon this Man of Sorrows, may all my hope for comfort and security rest.