Most of us have a rather large aversion to suffering. Certainly to our own suffering. But also to truly seeing the suffering around us and in the world. We turn away. We avoid. We try to fix. We blame victims. We shrug our shoulders. We explain it away or explain why it’s necessary (for some kind of greater good). We use religious platitudes (“God works all things for the good…”). When Easter rolls around, we pause for half a breath on Friday and talk a bit about suffering (usually individual suffering…typically not things like systemic evil…), but always with the disclaimer that “Sunday’s coming!! Things are going to get better!! Just hang on!!”
It wasn’t until a few years ago that I began hearing a greater emphasis on suffering and on lament. And it was not in white evangelical circles that I heard these voices. It was almost exclusively leaders of color (some evangelical, some not) that brought this to my awareness. Leaders who pointed out systemic oppression and privilege. Soong-Chan Rah and Mark Charles are two voices that were particularly influential as I started considering new (to me) theological perspectives.
When we encounter the suffering of others, we have two choices: lean in or leave. Leaving means utilizing some type of avoidance, minimizing, denying, blaming, fixing (fixing is avoidant – it tends to be rooted in our own discomfort and is an attempt to make it all go away…quickly). Leaning in means bringing our whole selves into the space and listening. Seeing what is really happening. Believing. Sitting with the one(s) suffering. Holding space. Leaning in requires vulnerability.
My job requires daily leaning in. I am a counselor in a domestic violence shelter. My clients (primarily women) have encountered terrible abuse, generally by someone they love and who they thought loved them. Clients who are currently staying in the shelter are considered to be in “imminent danger.” Suffering and death are everpresent. I can’t tell you how many women have told me over the past year that “he almost killed me” and/or “he is going to kill me” and/or “if he finds me, he will kill me.” I can’t tell you how many more are in incredible danger, but may not recognize the risk. Or may not think there is a way out. Despair is a frequent visitor. I often wonder about certain women I have met along the way – whether they are safe, whether they are thriving, whether they are alive.
I never, EVER tell these women it’s going to be okay. That things are going to work out. Because sometimes it doesn’t get better. Sometimes, despite taking precautions and ample “safety planning” and getting a protective order and calling the police and leaving and going to a domestic violence shelter, abusers kill their (ex-)partners. And children. Sometimes, even when perpetrators don’t kill, they continue to inflict pain and suffering in a variety of ways on the victim for years. Often with little to no repercussions. Even when the victim has long sense left the relationship.
There is immense pain and suffering in the stories my clients tell. As much as I long to provide comfort and to fix it and to tell them the worst is over, I can’t. While we certainly take steps to address the impact of trauma in their lives, much of my work involves holding space and bearing witness to my client’s stories. To sit with them in their pain. To BELIEVE them – something so few people have chosen or choose to do when it comes to women’s experiences of domestic violence (not to mention sexual assault). To be present with them in this moment, not knowing what the next moment brings.
Suffering, death, and despair sound a lot more like Good Friday and Holy Saturday than Easter/Resurrection Sunday. Working with victims of domestic violence is a daily reminder of suffering in our world. It is a daily reminder of individual suffering as well as the suffering as a result of much larger systemic issues. Suffering as a result of patriarchy, toxic masculinity, misogyny. Suffering as a result of a flawed criminal justice system. Suffering that is amplified for domestic violence victims who are part of any number of marginalized groups in addition to being female (being a person of color, being LGBTQ+, being Muslim, being undocumented, being poor, being disabled, etc.).
It is a daily reminder that people choose to inflict suffering on others. That people (including friends, family, and church members) choose not to support those who are suffering. That people and systems choose to look away. To blame victims and to tell them that if they had done things differently, none of this would have happened.
Sunday doesn’t always come. Resurrection is not always where the story ends. Not when it comes to domestic violence. Not in this life anyway. The story sometimes ends in death and/or despair. Suffering is not always redemptive. I reject the notion that suffering is always God-ordained or somehow God’s will. I cannot look my clients in the eye as they tell me about the horrible abuse they have experienced and maintain that for some reason God wanted them to experience this. This kind of suffering is the result of choices made by other individuals and/or systems – by things the victim can’t possibly control. It is rooted in evil, not God.
Leaning in to a theology of suffering means not just looking to Jesus to fix it all and put a bow on it Easter Sunday. It means looking to Jesus when he was murdered by the state. Looking to Jesus when he was abused, abandoned, exposed, alone, Looking to Jesus when God was silent. It means sitting in the emptiness and despair of Holy Saturday. Wondering if there is any hope. Knowing you can’t go back to the certainty you thought you had or the way things were, yet not having any idea what is next. If there even is a future.
I want to have hope. As a therapist, my job includes “holding hope” at times when my clients cannot. I do the work that I do with the hope that in many cases, things will get better. I fight against oppressive systems and resist against patriarchy (among other things) because I hope for a different world. I hope for justice and redemption and resurrection.
Sometimes Sunday never comes.