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The Paschal Mystery: Christ’s Mission of Salvation, Second Edition

Excerpts from Lament for a Son, by Nicholas Wolterstorff Born on a snowy night in New Haven, he died twenty-five years later on a snowy slope in the Kaisergebiger. Tenderly we laid him in warm June earth. Willows were releasing their seeds of puffy white, blanketing the ground. I catch myself: Was it him we laid in the earth? I had touched his cheek. Its cold still hardness pushed me back. Death, I knew, was cold. And death was still. But nobody had mentioned that all the softness went out. His spirit had departed and taken along the warmth and activity and, yes, the softness. He was gone. “Eric, where are you?” But I am not very good at separating person from body. Maybe that comes with practice. The red hair, the dimples, the chipmunky look—that was Eric.

The call came at 3:30 on that Sunday afternoon, a bright sunny day. We had just sent a younger brother off to the plane to be with him for the summer. “Mr. Wolterstorff?” “Yes.” “Is this Eric’s father?” “Yes.” “Mr. Wolterstorff, I must give you some bad news.” “Yes.” “Eric has been climbing in the mountains and has had an accident.” “Yes.” “Eric has had a serious accident.” “Yes.” “Mr. Wolterstorff, I must tell you, Eric is dead. Mr. Wolterstorff, are you there? You must come at once! Mr. Wolterstorff, Eric is dead.” For three seconds I felt the peace of resignation: arms extended, limp son in hand, peacefully offering to someone—Someone. Then the pain—cold burning pain.

He was cut down at the peak of vitality and promise. He had finished his research and was ready to write. We found the outline on top of his notes. Friends who had visited him a week earlier said they had never seen him so enthusiastic. He was looking forward to climbing the Matterhorn with friends late in the summer and was getting himself into condition, running and doing practice climbs. Is the death of a child any easier when vitality has wound down? If some disease had wasted him away, sapped his energy, made him weak, would death then have seemed a proper closure? But then all the pain would have been in seeing the winding down. Is it easier when good-byes have been said? We never said good-bye to Eric. Each death is as unique as each life. Each has its own stamp. Inscape. The tree in Hopkin’s garden had an inscape, but so did the felling of the tree. And one child’s death differs from another not in the intensity of the pain it causes but in the quality. To see a young life wither and die is as painful as to see it snapped off. The son of a friend—same age as Eric—died a few weeks before Eric. The friend’s son committed suicide. The pain of his life was so intense that he took the life that gave the pain. I thought for a time that

Excerpts from Lament for a Son, by Nicholas Wolterstorff

such a death must be easier to bear than the death of one with zest for life. He wanted to die. When I talked to the father, I saw that I was wrong. Death is the great leveler, so our writers have always told us. Of course they are right. But they have neglected to mention the uniqueness of each death—and the solitude of suffering which accompanies that uniqueness. We say, “I know how you are feeling.” But we don’t.

On the way back I thought about tears. Our culture says that men must be strong and that the strength of a man in sorrow is to be seen in his tearless face. Tears are for women. Tears are signs of weakness and women are permitted to be weak. Of course it’s better if they too are strong. But why celebrate stoic tearlessness? Why insist on never outwarding the inward when that inward is bleeding? Does enduring while crying not require as much strength as never crying? Must we always mask our suffering? May we not sometimes allow people to see and enter it? I mean, may men not do this? And why is it so important to act strong? I have been graced with the strength to endure. But I have been assaulted, and in the assault wounded, grievously wounded. Am I to pretend otherwise? Wounds are ugly, I know. They repel. But must they always be swathed? I shall look at the world through tears. Perhaps I shall see things that dry-eyed I could not see.

What do you say to someone who is suffering? Some people are gifted with words of wisdom. For such, one is profoundly grateful. There were many such for us. But not all are gifted in that way. Some blurted out strange, inapt things. That’s OK too. Your words don’t have to be wise. The heart that speaks is heard more than the words spoken. And if you can’t think of anything at all to say, just say, “I can’t think of anything to say. But I want you to know that we are with you in your grief.” Or even, just embrace. Not even the best of words can take away the pain. What words can do is testify that there is more than pain in our journey on earth to a new day. Of those things that are more, the greatest is love. Express your love. How appallingly grim must be the death of a child in the absence of love. But please: Don’t say it’s not really so bad. Because it is. Death is awful, demonic. If you think your task as comforter is to tell me that really, all things considered, it’s not so bad, you do not sit with me in my grief but place yourself off in the distance away from me. Over there, you are of no help. What I need to hear from you is that you recognize how painful it is. I need to hear from you that you are with me in my desperation. To comfort me, you have to come close. Come sit beside me on my mourning bench. I know: People do sometimes think things are more awful than they really are. Such people need to be corrected—gently, eventually. But no one thinks death is more awful than it is. It’s those who think it’s not so bad that need correcting. Some say nothing because they find the topic too painful for themselves. They fear they will break down. So they put on a brave face and lid their feelings—never reflecting, I suppose, that this adds new pain to the sorrow of their suffering friends. Your tears are salve on our wound, your silence is salt. And later, when you ask me how I am doing and I respond with a quick, thoughtless “Fine” or “OK,” stop me sometime and ask, “No, I mean really.”

Excerpts from Lament for a Son, by Nicholas Wolterstorff

I have come to see that the Christian gospel tells us more of the meaning of sin than of suffering. Of sin it says that its root lies not in God but in the will of the human being. It is true that an inclination toward lovelessness and injustice is not mysteriously perpetuated down through the generations. But it remains an inclination, not a necessity. Sin belongs to us. To this the gospel adds that our lovelessness pains God; it grieves him. And then the good news: God’s response to the pain is forgiveness—not avenging fury but forgiveness. Jesus Christ is the announcement: The Master of the Universe forgives. To the “why” of suffering we get no firm answer. Of course some suffering is easily seen to be the result of our sin: war, assault, poverty amidst plenty, the hurtful word. And maybe some is chastisement. But not all. The meaning of the remainder is not told us. It eludes us. Our net of meaning is too small. There’s more to our suffering than our guilt.

For a long time I knew that God is not the impassive, unresponsive, unchanging being portrayed by the classical theologians. I knew of the pathos of God. I knew of God’s response of delight and of his response of displeasure. But strangely, his suffering I never saw before. God is not only the God of suffering but the God who suffers. The pain and fallenness of humanity have entered into his heart. Through the prism of my tears I have seen a suffering God. It is said of God that no one can behold his face and live. I always thought this meant that no one could see his splendor and live. A friend said perhaps it meant that no one could see his sorrow and live. Or perhaps his sorrow is splendor. And great mystery: to redeem our brokenness and lovelessness the God who suffers with us did not strike some mighty blow of power but sent his beloved son to suffer like us, through his suffering to redeem us from suffering and evil. Instead of explaining our suffering God shares it. But I never saw it. Though I confess that the man of sorrows was God himself, I never saw the God of sorrows. Though I confessed that the man bleeding on the cross was the redeeming God, I never saw God himself on the cross, blood from sword and thorn and nail dripping healing into the world’s wounds. What does this mean for life, that God suffers? I’m only beginning to learn. When we think of God the Creator, then we naturally see the rich and powerful of the earth as his closest image. But when we hold steady before us the sight of God the Redeemer redeeming from sin and suffering by suffering, then perhaps we must look elsewhere for earth’s closest icon. Where? Perhaps to the face of that woman with soup tin in hand and bloated child at side. Perhaps that is why Jesus said that inasmuch as we show love to such a one, we show love to him.

Suffering may do us good—may be a blessing, something to be thankful for. This I have learned. Ordinarily we think of the powerful and wealthy as blessed; they enjoy the “good things of life.” But maybe the little ones, the downtrodden peoples and assaulted persons, are blessed as well. I do not mean that they will be compensated for their suffering. I mean that perhaps the treading down is itself a blessing, or can become a blessing, rich as any coming to those we call “the lucky ones.” Suffering is the shout of “No” by one’s whole existence to that over which one suffers—the shout of “No” by nerves and gut and gland and heart to pain, to death, to injustice, to depression, to hunger, to humiliation, to bondage, to abandonment. And sometimes, when the cry is intense, there emerges a radiance which elsewhere seldom appears; a glow of courage, of love, of insight, of selflessness, of faith. In that radiance we see best what humanity was meant to be.

Excerpts from Lament for a Son, by Nicholas Wolterstorff

That the radiance which emerges from acquaintance with grief is a blessing to others is familiar, though perplexing: How can we treasure the radiance while struggling against what brought it about? How can we thank God for suffering’s yield while asking for its removal? But what I have learned is something stranger still: Suffering may be among the sufferer’s blessings. I think of a former colleague who, upon recovering from a heart attack, remarked that he would not have missed it for the life of him. In the valley of suffering, despair and bitterness are brewed. But there also character is made. The valley of suffering is the vale of soulmaking. But now things slip and slide around. How do I tell my blessings? For what do I give thanks and for what do I lament? Am I sometimes to sorrow over my delight and sometimes to delight over my sorrow? And how do I sustain my “No” to my son’s early death while accepting with gratitude the opportunity offered of becoming what otherwise I could never be? How do I receive my suffering as blessing while repulsing the obscene thought that God jiggled the mountain to make me better?

It’s been a year now since I last saw this small patch of earth. Then it was piles of dirt and a hole. Now I can scarcely tell. Then it was surrounded by teared humanity. Now just mother and father, sister and brothers. The gardeners are gone, the neighborhood children are gone, only the wind in the oaks abides. He was sealed—no, his body was sealed—in a zinc box. How do the worms get in? or do we each provide our own worms, carried along inside us? How much have they gnawed away by now? The bones will last a long time, and I suppose the clothes. I had gone through his closet and picked out a shirt and pants in his favorite colors. I imagine some of it was artificial fiber, and that lasts longer, doesn’t it? I suppose the buckle on the belt will last a long time, too. Shoes? No, they gave me his shoes. He doesn’t have shoes on. I walked around the patch where he was buried, not over it nor onto it. Why do I do that? Walking on it seems like desecration. I begin to understand why humanity has regarded its burial grounds as sacred sites. Under each of these plots has been laid to rest what remained of one of God’s images on earth, one of his icons. Those icon-remains hallow this place. I suppose if that’s true, then the houses of the living are even more hallowed. If the resting places of the remains of God’s icons deserve respect, then surely the dwelling places of his living icons do. The grass here is nicely mowed, the rolling hills lovely, splendid oaks, very peaceful. I suppose some of those buried here never lived so well. I wonder how it will all go when God raises him and the rest of us from the dead? Giving us new bodies seems no great problem. But how is he going to fit us all together into his city? Eric here, man of the twentieth century, has to be fitted in with someone from long ago who lived in primitive conditions, knowing nothing of airplanes and electricity and neutron bombs, knowing only of the patch of soil which she tended and from which she never strayed more than five miles. Will God have everyone learn computers? Eric would have a head start. And what about the different characters and temperaments that all these people bring? Eric was loyal and gentle and loving, if sometimes a bit self-centered. Some people are nasty, ill-tempered, unpleasant to be around. How will God handle that? Seems to me there’ll have to be a lot of purging first. And so many, so innumerably many. I see them stretching way back, their faces eventually becoming just a brownish haze from here. Everybody is known by somebody in that crowd, but the memories usually trail off somewhere so that up front here we know only a very few. God alone has them all in mind.

Excerpts from Lament for a Son, by Nicholas Wolterstorff

I don’t see how he’s going to bring it off. But I suppose if he can create he can re-create. I wonder if it’s all true? I wonder if he’s really going to do it? Will I hear Eric say someday, really now I mean: “Hey Dad, I’m back”? “But remember, I made all this, and raised my Son from the dead, so. . . .” OK. So goodbye Eric, goodbye, goodbye, until we see.

(These excerpts are from Lament for a Son, by Nicholas Wolterstorff [Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1987]. Copyright © 1987 by Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company. Reprinted by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.)