Grief is love seeking someplace to land. It is our refusal

to let what was once precious come to nothing.

George Saunders’ novel Lincoln in the Bardo haunts

me this week. In the story, the souls of the dead

speak from beyond the grave. “What I mean to say

is, we had been considerable. Had been loved. Our

departures caused pain. Those who loved us sat

upon their beds, heads in hand; lowered their faces to

tabletops, making animal noises. We had been loved,

I say, and remembering us, even many years later,

people would smile, briefly gladdened at the memory.”

Some of you feel this like a stone in your chest. You

sat on your bed this year, head in hands. Or stood at

the graveside and watched the earth receive what

you could not release. That terrible finality. In a few

moments, we’ll read names out loud, the saints

we’ve lost this year at Second. And as we do, we will

whisper names in our own hearts. We will remember.

We will smile. We will weep.

That’s what today is for. To say before God and one

another that our loved ones were considerable. That

their departures caused us pain. To name what we

have lost in sacred community.

But there is another grief today. It threatens the

witness of the saints we honor. There is a rising

meanness dressed in Christian language. There is

callousness called conviction. Empathy labeled toxic

or sinful. Compassion called dangerous. Care for the

vulnerable makes us naïve. We must choose truth over

feeling. I want to be clear about what this costs us.

The logical effect of this theology is monstrous. It

says, “Care less. Feel less. Weep less for others.” But

scripture has a name for one whose heart is hardened

in the face of human suffering. Pharaoh. He heard the

cries of the enslaved, and he felt nothing.

Now, God heard their cries, and God moved toward

them in compassion. It is a familiar story, repeated

throughout the pages of sacred scripture. In the

psalms we hear God’s steadfast love will last forever.

God’s compassion has no end. In the prophets, we

learn that God prefers mercy over ritual. And in the

gospels, we hear the good news that God is found not

in total victory but in utter vulnerability.

The arc of our scripture bends toward empathy.

And so, to attack it is an assault on the image of

God in one another. To turn from compassion does

not just fail to grasp who we are; it fundamentally

misrepresents who God is.

Where in the Gospel does Jesus say to his disciples,

“Be careful not to care too much?” You can look. You

will not find it.

Love your neighbor as yourself.

Just as I have loved you, so you also should love one another.

Jesus showed us the way. He drew close to suffering

souls and broken bodies. He washed the feet of his

friends. And never—not once—did Jesus Christ put a

cap on our empathy.

Lazarus had been dead for four days. The tomb

smelled like death, and there was no fixing this. Jesus

arrives, and Mary falls at his feet, still raw in grief and

disappointed in her lord. “Lord, if you had been here,

my brother would not have died.”

And then it happens. Not the miracle. Not yet. First,

Jesus weeps. He grieves his friend Lazarus. And I

cannot prove it, but I do wonder: What if Jesus could

not call Lazarus forth out of the tomb without first

descending into his own grief? What if the tears

were not a delay but a necessity? What if Jesus had

to let death break his heart before he could break

death’s power?

Afterall, this is the grammar of resurrection. There is

incarnation before glory. Descent before rising. Tears

before new life.

It’s how God always works. Jesus does not bypass

the tomb—he enters it. Doesn’t avoid the tears—he

feels them. And only then, from deep within his own

grief, does Jesus speak life. And so, I submit that we

cannot follow a Christ who descended into death if

we keep ourselves distant from suffering. That without

weeping, there will be no raising.

You cannot claim to follow Christ and refuse to do

what he did. You cannot worship a God who wept

at the tomb and call weeping weakness. You must

choose to follow Jesus to the place where hearts

break, or follow a god of ruthless power. But do not

call that the way of Christ.

If you look around, you will see it, this eclipse of

empathy. It says, “Harden your heart and call that

strength.” It mocks compassion, makes cruelty

entertaining. Says, “Don’t care. Don’t feel. Don’t weep.”

But, friends, eclipses are optical illusions. The light is still

there. Our call is to shine, not adjust to the darkness.

You can be certain of your theology and still have a

heart of stone. You can quote chapter and verse from

the good book and feel nothing for the people God

loves. You can do it, but you will miss Jesus, because

he is standing outside the tomb, weeping tears for his

friend. And the saints, they know where to find him.

For decades, a small group of men in my previous

congregation gathered every Thursday morning to

cook breakfast and pray together. Ted Bayley was one

of those men. Ted Bayley was one of that church’s

saints. An elder in the church, he came every

Thursday morning for as long as his health allowed.

And when he was no longer able to drive, he would

walk the short path from his house to the church. It

was one of the final paths Ted knew how to walk. He

suffered with dementia that slowly stole his memory.

Not long after his diagnosis, on a Thursday morning,

Ted showed up for breakfast. That day, when his turn

came, he prayed these words: “Dear God, they tell

me my memory is failing, and I’m afraid. Yes, God, I’m

afraid. I’m afraid that I won’t recognize my friends. I’m

afraid that I won’t remember their names.”

The group sat in silence. Ed Carithers sat across the

table, next up to pray. Ed could have said, “Now Ted,

don’t talk like that. You’re fine. We all forget things

sometimes.” Ed could have changed the subject,

prayed about something else entirely. But he didn’t

do that. Ed sat there. Across from his buddy Ted.

And as he began his prayer, his voice cracked.

“Father God, please help Ted to know that even if

he forgets who we are, we will remember who he is.

And so will you.”

It’s way of the saints. The truth of the gospel.

Remember. Remember. Remember. Empathy is not

weakness. It is the strength that shows up for a friend

in need. It is the courageous witness of unguarded

tears. It is the bold heart of our call to one another.

There’s a food pantry downstairs. Serves 750 families

a month. And right now—right now—they are

preparing for more people than they’ve seen in many

years. More need. More hunger. More neighbors who

don’t know where their next meal will come from.

As systems meant to protect the most vulnerable

are being threatened, programs disrupted, workers

unpaid, here’s what we will do. We will open our doors

wider. We will brace for the demand, and we will meet

each person who comes through those doors with

dignity and, yes, empathy.

Some Christian voices are writing books and

preaching sermons, calling empathy dangerous. Toxic.

They say it compromises our convictions, or perhaps

it risks rewarding the undeserving, making suckers

out of those who practice it.

You know what I believe? I believe that is the bitter

fruit of a false gospel, that we can reject the lie that

our neighbor’s need is not our problem. The cry of the

stranger is not a nuisance. It is a summons. Scripture

is clear on this point. Their cry is God’s voice. And if

you listen closely, you will hear your name.

By God’s grace, we have capacity to respond. By

God’s word, we are compelled to respond. And by

God, we will respond. It’s the work of the saints, to

know where Jesus stands—not by the throne, but at

the tomb, weeping, before he calls us to life.

Lazarus, come out!

Not by brute force, but by the tenderness of love,

death will be defeated.

And so, we remember the saints. I remember Ted and

Ed, who joined hands in prayer across the breakfast

table. We remember Mary and Martha, joined in their

grief by a God who wept with them. We remember

the saints today. We remember those who showed us

the way, who held us up, who found courage when it

mattered most.

A great cloud of witnesses surrounds you today. And

you should let their lives speak in yours.

They refused to harden their hearts. They loved and

were loved. They were considerable. And today, the

saints stand against empathy’s eclipse. Their light still

shines. And their voices whisper in our ears, “Now it’s

your turn.”

Do not make peace with darkness. Follow Jesus to the

tomb. Stand outside in your tears, and keep showing

up. Don’t look away. Remember those who came

before you. Mark the path for those who will follow

after you. Friends, if we turn from the cries of our

neighbors, we turn from the Christ who weeps beside

them. Listen. Without weeping, there is no raising.

Let us pray: God who weeps with us, teach us to

weep with each other. Form in us the heart of Christ.

Amen.