In this coronatide, in what free time I have available to me, I’ve been learning to speak German. Well, not really. But Becca knows some German, and she says this phrase occasionally. The other day, I was visiting the Catos and talking about trying to figure out a safe church re-opening plan. I was complaining about how weird and uncomfortable it will probably be at first and how I don’t want people to feel forced into doing something that they think unsafe. Becca was passing through, heard me, and said, “Es tut mir leid,” which means “I’m sorry.”
At first, I felt kinda weird about this. Why was she apologizing for something she has no control over? It’s not her fault. As it turns out, though, there’s another German phrase for that, for expressing regret or repentance. What she was saying, es tut mir leid, that’s what you say when you empathize with someone. It’s not “I’m sorry I caused this,” so much as “I’m sorry this happened to you.” Literally, it translates to mean “it does me sorrow.”
So all those times I complained about a headache or the heat or worrying about something, she was saying “your suffering does me suffering.”
As it turns out, of all the things she could’ve taught me in German, this phrase has proven to be incredibly useful. For one thing, we just finished watching a subtitled German show on Netflix, and I swear they said “es tut mir leid” eighteen times an episode. But for another, there’s something really beautiful in knowing, in being reassured, that I’m not bearing the little pains of life alone.
And God knows, there’s quite a lot of pain to bear these days. Living entails all sorts of pains, normally, but lately, everything is amplified. The everyday pains are still there, but so are new ones. The necessary discomfort of masks. Dried out knuckles cracked from gallons of hand sanitizer. Hard questions asked sitting at the dinner table with next month’s budget. Even the way a little movement outside a window draws us to watch and yearn for a time when we can go out without a little fear in the shadows of our souls, again. Es tut mir leid. I’m sorry. It does me sorrow.
We each bear this suffering and many pains like them, and knowing that you bear this brings me suffering, too. But even if you’re living on your own, you aren’t alone. We are here. And we’re bearing this all together.
But I know that isn’t quite enough. I mean, it’s nice to hear . . . maybe it’s even a touch reassuring, but until human touch and proximity return, words like these can feel loving and caring. . . and empty.
We know this is a shared thing at some intellectual level, but our hearts ache and our hearts long for the suffering to diminish, for the world to change again, for it to be ok to be around people again. Es tut mir leid. It does me sorrow.
Like in Paul’s day, creation groans alongside us, the labor pains of whatever we’re suffering through while we wait. And for what? A vaccine? Herd immunity? Election Day?
In our Friday Morning Prayer get togethers with St. Thomas’, we spend the time after the service talking about the passages. And so often we turn to the concept of the Lament as a way to reach out to God.
There’s a whole book of scripture dedicated to lamenting called, wait for it, Lamentations. Several voices call out their pains to the community, and all listen. It’s a sacred thing, what they’re doing. The community gathers in new ways when the temple lays desolate. . . they gather and they name what hurts. Hunger, worry for their children, loss of income, loss of purpose, and loss of God, or at least, lost sight of God.
And it’s prayer. That’s what gets me every time. Lamenting is not an act of faithlessness. It’s an act of extreme faith. That in the face of all the suffering that I bear and that you bear and that our community bears with us, in the face of all that, we can weep that pain at God, and God wants to hear it. And it does God suffering to know our suffering. That’s maybe the most faithful thing we can do.
And when we name our suffering to God, we’re not just yelling into the abyss. We’re joining our suffering with the many faithful who have suffered before, and we’re joining our suffering with Christ who takes that suffering on and makes us holy. Es tut mir leid. And thank God.
Paul says the suffering of this age is not worth comparing to the glory of the age to come. And there’s truth in that. When we get to the good times, or more appropriately for Paul, when we finally see Paradise, I’m sure none of the lows of this life will hold a candle to the highs of what’s to come.
But we aren’t there, not yet. We have highs and joys and celebrations here, and yes, even now. But we also have our sufferings, real and holy things that shouldn’t be diminished. Your suffering is real. And it is sacred. Your loneliness, your uncertainty, your cracked knuckles and your hot mask breath. All sacred, and all borne by Christ.
Es tut mir leid. It does me sorrow. God knows. And God bears.