God of Sadness

We are a people who are quick to label pathologies these days, especially when it comes to mental health. It seems we want everyone to admit to struggling with anxiety or depression or trauma or whatever the buzzword of the day is, and we've lost our ability to recognize that these things are not always pathologies; sometimes, they are just a product of living a full life. 

A week or so ago, my anxiety was really high. It was simply because I had one day off work and had packed it full of important things that I had to do, back to back to back to back. I had a lot riding on the outcome of these obligations, and I was not able to schedule myself time throughout that day to breathe. So of course, it's only natural that I would experience some measure of anxiety over the course of that day. That does not make me a person with an anxiety disorder; it makes me a person living a human experience with finite resources and able to recognize the impact that has on my overall well-being. 

About the same time, I saw a post on Facebook that told the story of a couple of little boys. One little boy was sad, and the other little boy came to comfort him and said, "It's okay to be sad sometimes. Sad stands for 'secretly a dinosaur,' then let out a roar and a laugh." But for us adults, the minute we shed a tear or express that we are sad, someone wants to come along and label it depression. Label it, and then medicate it. As soon as you say you're sad, someone will step up to say that they make medications for that. And if you object and say that it's okay to be sad sometimes, that same person will usually tell you that there's no shame in using the medications, as though shame were your primary reason for not wanting to medicate. 

The truth is, sadness, too, is part of a full human experience. It doesn't have to be labeled all the time, and it certainly doesn't always have to be medicated. 

Listen, I am not saying that labels, diagnoses, medications, and mental health care are bad. Please do not misunderstand me. What I am saying is that we are so quick to make pathologies out of anything that isn't "happy," and that's simply not the reality of our human experience. 

We are broken beings living in a fallen world. Bad stuff happens. Grief happens. Death is a reality here. Sickness, pain, abandonment, abuse. All of it. This place, this life, is broken. We're supposed to be sad about that. We're supposed to feel the weight of that. Trauma is supposed to be heavy. Anxiety is most definitely real. We know, in the depths of our soul, that this isn't the way it's supposed to be, and if we know that truth, then the reality that we face ought to leave us broken in some ways itself. 

The folks in the Old Testament used to tear out their hair and throw sackcloth on themselves in grief. Nobody told them to stop that. Nobody told them to find better ways to manage their stress. Nobody labeled them as pathologically sad. Nobody offered them medication. Everyone respected that they were clearly experiencing a heavy season of the brokenness of this fallen life and gave them the sacred space to deal with it. 

Isaiah goes further and says that God even wants us to feel this way sometimes. (22:12) God wants us to be sad sometimes.

It means we're paying attention. 

It means we know that things are not as they are supposed to be. It means we're able to comprehend that something's wrong. It means we have our hearts set on better things, on things that aren't like this. It means we get the contrast between God's idea and where our own ideas have brought us. Sadness is part of a faithful life. Anxiety is part of a faithful life. Letting brokenness burden us is part of a faithful life. 

It means we understand the promises and goodness of God. The heart of Him who never wanted it to be this way, who made it all good and then "very good" and then wept as He stood at the edge of death and the things that break us. 

If Jesus wept, why shouldn't we? 

Cry your tears. Have them all. Tremble with anxiety. Pace back and forth. Weep. Mourn. Wrestle. Tear your hair out. Dress in sackcloth if you want to. These are all holy things. They are not pathologies to be medicated or treated or labeled or swept under the rug. They are not shame. They are the marks of a faithful life that is paying attention and that isn't afraid to face this broken world head-on and let living in it be a real, full, fully human experience.