It’s interesting to me how often we think the “right” response to our pain is to compare it to others’ whose suffering seems worse than our own. If I had a dollar for every time in the past eight months someone has shared with me about their life, only to quickly follow it up with – “but it’s nothing compared to what you’re going through!” – that alone could pay the disability checks we’re waiting on!
Not only does this comparison stifle the vulnerability and mutuality necessary for authentic friendship, but I think it actually might be spiritually damaging too. I grew up thinking this was the right and holy thing – every time I stepped into a bath that was too hot, I would think to myself, “Ashley, just think about how painful it was for Jesus to have his feet nailed to the cross,” or, “imagine how terribly hot it would be for those martyrs burned at the stake.” My vivid imagination probably came from ravenously consuming every page of the Voice of the Martyrs magazines and thinking that God was training me in how to persevere through suffering so one day I could serve him as a martyr too.
So yes, I was a strange child with a strange concept of suffering. And now I find myself in the midst of it, and it’s nothing like the martyrdom I imagined. And all the classic “peace-for-suffering” Bible verses I’d memorized to help me seem to fall short. Suddenly I find myself digging for the context of these well-worn, cross-stitched, Instagrammed verses – because with as much sincerity as they are shared (even from the recesses of my own memory), I actually wonder if they do more harm than good.
For instance, if we’re only always trying to be “content in all circumstances,” are we actually preventing ourselves from receiving the care from Jesus (and others) that we so desperately need? (The care that will actually lead to true contentment?)
When I’m told that my “present sufferings are not worth comparing with the future glory,” I’m really hearing that my present suffering doesn’t matter to God, which couldn’t be further from the truth, and only drives me away from his loving arms.
No matter how many times I’m told that “in all things God works for the good of those who love him,” it’s not encouraging while I’m going through the “all things” part. Instead, what I hear is that I must not love God enough, because I’m certainly not seeing this work out for good! If I only trusted him a little more, only had a little more faith, if I only could muster up a little more love, then maybe – maybe – I’ll see God make something good out of it…
And what about when I’m trying to “be thankful in all circumstances” and in doing so, I’m not pouring out my heart authentically to God (as the Psalmist exhorts us), but instead I’m keeping my feelings bottled up and closed in where they can’t be healed? And then in trying to be thankful for what I do have, I end up feeling guilty for what others don’t have, and find myself playing the comparison game yet again.
In all of these go-to quotables, are we actually learning to believe something untrue about God? By constantly playing “your pain is bigger than my pain” are we learning that God only cares about the “big” problems in the world? That he is not compassionate and attentive to my pain, however small or seemingly insignificant?
Throughout these months of sickness, it has been so easy for me to tell myself that my suffering is far less than others’, that it’s unimportant, that it’s not as bad as I’m making it out to be. Do I really need this help? Everyone is hurting deeply, why do I deserve special care? (Is the pain of my mental games greater than my physical pain? Possibly. Am I playing “your pain is bigger than my pain” with myself?! Definitely.)
I’ve been reading through the Gospel of Mark recently, and I’m consistently amazed at how God speaks to the situations of my life through the specific stories I read. I got to Mark 5:21-43, which is a story I’m very familiar with – the story of a young girl who is dying and a woman with a chronic bleeding problem. I hesitated before reading it, because I thought to myself, what else do I have to “get out” of this story I know so well with characters I don’t really relate to? So, of course, as he does, God blew my mind.
Here’s what caught my attention. Jesus didn’t have to stop on his way to see the dying twelve-year old daughter of the synagogue leader. The nameless woman with the twelve year bleeding problem had already been healed of her disease just by touching his garments. But I think Jesus knows that the healing she needs is far more than physical. She needs more than a cure for her disease, she needs to be healed. She needs to know she is worth his time. His attention. His affection. She needs to know that her suffering matters to him. That she is not merely a burden. That even though there is a young girl dying, her pain is worth him stopping. So of course he stopped. He has to show her how precious she is to him.
And right as he’s speaking these words of life over her, messengers from the synagogue leaders’ house come running to tell the leader not to trouble Jesus anymore, because his daughter has died.
First of all, if I was this woman who had just been healed and restored, I would immediately feel terrible – it’s my fault that the little girl died! If I hadn’t touched his garments, he wouldn’t have stopped, and he could have healed her before she died! My healing was not worth the cost of her life! Jesus, didn’t you know this was going to happen? Then why did you stop? Why did you let her die in order to care for me? (Spoiler alert: it’s the first recorded resurrection story in Mark!)
Second, the people who came to tell the synagogue leader that his daughter had died told him not to trouble Jesus anymore. It’s that same language that comes from comparing our problems to others’. Are we learning to believe that our asks of God for healing are a burden to him? That we are making him go out of his way, that we are troubling him with our little issues? When the truth is that God’s heart is to be intimately involved in the details of our lives – when his very nature is to heal and make whole – when his great desire is to live every moment of our lives with us?
Is my false belief about God what lies at the core of my belief that my pain is not worth his time?
As I read this story, I found myself relating to the woman in ways I never had before. And for the first time, I read it through her eyes. When Jesus stopped for me, looked at me with such great compassion in his eyes, and called me his precious daughter, something clicked. It wasn’t until that moment that I actually began to believe that my pain was worth his time and his care. Not because there’s anything special about me, but because he loves me. Because I’m precious to him. All this time I’ve been denying his love by comparing my pain to others’, and all this time he’s been waiting for the opportunity to stop and care for me. To show me how much he loves me, even the parts I say aren’t worth him loving.
And one of the coolest parts? When Jesus pays attention to my problems, it doesn’t keep him from caring for others. In fact, because Jesus stopped to care for the bleeding woman, the miracle was even more glorious when he not only healed the twelve-year-old girl, but raised her back to life! He showed his compassionate affection to both of them, calling both his precious daughters.
God, give us eyes to see how precious we are to you. Give us the courage to reach out our hand, to open ourselves to you, that we might be healed, that we might be loved. Give us faith to believe that our pain is not too small to go unnoticed, that our suffering matters to you, and that we are, somehow, worth your attention and affection.