The other side of suffering: what can Jesus' passion teach us about our own suffering, and how can we transform suffering into opportunities for spiritual growth?

What can Jesus' Passion teach us about our own suffering, and how can we can transform suffering into opportunities for spiritual growth?

Befriending our death can tee easier said than done. Not every death is easy. The death of Jesus is, of course, a prime example. Moreover, it is not only dying that we fear, but the pain that may accompany living through our later years. Age may bring with it suffering. How do we do more than just grin and bear it, or complain, if that's our style? How can we use the suffering as part of our spiritual curriculum?

Jesus may seem an unlikely teacher concerning life's second half. After all, he died at 33--by contemporary standards, a young man. Moreover, his Passion (from the Latin passio, "to suffer") was, Christians would assert, a unique event in history.

Yet this story resonates with a larger meaning. Jesus' Passion contains reference to the myriad forms of human suffering, whether caused by nature or intentional cruelty. More to the point, it speaks particularly to the troubles of later life. In his final days, Jesus faced many of the same trials that we may go through in our final years.

First, we see the pain of anticipated losses. In Gethsemane, Jesus is all but overcome by anguish, dismay, and grief. He already senses the pain he must face and would gladly avoid. We may feel much the same way as we round the curve of mid-life. We cannot see too far down the road, but we may already fear the loss of loved ones, of our health and independence, even of life itself. Who would not cry out with Jesus, "My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass me by"?

Jesus' suffering in the garden is intensified by his isolation. He bids his disciples stay awake with him, but they fall asleep three times, leaving him alone in prayer.

We, too, may know loneliness. As the years pass, so do many treasured companions--they move, turn to new pursuits, or die. Even in the midst of those who remain, we may feel isolated. Perhaps we wrestle with a chronic illness. Our friends and family, well-meaning as they are, cannot fully enter into our pain. It is unfolding within our body, not theirs. It whispers to us of our own mortality that we must finally face alone.

At least, we hope, others will stay awake with us. Though they can't make it all better, they can be present to us when we suffer. What a consolation to hear a loved one say, "I'm there. I know what you're going through. Give me your hand. I'm staying up with you all night. You're not going to face this alone."

Such love is great to receive but difficult to give. After all, Jesus' disciples were committed to him, but they still went to sleep in Gethsemane. It's hard to stay awake to another's suffering. Why? For one thing, we know we might be next in line, and we hardly want to be reminded. Some of the disciples did, in fact, later meet with their own persecution. Similarly, to stay awake with an old or sick friend is to be reminded of what may await us. We might rather close our eyes and snooze.

It is not only our selfish side that wishes to escape. Our altruistic side is also threatened when we can't fix the other's problem.

This avoidance is not just some individual failing; it is typical of our culture. Our whole society closes its eyes to suffering, turning away from the poor, sick, and aged. Suffering is then compounded with loneliness.

Those in need are sometimes also subject to humiliation. Jesus was dressed in scarlet clothing and a crown of thorns, spat on, and ridiculed. We too may feel humiliated if turned down for insurance because of chronic conditions; if wheeled around a hospital like a piece of meat; if overlooked for a promotion because we're "just too old."

As if all this isn't enough, the indignities of illness or age may be accompanied by physical pain. That crown of thorns injured Jesus, and he suffered the exhaustion of carrying the cross, the agony of nailed limbs and crucifixion. As we age, we may experience a crucifixion of sorts and, for sure, many a crown of thorns. And we cannot look forward to a speedy recovery, as we do in the illnesses of youth.

In the face of all these assaults, at least we can reach for spiritual solace. However, let's acknowledge that we may face spiritual suffering as well. Even a "realized being" like Jesus cried out, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" Can we assume we won't descend into this dark night of the soul? It's one thing to feel cared for by the universe when all is going well. But what if we do suffer through the loss of loved ones, a sense of loneliness and humiliation, all topped off by physical pain and the prospect of death? Our sense of a loving God, of a harmonious universe, can undergo a total collapse. We may stand amid the ruins and echo Jesus' cry, "Why hast thou forsaken me?"

So far it all sounds grim, but the gospel account is not one of unrelieved suffering. Gospel literally means "good news." The good news is that Jesus' suffering is redemptive. It both brings his own mission to fulfillment and incalculably enriches the lives of those around him.

It can be so, too, in our own life. Of course, it would be hubris, if not insanity, to claim to be another Jesus. Nevertheless, Christians are meant to imitate his model. (The word Christian, after all, means "Christlike.")

So let's examine what Jesus has to teach us. He can show us the path, through life's suffering, to love.

The Big Awake

In Gethsemane, though others around him are sleeping, Jesus resolutely stays awake--probably no easy matter. Filled with anguish and grief, he may have been strongly tempted to run away or obliterate consciousness. Yet the story says he stayed up through the long night.

Here is our first lesson: stay awake to our sufferings, be they physical, emotional, or spiritual. These can awaken us to greater life. How deep is the temptation to roll over and go back to sleep! One way is through denial: "Everything's fine! I've never felt so well in my life." There's nothing wrong with such a positive attitude, but we have to make sure it's for real. Sometimes we're trying to avoid our fears and problems.

We can also escape by retreating from the world or exploding outward in a maelstrom of activity. The productive model of aging may encourage us to keep constantly busy. Great, if that brings us deep satisfaction. But we may also be running from thoughts and feelings that surface whenever we pause. Those most unwilling to stay awake to suffering may even choose suicide. It can seem like a tempting way to obliterate the pain: the Big Sleep.

Jesus' example is more about the Big Awake. He doesn't seek to obliterate his dark night but to see it through until morning. He goes through it all--anxiety, sadness, the grief of loss. And the way through proves to be the only way out. We see that in Gethsemane: by staying awake to his suffering, he is also present to prayer and grace.

How do we stay awake? We can start by acknowledging our feelings about loss, illness, and aging. There's often a fantasy that these feelings will overwhelm us if we let them come to the surface. We might drown in fear, sadness, or anger. The truth is more the opposite: through allowing what we feel, we begin to heal.

Sacrificial love

To unfold further the gospel message, we must explore the root and purpose of Jesus' suffering. It is based in his sacrificial love. In his famous words, ever repeated in the eucharistic ritual, he offers his body and blood for the redemption of others. He goes to a gruesome death out of love for those around him--not just the good citizens but prostitutes and thieves; not just his supporters but his enemies as well.

This Passion was a gift not only to others but also to God. Struggling against his own misgivings, Jesus says, "Yet not as I will, but as thou wilt." He sacrifices his own life to carry out a divine mission.

What does sacrificial love have to do with our aging? Much age-related pain is involuntary and seems to do no one any good. How can we emulate Jesus while dealing with hemorrhoids?

Well, maybe there's a way. On any spiritual path we must work with the stuff of daily life. Our challenge may not lie in world-changing accomplishments but in hallowing the ordinary. Let's imagine an older woman dealing with hemorrhoids, arthritis, and a weak heart, all restricting the compass of her world. Her husband died several years ago. She doesn't get out as much as she used to. One of her greatest joys is visits from her daughter who lives some 80 miles away. She'd gladly have her daughter over every weekend if she could. She's also aware that this daughter is newly married, absorbed in a demanding career, and an avid tennis player (when she gets the chance).

It's an act of sacrificial love for the mother to restrict her own demands. She knows well the guilt buttons she could push--"I have a bad heart, you know; I won't be around forever"--but she keeps her finger from pressing them. She'd love constant visits, but she limits her requests.

When her daughter does come to see her, the mother could unburden herself for hours. It can't be very pleasant, the mother knows, to be in the audience for such a concert, so she refuses to weigh her daughter down with the details of every symptom. Instead, she tries to make each visit enjoyable and to make conversation a genuine two-way street.

This behavior is sacrificial love. More visits and more self-centered complaints might feel good for the mother, but in consideration for her daughter, she gives them up.

In the best scenario, the daughter reciprocates. Sure, she'd like to spend her Sundays playing tennis, but she also knows how much her visits mean to Mom. Despite her mother's protestations ("Go enjoy your own life!"), the daughter sets aside the needed time, perhaps coming every third weekend. She tries to make each visit a special occasion for fun outings, shared memories, laughter, and tears.

What's the upshot of all this sacrificial love? In one sense, nothing. Timewise, the mother's and daughter's giving spirit might cancel each other out. They'll end up seeing each other just as much as if the mother had been more demanding, the daughter more resistant.

In another way, everything is changed. Each person is there on a mission of sacrificial love with concern for the other uppermost in mind. As a result, the sharing is deeper, the joy and warmth that much greater.

This type of sacrificial love should not be confused with false martyrdom. Many of us (especially women who received the appropriate gender training) may go overboard in selling out the self. The mother who will not ask for any visits or the daughter who gives up tennis entirely may be going too far toward an unhealthy martyrdom. The difference is not just quantity but also motivation. We may martyr ourselves due to false guilt, or people-pleasing, or low self-esteem. Perhaps we feel worthless unless we are constantly in service. In such cases our motive is not genuine concern for the other; through "self-sacrifice" we're trying to fulfill our own psychic needs. It usually doesn't work, and then we become burned out and resentful.

Real sacrificial love is a world apart. We're not seeking credit for ourselves, but to be genuinely helpful. Sometimes, as in the case of Jesus, we must give something up out of love for another. Only then is our self-denial a healthy thing. Only then does "sacrifice" take on its root meaning: to "make sacred." It is love that sanctifies suffering.

Dedicated suffering

The notion of sacrificial love seems to work in the case of sacrifices freely chosen, like those of the mother and daughter just described. But can involuntary and seemingly useless sufferings also be transformed into sacrificial gifts? The surprising answer is yes. No matter what the cause, we can transform our pain into an offering to God and a needy world: we can dedicate our suffering.

Imagine an active man in his mid-40s who, while hiking through the mountain ridges of Kentucky, takes a serious fall that shatters his leg. His recuperation is slow and painful.

Before he can dedicate his suffering, first he must accept it. We might imagine him in prayer: "Lord, I sure didn't ask for this accident. I hate being laid up, and I've been fighting it all like crazy. But that's just making things harder. I'm becoming a crotchety pain in the neck, even to myself. So enough is enough. This is the cup I have to drink from, so let me do it right. I'll work with my strengths if you'll help me through my weaknesses. I'll do my best and dedicate it to you."

Jesus had to carry his cross to Golgotha. Deciding to accept and carry our own cross can bring us into a deeper relationship with the Spirit. Paradoxically, when we do so, we feel our burden lightened. It no longer seems alien or purposeless. Nor, we find, do we need to carry the weight alone. We may sense a presence beside us at each step.

The gospels also teach us to not be overly hasty in accepting our suffering and proclaiming it God's will. As Jesus' life demonstrated, we should be open to even miraculous healings of both a physical and emotional sort. Nor need we imagine that God wills our suffering as some sort of grim test or punishment.

Finally, some suffering may be the result not of the divine plan per se but of human failing. We may feel trapped in an unhealthy relationship, or we may be damaging our own body and soul with deleterious habits. To acquiesce prematurely to such pain would hardly be "God's will." We do best to remedy the source of suffering.

Nevertheless, there does seem to be an unavoidable residue of anguish in our lives. We may not fall from a ridge, but surely we will meet with accidents and illnesses. We all suffer disappointments and losses. We will probably grow frailer as we age, and finally we will die. We might call such diminishments God's will. In accepting our share graciously, we can open ourselves to grace. We can dedicate our own suffering to God and feel empowered and sustained.

Jesus' Passion was dedicated not only to God but also to the welfare of other people. How do we transform our pain into such a gift? First, we can use the energy of our own passion to open up compassion ("suffering-with").

Last week I listened to a friend whose beloved sister had decided to move a thousand miles away. Just the week before, one of my own best friends had skipped town for a new job in California. My sense of loss was excruciating. Because of it, though, I could feel more deeply for my friend's loss. Usually I'm a "fixer," but not on this occasion: "I'm not going to say, `Look on the bright side' or `Give it all to God,'" I told her. "The truth is, it sucks!" We laughed, and she replied, "Thank God you said that." At that moment, she just needed permission to feel her pain, and my own pain had taught me that knowledge.

The freight of pain and loss that the years bring can open us to compassion--for the poor, the sick, the fearful, the lonely, throughout the world. In our youth we may have been callous, having suffered little. In age, let's hope that loss puts more than lines on our face, that it deepens the capacity of our heart to feel.

Yet so much depends on what we do with our sorrows.

In my earlier example, the widow with hemorrhoids, arthritis, and a heart condition might let life turn her into a bitter old woman. She could become so absorbed in private pain that she would have little concern left for others. Or she can seek the reverse. Refusing to wallow in self-pity, she can channel her pain into compassion. Perhaps the ache of arthritis becomes her reminder to visit a neighbor worse off than she--frailer and older, with no family around. In such ways, compassion leads us back to sacrificial love.

Another issue arises here: Is there a way our suffering itself can be used directly to help others? In the gospel story, Jesus dedicates his own Passion to the relief and redemption of the world. In a small way, we might seek something similar. Here we are advancing into the farthest reaches of "dedicated suffering."

A gerontologist friend, Jane Thibault, relates a story told her by Carl Middletown, an ethicist and pastoral counselor working for the Sisters of Charity. He was summoned to the nursing-home room of a woman suffering from cancer. She had made everyone else suffer as well: she could be ill-tempered, downright nasty in fact, especially when she thought she hadn't received her pain medication on time. The staff had taken to avoiding her, which had done nothing to improve her disposition.

Finally, Middletown was summoned. He arrived somewhat at a loss for how to help, but then he hit on a novel idea. He knew of an unfortunate couple down the hall: the wife suffered from multiple sclerosis, the husband from Hodgkin's disease. Perhaps the woman he was visiting might help them with their plight. How? Middletown suggested she take the pain she experienced while waiting for her medication and offer it as prayer for the couple down the hall. She could dedicate her own suffering to their welfare.

At first, the woman responded skeptically. The idea sounded awfully Catholic, and she wasn't even of that religion. Reluctantly, she agreed to give it a try.

When Middletown checked back in at the end of the day, he was surprised at what he found. The woman had cheered up a good deal--she was livelier and had needed less medication that day. It seemed that as she dedicated her pain to the others, the pain itself had diminished. So had her self-centeredness. When Middletown entered the room, the first thing she asked was: "How is that couple down the hall doing?"

Was the woman's pain really transformed into effective prayer? Did the other couple benefit from this spiritual intercession? Hard to say. Such are matters of personal belief. But it's clear that the woman herself benefited. In the words of Nietzsche, "If we possess our why of life we can put up with almost any how." The woman had found a why for her suffering--it was no longer meaningless but could serve in the healing of others. With that why, the how became so much more bearable.

This notion of dedicating our suffering to others can prove to be an unlimited grace as we age. Above all else we may dread a loss of usefulness. This practice provides an answer. With it, we can turn a sickbed into a monastic cell from which love-energy for the whole universe can emanate. Our disability need not stop us from giving. In fact, it can provide us with the compassion, the time, the mental focus, the sacrificial gift, to aid a suffering world.

And why wait until we're physically disabled? Life has already provided us with ample material. Like an alchemist, we can transform the leaden burden of pain into the precious gold of love.

To receive is to give

The sufferings of life can help us not only to give ourselves more deeply, but also to become better receivers. Another spiritual challenge: it's often harder to receive than to give. After all, the giver seems to be the one in the position of strength and virtue. It feels good to give, and we enjoy being praised for it. When receiving, on the other hand, we may feel demeaned by our "lesser" status, by being dependent, the one in need. We may also sense a pressure to reciprocate. We worry that receiving a gift places us under an obligation.

The truth is that aging may force us to become more financially, socially, and physically dependent on those around us, be they family members, friends, or government agencies. Many of us shudder at this prospect. Here, the story of Jesus again provides some help. At the Last Supper, Jesus is portrayed as washing his disciples' fees. Saint Peter, one of those who fell asleep in Gethsemane, is shown here as reluctant to receive: "I will never let you wash my feet," he says. But his teacher is adamant: "If I do not wash you," Jesus replied, "you are not in fellowship with me" (John 13: 8-9). Peter gives in to the call.

Receiving, no less than giving, is an expression of love. First, it is an act of love to the self. When we willingly receive, we proclaim ourselves worthy of being cared for. We accept the right to draw on the care and resources of the world.

Receiving can also be an act of love to others. How so? Did you ever try to give someone a present and have that person refuse? Maybe their intentions are good--they don't want to be a bother, and they feel we should keep our money, time, or efforts for ourselves. Nonetheless, we come away disappointed. We wanted to make a generous gesture, but it can't be fulfilled without a receiver. We reached out only to have our help rebuffed. On the other hand, the gracious receiver offers something valuable back. He or she says yes to the other's caring and allows for intimate exchange.

God's with-us-ness

Studies have shown that feeling part of a social network is a crucial factor in whether we age well, but not everyone is so fortunate as to be surrounded by loved ones. We may be in need of help but have few present to aid us.

Here, again, the example of Jesus has something to teach us. He was in much the same position when he was hung on the cross. His disciples had fled, and passersby hurled abuse. He had to face extreme physical and emotional pain without the comfort of friends.

However, he was not ultimately alone. In Matthew's account, his last words are directed to God. Admittedly, they are a cry of anguish: "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" Yet his words also express something opposite. Jesus, after all, does not call out to an empty universe. He speaks to God, and not just any God--"my God." Even in the midst of absence--paradoxically through absence--Jesus remains aware of the Father's presence.

As we age, we, too, may face certain crosses. We, too, may be left without human aid. Perhaps our body aches, and there's no one to comfort us. Or we awaken in the dark to a fear of poverty, illness, or even death, and we lie alone through the interminable night. Like Jesus, we can let this loneliness guide us to cry out to the Spirit. We need a source of solace and meaning beyond the self, beyond even the human realm. When we discover this need, we realize that no person could have filled it to begin with. We've got to find God--my God. Sometimes the seeds of consolation germinate best in the dark soil of desolation.

In fact, this grace comes to be interpreted by Jesus' followers as the whole message of his life and death. The theology of Jesus as God incarnate is a way of proclaiming God's "with-us-ness." God is not some distant being up in the sky. God is right here with us, among us, inside us. God does not regard human suffering from a lofty distance, like the Greek deities of Mount Olympus. When we suffer, God suffers with us. God knows what it's like from the inside. Jesus' Passion speaks forth God's compassion.

We're conceiving of a friend who knows just how we feel, somehow from within . . . who has limitless compassion for our struggles . . . who will gladly provide us with the saving strength we need. This presence doesn't mean that all our pain will be removed. There's no promise of that in the gospel story. After all, without pain there's less growth. But we are promised the power, solace, and the meaning to better accept our cross.

Thus, as we age, the challenge is not just to receive from other people but also from the divine. And to do so, yet another step is needed: we must be willing to receive from ourselves. If we are self-hating, we will have trouble feeling God's love.

This lesson is captured for me by a prayer message I now frequently receive. I reach out to God in a period of exhaustion or pain, and a snatch of an old song floats into my head. Through its lyrics, I'm admonished to button up my coat, take good care of myself, because I belong to God. As the chill winds of age blow, we will need to take good care of ourselves, and remember that to do so is carrying out God's loving will.

Strangely enough, it may not always be our own will. A sense may linger that we deserve suffering, and subconsciously we may will its continuance. What better time to say to God, "Not as I will, but as thou wilt"? Sometimes taking a hot bath, a rest, a nice meal, can be an act of spiritual obedience.

Why do we so often feel that our suffering is deserved? This psychological/theological move is common. Many of us believe in a covenantal relationship between the Spirit and humans. In a crude form, it looks like this: if we do God's will, nothing bad will happen to us. We set out to be good boys and girls, expecting to win our reward. But it might not come. Bad stuff happens anyway. Perhaps our health takes a turn for the worse, or one of our children unexpectedly dies. We struggle to make sense of this reversal, and our universe threatens to collapse. One way to preserve meaning is to think we've done something wrong. Alternatively, we may blame God for our suffering. Believing we haven't done anything wrong, or that our "punishment" is disproportionate, we grow angry at an arbitrary deity.

In such ways, suffering often seems to signal a break in the divine-human covenant. Someone's at fault, whether it's our unworthy selves or God, that cosmic creep. Either way, this notion can make it harder to reach out to the Spirit just at the fumes we most need to.

In fact, suffering deepens the covenant, taking it to a new level of meaning. Jesus is called to greater gifts of sacrifice and acceptance, and he comes to a deeper relationship with God, who stands by with resurrecting power.

It is well to remember this truth if we suffer with the passage of years. We may have done things that undermined our health, relationships, or financial status, but that doesn't mean our pain is God's punishment. We may be in a positron of frailty and dependence, but that doesn't mean we're abandoned or worth less in God's eyes. On the contrary, our anguish, like Jesus', may be a further stage of our journey home. As a child runs to the mother when in pain, so we best run to the Spirit when we need to. As suffering can be a fire that burns away the inessential, so may we be purified by our trials. We need not view illness, aging, even death, as our life's failed end. In the gospel tale, crucifixion is followed by a rebirth into the loving arms of God.

By Drew Leder, an associate professor of philosophy at Loyola College in Baltimore. Reprinted from his book Spiritual Passages, with permission of Tarcher Books, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright [C] 1997 by Drew Leder, M.D., Ph.D.