Shared Sorrow and the Path to Healing

When we consider the prophetic vision, we must understand that it does not dwell on individual suffering alone but instead recognizes the grief inherent in the whole of existence. Life is inherently sad, the prophets want us to know. Humanity is foundationally unfaithful to love and truth, they seem to shout. [1] This is not a statement of despair, but an invitation into a deeper awareness of reality—one that acknowledges the universal nature of suffering rather than fixating on personal grievances. The prophetic way of seeing invites us into a more expansive, compassionate response, one that holds the world’s pain with both clarity and love. It urges us to step out of our narrow view and see the vastness of the human condition. The suffering we experience is not unique to us, and only by embracing this truth can we begin to heal not just ourselves, but the world around us. (Isaiah 53:3, Jeremiah 15:18)

Tears, those simple yet powerful expressions, are an outward manifestation of our truest, most loving self, revealing a hidden depth within us that we often suppress. When we cry, we are revealing our truest, most loving self. [1] We often fear tears because they expose our vulnerability, yet in them lies a profound truth about who we are. Tears invite us into a larger reality, one where our individual sorrow connects with the greater suffering of the world. They teach us that vulnerability is not weakness; rather, it is a doorway to healing. When we cry, we allow our hearts to soften and open, not just to our own pain, but to the pain of others. This is where true healing begins—not through walls of defense, but through open-hearted presence. (Psalm 56:8, John 11:35)

But let us not forget that true healing does not come through intellectual reasoning alone. It must be experienced in the body. It is the body itself that holds our fear, our anger, and our debilitating memory. It is the body that must somehow be held and healed and spoken to. [1] The mind can explain pain, but it is the body that carries it. It is in the body that we hold the stories of our wounds—physical, emotional, and spiritual. And it is through embodied presence—through touch, movement, and the rituals of healing—that transformation occurs. Consider the great healers throughout history, many of whom reached out to touch the ones they healed. This was not merely symbolic; it was a recognition that restoration is not merely conceptual but deeply physical. Healing cannot be abstracted from our bodies—it is in them, and through them, that we encounter our truest selves. (1 Corinthians 6:19, James 5:16)

Yet, even as we heal individually, we must recognize that we do not suffer in isolation. We are part of a universal movement of both grief and grace. The body of Christ is one great and shared sadness and one continuous joy, and we are saved just by remaining connected to it. [1] Our pain is not simply our own; it is shared with those who have come before us and with those who will come after. This truth transcends our individual experience and invites us into the deeper mystery of our interconnectedness. When we grieve, we grieve not just for ourselves, but for all of humanity. And in the same way, when we find joy, it is not solely our own—it is part of the larger joy of the world. Our suffering and our healing are bound together in the collective body of humankind. (Romans 12:15, 1 Corinthians 12:26)

Our suffering, though, must be framed within a greater story, or else it becomes nothing more than pathology. If we do not mythologize our pain, all we can do is pathologize it. [1] Without the context of a larger narrative, our pain remains an isolated, unhealed wound. It is easy to become consumed by our own suffering when we fail to see it as part of the greater human condition. This is why the ancient traditions were not content to merely observe pain. They knew that storytelling, ritual, and mythic consciousness were not mere distractions or fanciful creations; they were essential to understanding and integrating suffering. Without a framework of meaning, pain is left to fester, but when it is woven into a larger story, it becomes part of our shared healing. (Romans 8:28, 2 Corinthians 1:4)

And as we consider the act of participating in another’s suffering, we come to realize that it is not an act of sentimentality but a form of sacred transformation. Somehow this empathy liberates us, even as it scours the soul. [1] To truly see and feel another’s pain—whether in the image of the crucified one or in the suffering of those around us—is to undergo a form of conversion. It is a form of transformation that opens us to the deeper currents of love and connection that bind us all. When we allow ourselves to truly witness the suffering of others, we are not simply observing from a distance—we are being transformed by it. This is the radical invitation of empathy: to allow the pain of another to transform us, to purify us, and to draw us deeper into the shared experience of humanity. (Galatians 6:2, Romans 12:15)

Tears, as we’ve already seen, are not simply an emotional response; they hold the power to shift our very consciousness. You don’t think yourself into crying. You cry yourself, if you will allow, into daring new ways of thinking and feeling. [1] We often think that transformation comes through intellectual insight, but tears work differently—they bypass the mind’s defenses and move directly into the heart. In allowing ourselves to cry, we open ourselves to new ways of perceiving, feeling, and relating to the world. Tears make us more fully alive, more fully human, more connected to the reality of our shared existence. They invite us to see beyond our usual ways of thinking and feeling, allowing us to experience life with a deeper, more compassionate perspective. (Matthew 5:4, Revelation 21:4)

Finally, we must remember that salvation is not an individual achievement but a shared reality. If we are not saved together, and in spite of our worst selves, I do not know how we are saved at all. [1] The modern world often presents salvation as a personal journey, a path that we must walk alone. But this is not the fullness of the truth. We are not saved in isolation; we are saved together, as a community of broken and redeemed souls. This is the radical message of love and grace: that no one is left out of the embrace of the divine, that all are included, and that our salvation is bound up with the salvation of others. In our shared suffering, and in our shared healing, we come to know the depth of love that transcends all barriers and unites us in the mystery of grace. (Ephesians 2:8-9, 1 Timothy 2:6)

In summary, the path of transformation is one that moves through suffering, healing, and a deeper recognition of our interconnectedness. It is a journey that requires us to open our hearts, to embrace our vulnerability, and to allow our tears to guide us into new ways of being. Only by understanding that we are part of a greater whole—by acknowledging our shared pain and joy—can we begin to heal, not just ourselves, but the world around us.

[1] Richard Rohr, The Tears of Things