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In the midst of the hubbub of a typical Lord’s Day morning, it can be easy to miss, but it’s always there. While we struggle to get kids in and out of vehicles, try to shift our minds from frazzled to focused, move our hearts from anxious or angry to awe, we can so easily pass by the sorrow-filled saint suffering in our midst. Worse yet, when we notice a sorrowful brother or sister, we often draw back rather than drawing near. In doing so, we betray our true feelings about sadness in the church: that it is surprising, unwelcome, and disappointing. The church of the Bible, however, expects its saints to be sad, to draw near when they are, and to find it as the place of comfort and support that prevents the tears of sorrow from turning into tears of isolation.
The church expects its saints to suffer and to be sad at times. In a fallen world inhabited by fallen creatures, we cannot help but anticipate that this world will be full of hurts, fears, and sadnesses. In fact, Scripture teaches as much. The songbook of the soul, the Psalter, is filled with songs of sadness. The author of Psalm 88’s sadness is so overwhelming that he can see no light whatsoever. Yet the Lord receives such an outburst of sorrow and does not condemn, avoid, or even correct. As Randy Alcorn famously wrote, “For Christians, this present life is the closest they will come to Hell.” Why, then, would we be surprised when sadness shows itself on Sunday? Therefore, the church does not recoil from sad saints but moves toward them instead.
The church draws near to its sad saints with comfort. Christ Himself is drawn to, not repulsed by, the broken and beleaguered. When Christ saw the mourning of Mary and Martha at the loss of Lazarus, He did not rebuke them but was Himself deeply moved (John 11:28–35). This mirrors the heart of God that we see in the Psalms, where David tells us, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted” (Ps. 34:18). Paul, desiring to see the church reflect the care and compassion of Christ, reminds the church in Rome to “weep with those who weep” (Rom. 12:15). This is a call not to shrink back from those who are incredibly sad but to move toward them, displaying compassion and empathy.
This is no mere wish for the Apostle Paul. He instructs, “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Gal. 6:2). This is a callback to Christ’s affirmation that the summary of the moral law is to love the Lord our God with all our heart, soul, strength, and mind and our neighbors as ourselves (Luke 10:27). It appears that the church’s choosing to bear the burdens of its people fulfills the moral law uniquely and holistically. It stands as a lived example of Christ’s call that all who are weary and heavy laden should come to Him (Matt. 11:28). It is an act of relational hospitality for those who find themselves alone and alienated.
In the ancient Near East, the idea of hospitality was to provide protection and provision to a stranger so that the person could go from stranger to friend. It often included not only local provision but seeing visitors to their next, and in some cases final, destination. Drawing near to our sad saints allows them the safety to be honest in their sadness with the provision of personal presence and a willingness to stay alongside them until that final destination: peace that surpasses understanding (Phil. 4:7).
The church pursues its sad saints with support. Sometimes this looks like quiet presence—sitting in the ashes with a grieving friend when no words are possible. When Job’s friends first came to him, they sat in silence for seven days (Job 2:13). Silent presence may not feel like doing much, but it is often the very thing that the sorrowing need: someone willing to stay when the weight of grief makes others uncomfortable. Yet after their silence, Job’s friends erred by speaking rashly. The church often makes the same mistake, feeling compelled to give answers when the brokenhearted most need quiet presence. Paul’s exhortation in Romans is not to explain sorrow but to experience it with them (Rom. 12:15). Mutual tears can be as powerful a witness to God’s love as the most carefully crafted words.
Prayer, too, is an essential aspect of support. James exhorts us, “Pray for one another, that you may be healed” (James 5:16). To lift a broken brother or sister before the throne of grace is to bear that person’s sorrow when he or she cannot carry it alone. In moments like these, while eloquent prayers are great, groping prayers are often better. Groping prayers—those that search for words, stumble in expression, and sound choppy to the one praying—are often exactly what the sorrowing need to hear. Such prayers model what faithful intercession in the midst of perplexing darkness looks like.
Support also takes practical forms. It can involve preparing meals, helping with childcare, providing financial assistance, or simply checking in weekly. These small acts, offered in love, are not small at all to those who are weighed down with sorrow. They are tangible reminders that Christ has not abandoned them, for His body still surrounds them with care. Be careful, though: Offering such practical support, especially over an extended time, can become wearisome. But this is the strength of the church: It is made up of many members. Together we bear one another’s burdens so that no single member is crushed by the weight. Moreover, as Paul reminds the Galatians in that same chapter, “Let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up” (Gal. 6:9).
The church, then, is not surprised by sorrow but prepared for it. It expects sadness, draws near with comfort, and pursues its people with support. In doing so, it reflects the heart of its Savior, who is near to the brokenhearted and acquainted with grief Himself. Every casserole delivered, every fumbling prayer whispered, every tear shed together is a testimony that Christ has not abandoned His people. Until the day when He wipes away every tear from every eye, the church is to be the living presence of His comfort in a world filled with sorrow.