Reflections on Suffering | Elisabeth Doty ‘25
As an American, the last few days have been riddled with anxiety about the future. Amidst the commiserations and grieving of recent days, I’ve heard many tell me that I should be grateful and feel safe that I go to school in a state like Virginia, where I still have legal and medical protections as a queer and trans person.
And yet, instead of instilling confidence or relief, their words ring hollow. Such protections do not exist in places around the country, including my home state of Missouri, where politicians, using the mantle of a distorted Christianity, have demonized my community and many others in pursuit of political gain. Why do I still suffer when the burden of suffering is unequally and unfairly distributed?
When we are the direct objects of suffering, understanding it is difficult, but relatively straight forward. During my transition process, the question of why God made me trans mattered significantly less than the fact that my transition and coming out process was not easy and caused me pain. In the darkest times, when the world seemed too dark and scary and intolerant to handle the fullness of my authenticity, the biggest question to my suffering is why it felt like I did it alone.
When those we know and love suffer, understanding the suffering makes less sense. When a parent watches their child endure a painful mental or physical illness or when we watch a close friend endure the worst of unhealthy relationships, it is natural to wish that we suffer for them or in their place even when we can’t.
When those we don’t know suffer, comprehension of their suffering or the reason behind it is near impossible. We could buy into the just world theory: that people get the suffering they deserve. And if we reject that theory, getting to know how exactly one feels is near impossible at a distance.
The question remains, why do I still suffer when the burden of suffering is unequally and unfairly distributed? But, in response to this question, God has offered us answers. In the depths of my transition, I took heart in a poem my mother gave me as a child.
When we ask God, “Why, when I have needed you most, have you not been there for me?"
“The Lord replied, "The times when you have seen only one set of footprints, my child, is when I carried you."”
When we attempt to find inevitable insufficient explanations for the pain of the suffering of those we know and love, may we remember that God sent His beloved son Jesus to suffer with us and for us.
When the suffering of our world, our nation, and our communities feel too much to bear, may we remember that God does not demand us to understand the pain or numb it if we fail to.
When my communities– queer and trans people, women, Missourians, Americans– are suffering, I do not need to ‘take heart’ that I am insulated from the worst of it by nature of my various privileges. Because my liberation is wrapped up in the liberation of all people, rather than avoiding that pain, I ‘take heart’ in the community I share it with.
As we continue to examine vocation in the Horizons Fellowship, this week has reminded me of God’s call in response to suffering: that we may suffer well and suffer together. That, after all, is the meaning of empathy.