In the Old Testament, the prophets and servants of God are often described as “watchmen”, a reference to those who stood on the walls of the city, looking out into the distance, tasked with telling the people what they see.
“Watchman, what do you see?”
Is someone coming?
Is there danger?
What’s happening out there?
When I was in seminary, that image was often used to describe the priesthood, especially parish priesthood. Not “up there” as a position of superiority, but as a kind of responsibility: to stand at a vantage point, to be attentive to God, to the world, to the human heart, and to try, however imperfectly, to offer clarity and perhaps a “Godly” perspective.
But I’ll be honest with you: sometimes standing on the watchtower is exhausting.
Over the past couple of months, I’ve felt that in a very real way, and I’ve been sharing this with you. You might remember that about a month ago I shared with you about my mom’s neighbor and the house explosion in Oswego. That was the house right next to where I grew up. I knew those people. My mom was home at the time. There’s still damage to our house. And every time I go back now, I drive past what is still a pile of rubble.
Then, just a couple of weeks later, a very close friend, Hannah, 33 years old, died of colon cancer, just days before her 34th birthday. I drove up to Minnesota for that.
And now, this week, the news about Jimmy…something that I know today is on all of our minds and hearts.
In these moments, when the question comes…Watchman, what do you see?… I have to tell you honestly: I don’t have an answer. Lately it seems as foggy up here and it does down there.
I don’t share these difficulties of my own life in a “woe is me” way, but I share them because I want you to know that I get it. Many of you have suffered deeply. Many of you are carrying things that nobody else can see or know.
In the midst of all this, there are certain questions that unite all of us, no matter where we live, no matter our age, no matter our culture. We are made in the image and likeness of God, and so we are wired with the same longings…longings that get translated into certain fundamental, elementary questions.
What is the meaning of my life?
Why is there suffering?
Why is there death?
Is life ultimately good?
Where am I from?
Where am I going?
Who is with me?
What is justice? What is happiness? What is love?
Those are not distractions from “real life.” They are real life. These questions are not mere curiosities. “What’s the meaning of life? Idk lol let’s look at the STOCK MARKET.” They are constitutive questions, built into us. You don’t outgrow them. You don’t solve them once and move on.
Christianity does something very strange: it does not propose answers to each of those questions individually. But it proposes Jesus who calls us to follow him, as he encounters the questions and chooses to remain before them.
Of course we don’t like that. We want answers—quick ones, clean ones, prefabricated ones. We reach for sentimentality: everything happens for a reason… they’re in a better place… We moralize: I shouldn’t feel this way… I should be stronger…
But all of that fades, doesn’t it? It doesn’t hold. These are not satisfying.
To silence the questions is, in a real sense, to silence your soul.
And yet, we’re not very good at living this way. When things don’t make sense, we get angry—at God, at ourselves, at other people. And usually that anger is just a cover for grief.
One of the most striking things I’ve seen these past few days is all the red ribbons around town. They’re beautiful. They come from that deep human place that says: I need to do something. And tying a ribbon on a tree, yes, it is something!
But what moves me most is not just what the ribbons do, but what they reveal: that suffering is never isolated. You look at one ribbon, and then another, and another, and you realize—this has touched everyone. The circumstances differ, but the questions that rise up are the same.
And it is precisely there that the Gospel meets us.
Think about Jesus at the tomb of Lazarus. He is the one person in history who has the right and the power to skip grief. But he doesn’t. He stands there, and cries.
Jesus weeps.
Then, when the full weight hits him, John tells us that he becomes “perturbed” and “deeply troubled.” But the Greek word used there is far stronger than that. It is the word embrimaomi.
It’s a word used to describe a horse as it snorts and scrapes his hoof on the ground before charging into battle. You’ve seen this in movies: an army in battle array, mist and fog everywhere, breath puffing from the horse’s nostrils, fury in its eyes, ready for the moment of action.
Jesus stands before death, before the grief of his friends, before the apparent finality of the grave, and he is not calm about it. He is not detached. He is not offering a tidy explanation.
He is furious.
He looks at death and says, in effect: I will not accept this.
“Lazarus, come out.”
That anger you feel when you encounter suffering—that deep, visceral reaction that something is not right—you are not alone in that. That is not a lack of faith. That is a participation, in some small way, in the very heart of Christ.
And what does Jesus do next?
He leaves Bethany, goes down the Mount of Olives, across the Kidron Valley, through the Lion’s Gate to dinner with his friends. Then he’s arrested, interrogated, condemned to execution, carries his cross to Golgotha and he dies. Enough is enough: enough, death!
He does not stand at a distance from suffering. He walks straight into it.
Through the Lion’s Gate.
Through betrayal.
Through trial.
Through the cross.
Through death itself.
And just when everyone thought death had the final say, he rises from the dead exactly as he told us he would.
What do I see from the watchtower?
Not answers. Not neat explanations.
But I see this: that we are allowed—more than allowed, invited—to stand before the questions. To weep. To be angry. To feel the weight of it all.
And to do so with Christ.
So let’s do that.
Let’s stand before the questions.
Let’s weep and cry and yell. Let the absolute tragedy of losing Jimmy seep deep into our bones and scream.
Let’s even, if we must, pound the ground a little—embrimaomi—and say with Christ “This is not the way it’s supposed to be.”
And then, together, we will walk with him.
Next week, we walk into Jerusalem.
We walk to the Last Supper.
We walk to the cross.
We walk into the silence of Holy Saturday.
And then: we walk out of the tomb.
Because that is what we believe.
That one day, all of these questions will meet their answer—not in an idea, but in a person. In Jesus Christ, who lived your life, died your death, and rose again for you.
And until that day, I want you to know this:
Not for one second—
not for one second—
have you ever been alone in what you are facing.
And as you face whatever grief, whatever confusion, whatever injustice lies before you, Christ stands with you—embrimaomi, stirred to the depths—looking at all that wounds you and and he says to you:
Enough.
Injustice, pain, death: I am coming for you.
