A Faithful Friend Is a Sturdy Shelter: Suffering, Isolation, and Friendship

The Isolation of Suffering

Those enrolled in the School of Suffering often feel as though the school has but one student: having no classmates forced to share in their experience, they are utterly alone. The professor, Suffering, is both irresistibly present, but paradoxically manages to be simultaneously distant and abstruse. The one who suffers often fears, in proportion to the suffering present, that real friendship would not, because of their suffering, be a possibility for them. While their suffering is irresistibly present to them, and they are forced to bear it, they cannot imagine why anybody would freely choose to enter into that experience which they have tried so hard to avoid. This conviction, in turn, makes the prospect of the suffering future even bleaker, with no one to comfort the suffer.

Simone Weil, who suffered profoundly from a headache disorder which persisted for ten years without a moment of relief from the bitter pain that occurred at “the meeting place of body and soul,” understood this fear well. Her pain rabidly consumed her entire lived experience, an experience which eventually became dominated with hatred and revulsion towards herself. She could not conceive why anyone would want to enter into this experience, which she hated so fiercely, with her: “I absolutely cannot imagine the possibility that any human being could feel friendship for me.”[1] She discloses this reality in a letter to her friend, ultimately concluding, “If I believe in [your friendship with me], it is only because I have confidence in you and you have assured me of it, so that my reason tells me to believe it. But this does not make it seem any the less impossible to my imagination.”

So many suffering souls spend much of their time trying to escape their cross. It is thus often impossibly difficult to believe that one would want to have some share in that suffering which they are trying so hard to avoid. That one could successfully run from participating in this cross and would prefer not to run seems unthinkable. And yet, suffering souls are challenged, in spite of all evidence to the contrary that relief is possible, to allow the balm of friendship into their hearts and minds; to discover (or rediscover) the profound truth offered in the Book of Sirach: “A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter; he who finds one, finds a treasure” (6:14). Without doubt, friendship transforms the meaning and experience of suffering, and makes the suffering easier to bear.

Compassion, Consolation, and Friendship

Suffering comes from our finitude and from human sin, at both the societal and the individual level. Persons have a duty to reduce suffering insofar as possible. But, try as we may, suffering will always be with us in this life. As Pope Benedict XVI writes in his encyclical Spe Salvi,

Great progress has been made in the battle against physical pain; yet the sufferings of the innocent and mental suffering have, if anything, increased in recent decades. Indeed, we must do all we can to overcome suffering, but to banish it from the world altogether is not in our power. This is simply because we are unable to shake off our finitude and because none of us is capable of eliminating the power of evil, of sin which, as we plainly see, is a constant source of suffering (§36).

True enough, suffering cannot be avoided, whether one is a Christian or not. But Christianity does change the meaning of suffering by opening up the possibility to “make up what is lacking in the sufferings of Christ” and to be holy in our weakness (Colossians 1:24). The meaning of Christian suffering has been written about extensively elsewhere. But Christianity has a new “double meaning” of suffering that is often overlooked; the possibility of redemptive suffering, grounded in the act at Calvary, does not just bring a new meaning for the one who suffers, it also changes the way that others interact with the one who suffers. In Salvifici Doloris, John Paul II brings into focus this “double aspect of suffering” that the Gospel proclaims: “Christ has taught man to do good by his suffering and to do good to those who suffer” (§30).

The parable of the Good Samaritan, an integral part of the gospel of suffering, dictates that we may not, like the priest or the Levite, pass by on the other side, indifferent to the one who suffers. Rather, we must be like the Samaritan “who came to where the man was” and tended to his wounds. In this way, John Paul writes, “Everyone who stops beside the suffering of another person, whatever form it may take, is a good Samaritan” (SD §28). And in becoming the good Samaritan, we enact the second of the twofold meaning of Christian suffering: we comfort those in distress.

But how do we “come to where the man was”? How do we “pour oil on the wounds”? John Paul II tells us that it begins with availability: we must open a “certain interior disposition of the heart,” a certain kind of sensitivity wherein we can be moved by the suffering of others and engage the other compassionately (SD §28). Sometimes, we may need to care in a direct way for the needs of others—tend to physical needs, for example. But, more often than not, the primary, if not the only, means of care is to come to where the man is, and offer an expression of love for and solidarity with the one who suffers. We must make a gift of our hearts, our attention, our time, our energies to the one who suffers. And in doing so, we actually serve Christ, who identified himself with the poor and the suffering, such that whatever we did for the least of these, we did for Christ (Matthew 25).

In this way, John Paul tells us that suffering is present in order to “unleash love in the human person, that unselfish gift of one’s ‘I’ on behalf of other people, especially those who suffer” (SD §29). John Paul describes the world of human suffering as unceasingly calling for another world: the world of human love. And the world of human suffering is transformed by the world of love. We pour out the world of love into the world of human suffering, and help the one who suffers to realize their own power for love and self-realization, even in the midst of their trials. This unleashing of love requires a condescension into the world of suffering so that the one who is suffering ceases to feel isolated—that wretched feeling that Weil experiences so keenly. On this note, Pope Benedict reminds us of the Latin con-solatio: “This word suggests being with the other in his solitude, so that it ceases to be solitude” (SS §38).

In doing this, one joins himself to the one who suffers, such that one partakes in the very sufferings of the sufferer, and brings the world of love into that suffering. One is thus forced to ask “is the other important enough to warrant my becoming, on his account, a person who suffers?” (SS §39). The original sufferer is joined by somebody who suffers with them, reducing their feelings of isolation, and lessening the burden of suffering experienced. In having compassion, they take onto themselves a new suffering, a variety of which the course of nature may never have set forth for them. They enter into the chaos of another, even if they have their own challenges to face. The com-passio—the suffering with—is what opens the path for con-solatio. The compassion and consolation are accomplished in and through the act of empathy; it involves a certain kind of “paying attention” to the other and their experiences.

There is often an undeniable difficulty of entering into the experience of the other. Empathy is not just felt, it requires a volitional dimension. One must vacate their own experience, set aside their ego, and undergo a voluntary attunement to the experience of the other.[2] The challenging volitional dimension is especially salient when the primordial sufferer is having difficulty of even making sense of their own experience. Sometimes human suffering is so confusing, that within the inner self is a chaos so great that the sufferer is “struggling on the ground like a half-crushed worm, they have no words to express what is happening to them.”[3] This makes the possibility of voluntarily attuning oneself to the experience of the other even more difficult, for this person cannot even express their own experience. But the true friend accepts this and meets them in the midst of it, and offers their presence, which is perhaps the most important step towards empathy. Merely being present of course does not “solve” the problem, but in the simply being present with the other, the friend is able to offer consolation through compassion. Even amid human messiness and brokenness, the sufferer and the friend can dwell together.

Suffering with, the coming to the other, cannot then be a matter of figuring out, or solving the suffering; it is a sitting and hearing, an engaging and listening. What Benedict says is certainly true: the Christian is not called to passivity in the face of the suffering other. But the required activity ought not be equated with “solving” the problems of the suffering and downtrodden. Indeed, in focusing his attention on “solving” his friend’s problem, attempting to “cross out the cross,” he may well lose sight of the sufferer and the sufferer’s experience, and rather become distractedly fixated on what truly is (or becomes) a tertium quid—a third thing—rather than the sufferer himself.

Simon of Cyrene was not able to take away the cross from Christ, but he did help him to carry it, and met him in his time of suffering. Rather than immediate attempts to solve the problem, authentic activity in the face of suffering begins with setting aside the time to hear and be with the other, a way of actively communicating you are worth it. It is the true friend who is most properly positioned to offer this consolation. In the buzzword language of today, the friend offers a safe space. In coming to the friend where they are, beaten along the side of the road, the true friend provides a forum wherein the other feels the true interior freedom to open up about their own experience, which enables the friend to more easily enter into the act of empathy.

Accepting Compassion for Consolation

From the perspective of the one who suffers, much of this might seem quite strange, as it seemed to Weil. The Christian who tries to suffer alone might think he does a favor to others, and might, in a moment of pride, even think himself heroic, realizing that allowing a friend to enter into their suffering will involve them taking on some suffering themselves. In suffering alone, the sufferer thinks he spares his friends from further suffering. But in isolating oneself to suffer alone, one not only dishonors those friends who love him, but implicitly rejects the profound impact Christ coming to earth has on how others suffering near us can affect us. We do not give them the opportunity to “unleash love in the human person” in that special way which can only be accomplished through the rich experience of suffering.

In shutting out one’s friends from his suffering, driven by a toxic “I am doing them a favor mentality,” he also implicitly presumes an overly pragmatic approach from his friends. The true friend is not a psychiatrist; when helping his friend with his suffering he thinks not in terms of time wasted or opportunity cost. As Alice von Hildebrand writes, “How many friends, having given much of their time to listen to the human problems that a friend is facing, and giving him a sound advice, would send a bill: ‘I gave you two hours of my time.’” Rather, the friend delights in having been able to help his friend, and cherishes the opportunity to demonstrate love and compassion, the opportunity to offer consolation, and unleash the love inside the other.

The sufferer gives the friend an opportunity to hear the words of Christ, “You did it to me,” when they face him on the Last Day. One needs not face suffering alone, but rather must open oneself to other, and let the other share in his sufferings, to be met in the midst of his suffering. One needs to appreciate the beautiful generosity expressed by his friends, for what burdens him grieves his friend, and it a true friendship involves a disclosure and sharing of these burdens.

It can admittedly be quite hard for the sufferer to open up, to be vulnerable, literally, to be able to be wounded. There is a risk involved in opening up, showing who one really is, even to a friend. The friend may well decide that the magnitude of the sufferer’s issue is so great, and requires such a great investment, that it is not at all worth it. The friend may misunderstand the sufferer, or he may wound the sufferer more, possibly without knowing it. And the sufferer is often keenly aware of these risks, leaving him more disposed to close up—to take the safer road of only obliquely acknowledging “a rough morning” or “a tough situation.” But as much as the sufferer can overcome these perceived pitfalls, he will be rewarded: “Two are better than one. If one falls, the other will lift up his friend. But woe to the one who has no friends, for if he should fall, he has no one to lift him up” (Ecclesiastes 4:10).

If he allows his friend to come to his aid, the sufferer will come to know a greater peace and consolation than he could have ever had on his own. St. Aelred tells us beautifully in his Spiritual Friendship that

No remedy is more powerful, effective, and distinctive in everything that fills this life than to have someone to share your every loss with compassion and your every gain with congratulation. Hence, shoulder to shoulder . . . friends carry each other’s burdens, though they each bear their own bruises more lightheartedly than their friend’s (Book Two, sec. 12, p. 73).

Certainly, deeper love in the midst of suffering seems somewhat counterintuitive, but such is the mystery of love.

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