The Alchemy of the Dark Evergreen: Why Our Sorrows are the Key to a Threateningly Vital Life

In our relentless "flat-line culture," we have become experts in the exhausting architecture of resilience. We are taught to keep it together, to maintain a stoic exterior while internal storms are shoved into the background. We treat sorrow as a symptom to be cured or a private failure to be hidden in the "brightly lit areas" of our public lives. But this suppression of the heavy, dark waters of the soul creates a profound congestion. By barring the way to our deepest sorrows, we inadvertently block the very paths through which vitality, enthusiasm, and joy must flow.

Grief is not a malfunction; it is a form of "soul activism." It is a radical refusal to live shallowly. When we reclaim the custom of mourning, we are not merely "moving on" from loss—we are connecting ourselves to the "ecology of the sacred." We are acknowledging the fundamental truth that everything is a gift, and nothing lasts.

Here are five perspectives on why the descent into grief is the only way to return to a life that is truly, and perhaps even dangerously, alive.

1. Grief as the Great Solvent

We often experience the world as a place of "solid rock in flintlike layers," where everything feels close to the face and immovable. In this state, the heart becomes stony, encased in a "gray sky culture" that avoids the depths. Francis Weller, drawing on the alchemy of grief, describes sorrow as a "solvent"—a powerful agent capable of softening the hardest places in the human spirit.

This is the "wetting" of the heart. To allow grief is to invite a "moistness" that turns our eyes wet and our faces into streams. Without this tempering, we lack the depth that comes from transiting the dark waters. We remain small and claustrophobic. By refusing to grieve, we do not protect ourselves from pain; we simply limit our capacity for any textured experience at all. There is a direct spiritual correspondence between the depth of our descent and the height of our reach.

"The deeper the sorrow, the greater the joy." — William Blake

When we deny grief entry, we compress our emotional breadth. We lose our ability to feel deep love or enthusiasm because we have refused to accept the rites of grief, which are, at their core, the soul’s way of praising how deeply we have been touched by another.

2. The Fallacy of "Private Pain" and the Crouched Place

The modern Western notion that grief is a "private pain" is a legacy of an individualism that severs our kinship with the community and the earth. When we are forced to grieve in isolation, we enter a state of exile. We hide the parts of ourselves we feel are "outside the circle of worth"—the hieroglyphs of pain and unintended wounds—believing they are too shameful to be seen.

The poet Denise Levertov speaks of unexpressed sorrow as a "crouched place" that bars the way to and from the soul’s hall. Without a witness, we become our own containers, recycling our grief instead of composting it into fertile soil.

However, the sacred architecture of grief has always been communal. In the biblical model of Lazarus, "many Jews" came to console Martha and Mary, showing a village-wide engagement with loss. Grief requires a witness to be fully released. Communal rituals restore the individual to the "village," providing the validation that our losses matter and that we are, fundamentally, worth crying over.

3. The "Threat" of Life in the Face of Death

We often read the story of the raising of Lazarus as a simple miracle, but the BibleWorm perspective reveals a sharper edge: the "threat of life." When Jesus raises Lazarus, the act is so disruptive to the status quo that the elites immediately plot his death "for the sake of the nation."

A life that has "come and seen" the reality of death and returned is a threat to the "Empire" because it is a life that is no longer afraid. This resurrected life is ungovernable. Systems of control rely on the fear of death; a person who has stood at the tomb and returned is immune to that leverage.

In this story, Mary offers Jesus a profound invitation. She uses his own mission-statement language back to him, saying, "Come and see." She forces the Divine to encounter the raw "stench" of mortality. Jesus’s response—his weeping—validates the holiness of human sorrow. It suggests that the radical, resurrected life is not one that bypasses pain, but one that walks in the light specifically because it has looked death in the face and refused to be small.

4. Building Shrines: Trusting the "Brilliant Mourner"

To navigate the "downward movement" of grief without being crushed by the weight of the world, we require sacred containers. Karla McLaren suggests the creation of "grief shrines" as a way to "disembody without dissociating." A shrine allows us to create a healthy distance from intense emotional activation so we can catch our breath without repressing the feeling.

Your body is a "brilliant mourner." If you trust it, it will convey you into the river of tears and bring you back out safe again. A shrine acts as the physical anchor for this process, using elements like:

• Reminders: Photos and personal items that symbolize the loss.
• Disposable Elements: Objects intended to be buried or burned, signifying the end of the ritual.
• Delineated Space: A secluded area where the mourning is contained.

Crucially, McLaren reminds us that while the ritual must have a clear beginning and ending, the grief itself does not end. The shrine simply allows us to signify the end of a specific moment of mourning so that our hearts can become conduits for the "waters of life" rather than stagnant pools of unexpressed pain.

5. Service as the Post-Grief Pattern: Radical Humility

There is a direct bridge between the "power over death" shown with Lazarus and the "power put aside" in John 13, where Jesus washes the disciples’ feet. In the Greco-Roman world, this was a historical anomaly. There is no other record of a person of higher status performing such a menial task for those of lower status.

This act of "radical humility" provides the pattern for community life after facing loss. If the raising of Lazarus is the miracle of "unbinding," the washing of feet is the practice of "cleansing." Both are acts of community care that happen after the initial encounter with death.

Facing death prepares the soul for service. It suggests that the goal of the spiritual journey is not mere "virtue," but living with a "willing spirit" that seeks to unbind others. This is why living with humility and love is more vital than mere courage—it is the evidence of a life that has been tempered by the dark waters and returned with its edges pliable and open to the world.

Conclusion: The Dark Evergreen

Grief is not a season that we pass through and leave behind. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke suggests, it is our "winter-enduring foliage," our "dark evergreen." It is the very foundation and soil of a soul that is truly awake.

How we squander our hours of pain. 

How we gaze beyond them into the bitter duration to see if they have an end. 

Though they are really our winter-enduring foliage, 

our dark evergreen, our season in our inner year—

not only a season in time—

but are place and settlement, foundation and soil and home. 

— Rainer Maria Rilke, The Tenth Elegy

By engaging in "soul activism"—mourning for the habitats, the species, and the neighbors we have lost—we become the receptors for global healing. We move from the isolation of private pain into a deep kinship with all of life.

As you reflect on the "crouched places" within your own soul, ask yourself: How might your hidden sorrows be the solvent that finally softens your heart? Perhaps the very grief you have been avoiding is the key to the new, "threateningly" vital life that is waiting to begin.

The Light that Blinds: Why the Experts Missed the Miracle in John 9

 In the Gospel of John, sight is never just about optics; it is about orientation. The narrative of the man born blind presents what scholars call the "Johannine Paradox"—the startling reality that physical vision can function as a veil, while physical darkness can become a doorway to the Truth.

As Jesus encounters the man in Jerusalem, he is not merely performing a medical miracle. He is navigating a minefield of traditional theology, social exclusion, and religious expertise. In this story, the categories of "blind" and "sighted" are completely inverted, challenging us to consider whether our own certainty is the very thing preventing us from seeing the work of God.

Deconstructing the Scorecard of Suffering

The narrative opens with a question that betrays a rigid, merit-based theology. Seeing the man, the disciples ask, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” This reflects a common ancient assumption—one that persists today—that suffering is a direct dividend of iniquity. It treats the human condition as a scorecard of divine retribution.

Jesus fundamentally deconstructs this logic. He shifts the framework from "cause" to "purpose," moving from a theology of punishment to a theology of revelation. By asserting that the man’s condition is an opportunity for God’s works to be displayed, Jesus offers a liberating concept: suffering is not a mark of shame, but a canvas for grace.

"Jesus answered, 'Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.'" (John 9:3)

The Paradox of the "Sighted" Expert

One of the sharpest ironies in the text is the "blindness" of the religious authorities. The Pharisees are the established experts, yet their rigid expertise becomes a theological cage. Because Jesus "kneaded" mud—a technical violation of Sabbath work prohibitions—the experts are logically forced to conclude that Jesus is a "sinner" and therefore cannot be from God.

This blindness is compounded by ancient physiological beliefs. At the time, many believed the eyes were windows through which internal light radiated outward. In the Pharisees' view, the blind man was full of internal darkness. Yet, Jesus reveals the opposite: the experts are the ones whose "sin remains" because they claim "We see." Their willful certainty creates a spiritual cataract; they are so sure of how God must act that they cannot see how God is acting.

The Social Cost of Aposynagogos

To understand the tension of this narrative, we must recognize the specific Greek term aposynagogos. Appearing only in the Gospel of John, this word describes the terrifying reality of being "put out of the synagogue." For the early Johannine community and the characters in the text, this wasn't just a religious snub; it was a total social death, a severance from familial and communal support systems.

We see the realism of this fear in the man’s parents. When interrogated, they point to their son, saying, "He is of age," desperately trying to avoid the authorities' wrath. This "historical anxiety" highlights the man’s courage. While his parents shrink in the face of political and social pressure, the man refuses to reduce his experience to what is acceptable to the establishment. He chooses the truth over the safety of the synagogue.

When the Beggar Becomes the Teacher

In a brilliant theological reversal, the marginalized beggar becomes the logic professor for the religious elite. When the authorities demand he "give glory to God" by denouncing Jesus—an ironic request, as the healing has already glorified God—the man responds with a devastatingly simple conclusion.

He argues from a shared premise: "We know that God does not listen to sinners, but he does listen to one who worships him." Since Jesus has performed an unprecedented miracle, the logic is inescapable: Jesus must be from God. Frustrated by a beggar they cannot refute, the authorities resort to loidoreo—a unique Greek term in the Gospels meaning to "revile" or deeply insult. They choose to expel the witness rather than engage the evidence, or to "see" themselves.

"He answered, 'I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.'" (John 9:25)

Sight as a Journey of Relationship

True sight, in the Johannine sense, is not a momentary physical event but a progressive journey of relationship. This is mirrored in the setting: Jesus sends the man to the pool of Siloam (meaning "Sent"). This pool provided the water for temple libations during Sukkoth, the Festival of Tabernacles. By sending the man there, Jesus suggests that He, not the temple rites, is the true source of "Living Water" and the "Light of the World."

The man’s understanding of Jesus matures in stages: from "the man called Jesus," to "a prophet," and finally to a confession of faith in the "Son of Man." Interestingly, some ancient textual variants read "Son of God" in verse 35, highlighting the early church's struggle to name the magnitude of this revelation. In the end, sight is defined as an "Invitation to Abundant Life"—the capacity to recognize and worship the Light that has entered the world.

Living in the Light

The story of John 9 concludes with a radical vision of the Kingdom. It is a kingdom that moves toward the outcast, offering a space where the marginalized can tell their own truth clearly. It upends the boundaries of inclusion, showing that those driven out by the religious establishment are often the very ones Jesus seeks out to find.

"Kingdom Vision" asks us to see our neighbors not through the labels of "sinner" or "beggar," but as members of one family. As we move through our own communities, we must confront the same question the Pharisees faced: What "willful blindness" is preventing us from seeing the work of God today? Are we so convinced of our own "sight" that we are missing the miracles happening right in front of us?

More Than a Miracle: Why Ancient Healing Was Actually a Radical Act of Justice

Then he came again to Cana in Galilee, where he had changed the water into wine. Now there was a royal official whose son lay ill in Capernaum. When he heard that Jesus had come from Judea to Galilee, he went and begged him to come down and heal his son, for he was at the point of death. Then Jesus said to him, “Unless you see signs and wonders you will not believe.” The official said to him, “Sir, come down before my little boy dies.” Jesus said to him, “Go; your son will live.” The man believed the word that Jesus spoke to him and started on his way. As he was going down, his slaves met him and told him that his child was alive. So he asked them the hour when he began to recover, and they said to him, “Yesterday at one in the afternoon the fever left him.” The father realized that this was the hour when Jesus had said to him, “Your son will live.” So he himself believed, along with his whole household. Now this was the second sign that Jesus did after coming from Judea to Galilee.

After this there was a festival of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem.

Now in Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate there is a pool, called in Hebrew Beth-zatha, which has five porticoes. In these lay many ill, blind, lame, and paralyzed people. One man was there who had been ill for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had been there a long time, he said to him, “Do you want to be made well?” The ill man answered him, “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, and while I am making my way someone else steps down ahead of me.” Jesus said to him, “Stand up, take your mat and walk.” At once the man was made well, and he took up his mat and began to walk.

Now that day was a Sabbath. So the Jews said to the man who had been cured, “It is the Sabbath; it is not lawful for you to carry your mat.” But he answered them, “The man who made me well said to me, ‘Take up your mat and walk.’ ” They asked him, “Who is the man who said to you, ‘Take it up and walk’?” Now the man who had been healed did not know who it was, for Jesus had disappeared in the crowd that was there. Later Jesus found him in the temple and said to him, “See, you have been made well! Do not sin any more, so that nothing worse happens to you.” The man went away and told the Jews that it was Jesus who had made him well. Therefore the Jews started persecuting Jesus, because he was doing such things on the Sabbath. But Jesus answered them, “My Father is still working, and I also am working.” For this reason the Jews were seeking all the more to kill him, because he was not only breaking the Sabbath but was also calling God his own Father, thereby making himself equal to God. 

--John 4:46-54, 5:1-18 (NRSVUE

The Hook: Why We Misunderstand "Healing"

When we encounter ancient stories of miraculous healings, we often treat them as religious magic tricks—supernatural glitches in the matrix of biology. We marvel at the "wonder" but often miss the "why." By focusing solely on the physical restoration, we overlook the profound social disruption these acts caused. To understand the weight of these moments, we have to look past the medicine and see the man. 

For a laborer in first-century Galilee, a healed hand wasn't just a medical success; it was the difference between a family eating or starving. In this world, illness and disability were not merely health concerns—they were social and economic death sentences. To be labeled "unclean" or "afflicted" was to be barred from communal life, cast out from the marketplace, and severed from the temple. Jesus’ healings were not just about fixing broken bodies; they were radical social interventions that dismantled systemic barriers and restored human dignity to those whom society had already buried.

Point 1: Healing as an Economic Stimulus Package

In the ancient world, physical restoration translated directly into the restoration of a person's right to survive. Because disability led to being "unclean" and marginalized, it trapped individuals and their families in a brutal cycle of financial insecurity. They were effectively barred from contributing to the economy or providing for themselves.

When we view these miracles as acts of restorative justice, the economic impact becomes clear. By restoring a person’s health, Jesus provided them with the ability to work for their own financial security. But it went deeper than the immediate breadwinner; the source context reminds us that healing offered children the "opportunity to learn," restoring their intellectual and educational health. This is the ultimate "aha!" moment: a miracle wasn't just a private blessing; it was a tool for economic equity. By breaking the generational cycle of poverty, these healings transformed marginalized dependents into full, contributing members of the social fabric.

Point 2: The "Equality of Mercy" (Even for the Undeserving)

Divine justice, as Jesus practiced it, was a strike against the social hierarchies we use to gatekeep compassion. This is most provocative when we contrast two specific recipients: the Royal Official’s son and the man by the pool of Bethzatha (or Bethesda). The Royal Official was a high-ranking individual, possibly a Gentile, who traveled a great distance and pleaded with desperate sincerity. He was the "good" applicant—the one we feel deserves help.

In sharp contrast, the man at the pool of Bethzatha had spent thirty-eight years in a state of passive resignation. When asked if he wanted to be well, he offered only excuses rather than faith. He hadn’t "earned" his moment. Yet, Jesus healed both. This equality of mercy suggests that justice isn't just for the high-status or the "worthy" victims; it is for the one who has given up, too. Note that the Official’s healing sparked faith in his "entire household," showing that these acts weren't just individual fixes—they were catalysts for communal connection.

"The boundaries we believe exist between people are no barriers for God."

Point 3: People Over Protocol (The Sabbath Conflict)

In Jerusalem, these acts of restoration triggered a firestorm of opposition. The religious authorities weren't just upset about a technicality; they were protecting their control of the social order. For them, "justice" meant the strict, legalistic adherence to the Sabbath—a law intended to set the community apart but which had become a tool for rigid protocol.

Jesus, however, viewed human wellness as a divine mandate that never rests. When he healed on the Sabbath and told the man to carry his mat, he was making a claim that threatened the very foundation of their authority: "My Father is still working." He prioritized the restoration of human wellness over human interpretations of religious law. This wasn't a violation of the Law; it was the fulfillment of it, asserting that systemic rules should never be used to perpetuate human suffering.

Point 4: Ending the Culture of Shame and Blame

At the time, the common "just" explanation for suffering was the justice of retribution. People believed that illness was a punishment for sin—either the victim's or their parents'. This created a "just world" fallacy that allowed the powerful to ignore the poor by blaming them for their own misery.

Jesus effectively dismantled this toxic culture of shame. While the authorities used theology to marginalize the sick, Jesus rejected the link between sin and suffering. He performed healings without requiring a confession or a proof of sinlessness. By replacing retribution with unconditional grace, he removed the moral stigma attached to disability. He wasn't just healing a body; he was deconstructing a social system that used shame to keep the vulnerable in their place.

Point 5: Healing Beyond the "Established Systems"

The Pool of Bethzatha was the epitome of a failed system. For thirty-eight years, it functioned as a competitive, first-come, first-served healthcare model. For the most marginalized, the reality was bleak: "It will never be your turn to immerse." If you were too slow or had no one to help you, the system was designed to leave you behind.

Jesus' "miraculous healthcare" was radical because he ignored the pool. He didn't fix the man's place in the line; he bypassed the failing institution entirely. This is a piercing critique of any social system that remains rigid and exclusionary. Today, we still see people marginalized by physical or mental conditions, waiting for a "turn" that never comes in systems that value speed or status over human dignity. Jesus’ act suggests that when a system is broken, justice involves bypassing that system to restore the person directly.

Summary: A New Vision for Social Wellness

These ancient stories are more than historical artifacts; they are a bold call to effect change in our own social systems. They challenge us to see wellness not as an individual medical status, but as a communal responsibility. These healings aimed for a "total wellness"—social, emotional, and economic—reintegrating the isolated back into the heart of the community where they belong.

If we truly believe that healing is about restoring dignity and belonging rather than just fixing bodies, we must look at our own world with fresh eyes. We are called to bridge the gaps where people are still barred from communal life. After all, if the systems are still failing the most vulnerable, we have to ask ourselves: who in our own communities is still waiting for their turn at the pool?