Sighs Too Deep for Words

There’s a particular kind of heaviness many of us are carrying these days.

It’s a grief that is both global and intimate. We feel it in our bones as we watch the unraveling of democratic norms, the cruelty of authoritarian policies, and the silence—or complicity—of leaders who were elected to serve the common good. We feel it in our hearts as we bear witness to the genocide in Gaza: to the children buried under rubble, to the voices of Palestinians begging the world to see them, to the way our own government continues to supply weapons and false hope, even as international bodies call for ceasefire and justice.

It’s hard to breathe under the weight of it all. And harder still to speak, to act, to pray.

But grief, as unwelcome as it is, can also be a teacher.

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross outlined five stages of grief—not as a proscribed sequence, but as a way to understand the emotional terrain of loss. Today, these stages help us map where we are as individuals and communities navigating the existential crisis of our time.

Denial: “This can’t really be happening.” We scroll through the news in disbelief. Surely the courts will stop it. Surely the public outcry will change things. Surely someone will step in. But denial often gives way to…

Anger: “Why isn’t anyone doing anything?” We rage at politicians, at institutions, at neighbors who stay silent. We burn with fury at the cruelty we see, the hypocrisy of those who weaponize faith, the betrayal of democratic ideals. This anger is righteous. But it can also burn us out if it has nowhere to go.

Bargaining: “If we just work harder… If we just pray more… If we just raise more awareness…” Our activist hearts kick in. We organize, post, fundraise, march. We try to reason with power. But we see how much the system is rigged—and that no amount of moral clarity guarantees justice.

Depression: “It’s too much. We can’t stop this.” Here we are. Many of us are here. Waking up already weary. Crying in the car. Going numb. Feeling like our hope is foolish and our prayers are naive. This is more than burnout. It is the soul-weariness that comes from witnessing injustice with no clear way to stop it.

Acceptance—but not the passive kind. Not resignation. Not surrender. True acceptance is the turning point where grief becomes fuel for transformation. “Yes, this is happening. And yes, I will still love, still build, still resist, still plant seeds.”

This is where resilience begins.

At our church, we’ve been talking about what it means to become a Resilience Hub—a place of safety, adaptability, community care, and moral clarity in an increasingly fractured world. But resilience isn’t just about solar panels and safety policies. It’s not just about physical readiness. It’s about emotional and spiritual infrastructure too.

• How do we withstand the ongoing heartbreak of the world without becoming numb?

• How do we hold our grief without letting it hollow us out?

• How do we show up for Gaza, for democracy, for one another—especially when we feel like we have nothing left?

The answer lies in spiritual practice.

In moments like these, I return to scripture—not for easy answers, but for soul-deep truth. One passage that keeps calling to me is Romans 8:26–28:

“Likewise, the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit… We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to God’s purpose.”

This isn’t a promise that everything will be okay. It’s a promise that we are not alone in our grief—that even our wordless sighs are held by God. That the Spirit is with us in the ache. And that love and purpose still exist—even here, even now.

This is the call of a Resilience Hub: to become a place where sighs are heard, where grief is honored, where hope is slowly rekindled—not in denial of the darkness, but in defiance of it.

“True acceptance is the turning point where grief becomes fuel for transformation.”

If you are struggling, you are not alone.

If you are weeping for Gaza, for democracy, for the future your children and grandchildren will inherit—you are not weak. You are human. And you are needed.

Let this be an invitation to recommit to the practices that sustain your soul:

• Breathe—because even one deep breath can be a prayer.

• Light a candle or journal—because ritual gives shape to grief and intention.

• Walk in nature—because creation reminds us we are part of something bigger.

• Share a meal, speak honestly—because community is the first medicine.

• Move your body—because grief lives in our muscles and needs release.

• Show up for justice—because faith calls us to act, not just to hope.

And let us remember that to be a point of the light does not mean to be blindingly optimistic. It means to remain visible when the world grows dim. It means we shine in solidarity with those who suffer. It means we resist the erasure of truth, of humanity, of spirit.

This is not the first time the world has broken. It won’t be the last. We are not the first to gather around sacred fire, to sing into silence, to hold one another through the storm.

So we remember:

In the darkness, we plant seeds.

In the rubble, we build sanctuary.

In our sighs, the Spirit speaks.

May we listen. May we rise. May we be light.

In solidarity,

Pastor Robin