The Chosen, whose fourth season out of a planned seven has recently been released on streaming, continues to be enormously popular. It also continues to depict central scenes from the Gospels—including this season's portrayal of the raising of Lazarus—in deeply moving and memorable ways, even if season four seems to contain more filler and more clumsily executed scenes than previous ones. A powerful and pervasive theme in this season has to do with grief, loss, and the mysterious designs of God.
Without giving away too many plot details, we can note that one prominent early storyline has a minor character losing her life in her prime. She is the victim of an act of Roman violence. Jesus exits the scene just before she is attacked and then returns as she dies. That he does not heal her is a source of anguish and bafflement among the disciples, particularly because they have witnessed Jesus healing others.
Jesus himself grieves often in season four, notably in response to the deaths of John the Baptist and Lazarus. In the opening episode, as Jesus and Andrew reflect on John the Baptist's life, they find themselves laughing. Feeling mild guilt, Andrew asks, "How can we be laughing?" Jesus responds, "Why not?" Especially at the "time of a funeral our hearts are so tender with all our emotions right at the surface. Laughter and tears are closer than ever." Andrew says he "should be in shambles," but Jesus responds, "There is no should in grief. No right way to mourn."
While it does seem that there are better or worse ways of grieving, the caution about the strict regulation of grief in the face of loss seems to me badly needed in our time. In recent years I have heard numerous stories from Christian friends, in various denominations, whose family members have experienced grave harms, from violent death to potentially life-ending illnesses, that brought forth only terse theological responses from other Christians. For these Christians, extended grief, no matter the loss, indicates a lack of faith, an unwillingness to accept God's will; for them, there is a should, indeed a strong should not, in grief.
Those criticizing ongoing grief may have many motivations. Some seem to fear conversation because of confusion about how to respond, a lack of knowledge about what to say or do. Others avoid the afflicted as if their loss is a kind of curse. But they end up violating what should be the first rule for all of us in response to the anguish of someone close to us: First, do no harm.
Regarding death, we suffer from what the philosopher Charles Taylor calls inarticulacy, an erosion of any rich vocabulary for anguish, loss, and mortality. Both in our churches and in the wider society we have a fixer mentality that desperately wants to make everything okay. Doctors confess to difficulty breaking news of a terminal illness to patients and their loved ones because death is seen as a failure.
What we most need in the face of death is friends, what Aristotle called other selves, who can be present to, with, and for us, who can share in our grief without anxiously trying to fix everything.
A great illustration of how to be a friend in the face of death can be found in the hugely popular Harry Potter novels. In a scene toward the end of the entire story, Harry and his friend and classmate Hermione visit his parents' grave. As Harry stands before the grave, he faces the mortality of those who had given him life and who had, as we know from earliest parts of the story, died sacrificing their lives to save his: "His parents' moldering remains lay beneath snow and stone, indifferent, unknowing. And tears came before he could stop them, boiling hot then instantly freezing on his face, and what was the point in wiping them off or pretending?"
What is remarkable about Hermione's response is what she doesn't do. Hermione is known as the eager student, the first one with her hand up in class providing a thorough response to any question posed; she is ever resourceful, ready to solve any problem. Here, though, she is restrained. She says very little. When she speaks, her voice, as the narrator says, is "gentle." She stands beside him and does not attempt to insert herself between Harry and his memory of his parents. Silently she takes his hand, and as she notices his mounting sorrow she begins "gripping it tightly. He could not look at her, but returned the pressure." Then, as if reading Harry's mind (the narrator tells us that he regrets not having brought flowers), Hermione uses her wand to make flowers appear. They then depart together: "He put his arm around Hermione's shoulders, and she put hers around his waist, and they turned in silence and walked away through the snow."
Of many scenes about friendship in the Harry Potter series, none captures better than this the great virtue and consolation of friendship. Hermione lets Harry grieve in his own way and in his own time. She is present, affectionate, and, as he invites her to be, helpful.
One of the puzzling features of that scene is the inscription on the Potter grave: "The last enemy to be destroyed is death." That's a line from the New Testament (I Corinthians, 15:26). But neither Harry nor Hermione recognizes the source, just as they fail to recognize the origin of the phrase, "Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also," which is on a nearby grave. Harry is initially startled by the phrase on his parents' grave because it sounds like the project of his enemies, the Death Eaters who want to use magical power to overcome death. They want to fix death once and for all. But Hermione clarifies that it means not eliminating death but living after death.
The characters' ignorance of the origins of the inscriptions suggests a possible commentary about our current world. In the face of life's greatest events, from the most joyful to the most terrifying, we remain somewhat detached from, and without deep understanding of, (now) lost rituals and traditions. Central to those traditions, whether pagan or Christian, was the indispensable role of friendship in leading a fully human life. Attending carefully to the more thoughtful narratives in our popular culture, from Harry Potter to The Chosen, can remind us what matters most in human life and help us respond in virtuous ways to those who matter most to us, in their moments of greatest need, especially moments of great grief.