Dr. Daly is a pediatric cardiologist and Dr. Devers is a psychologist. Both authors are evangelical Christians and write from within the communities they depict. The voice that follows is Dr. Daley’s.
the first time i saw it inside outmy kids were piled on the couch next to me. Like most parents, I was expecting what Pixar movies usually deliver: something entertaining enough to keep the kids occupied while I half-watched. But something different happened.
As the movie unfolded, I found myself unexpectedly emotional. I was surprised to find myself crying towards the end. They weren’t the quiet tears you’d try to hide from your kids, but rather uncontrollable tears that caught me completely off guard. I wasn’t sure what it was that affected me so deeply, only that it touched something that felt deeply true.
Sadness is not the enemy of faithfulness. The urge to suppress sadness can be more harmful than the sadness itself.
Near the end of the film, Joy realizes that she has misunderstood something fundamental about Riley’s mental life. Throughout the film, Joy treats sadness as a problem, an emotion that needs to be managed, contained, or put out of the way. At some point, Joy literally draws circles on the floor and asks Sadness to stay inside so as not to spoil things.
But when Riley’s world begins to unravel, it’s not Joy who ultimately helps her reconnect with her parents. It’s sadness. When Riley finally expresses how hurt she is, her parents pull her together and the family begins to heal. Grief, an emotion that has been treated as a problem to be managed, can prove to be a bridge to reconnecting.
When I think back to that scene, I understand why it moved me so much. In many ways, the church deals with grief the same way it deals with joy. we contain it. We manage it. We draw a circle around it with our well-intentioned theology and ask it to stay there. Pixar explored this tension so thoroughly that they returned to it again in the film. inside out 2adds anxiety to Riley’s emotional landscape. But the original film’s central insight remains more urgent for the church. Sadness is not the enemy of fidelity, and the urge to suppress it can be more harmful than the sadness itself.
I see this done often in my work. As a pediatric cardiologist, I care for children with complex congenital heart disease. Much of my work is hopeful. I celebrate with families when a baby survives a difficult surgery or when a once-breathable teenager begins to live a full life. But my job also places me in hospital rooms where families are experiencing unimaginable grief.
There are moments in the pediatric cardiac intensive care unit when the room becomes very quiet. The machine hums quietly. Parents sit next to their child’s bed, their heartbeats racing. When friends and family arrive, they desperately want to help. They want to say something—anything— then the moment may become unbearable. So they say the words they know.
“God got this.”
“Don’t worry, God has a plan.”
“everything happens for a reason.”
These words are most often uttered by people who care deeply and wish something could be done to take away the pain. No one would say such a thing out of cruelty. They are an attempt to bring order to a moment of chaos and fear.
But as I stood in those rooms, I often noticed something. My parents rarely look comforted. Most of the time, they just nod politely. Because what they are experiencing in that moment is not confusion about God’s plan. It’s sadness. And sadness doesn’t need to be explained. It has to be seen.
Why do we rush through grief?
Why do we react this way to suffering? Part of the answer lies in human psychology. When a loved one is suffering, we experience what psychologists say empathic painor the discomfort caused by witnessing someone else’s pain. That feeling is unpleasant, so we instinctively try to reduce it. Sometimes they even suggest solutions. Sometimes we look for meaning. And sometimes we seek explanations to restore order to what feels like chaos.
Within the Christian community, this impulse often takes spiritual form in phrases such as “God has a plan,” “Everything happens for a reason,” and “God is in a better place.” These phrases reassure us that there is still meaning in the world. the universe is basically fairAnd tragedy fits into a certain moral equation. When Joy insists on keeping Riley’s memory golden, she’s doing the same thing we do when we try to theologize someone’s suffering: maintaining the belief that everything is under control.
Relatedly, the tendency of our beliefs Our attitudes and actions influence outcomes more than they actually do. “Have more faith in God. Stay positive. Everything will be fine.” These phrases may sound encouraging, but they may subtly hint that suffering is preventable and that stronger faith may somehow be able to eliminate sadness. Finally, we use religious language to avoid painful emotions. Statements like “She’s in a better place” or “Always rejoice” may function less as an expression of faith than as an attempt to get over the discomfort as quickly as possible. Like Joy drawing that circle on the floor, we use theology to contain the emotions that scare us.
None of this means that the people who say these things lack compassion. Most people care deeply. But the same empathy that drives us to comfort someone can also motivate us to escape their pain.
When words become harmful
If you spend enough time grieving, you’ll eventually hear someone say something like, “God will never give you more than you can handle.” Although this phrase sounds Biblical, it actually misinterprets a passage about temptation rather than suffering (1 Corinthians 10:13). Anyone who has endured a true loss knows that suffering can often exceed our ability to cope. Grace meets us in our weaknesses, not in our strengths.
And there’s a phrase grieving parents hear all too often: “God needed another angel.” This sentence attempts to impose meaning on a tragedy that defies explanation. But that logic quickly breaks down. If God “needed” children more than parents, then that means their death fulfilled some divine need. What was meant to be comfort may end up deepening the hurt.
Job’s friends made similar mistakes. They first sat with him in silence for seven days, and that was the most faithful action they ever did. But then they began to explain away his suffering and theologize it into a framework of divine justice, becoming part of his pain rather than an analgesic.
The deeper problem behind our “comforting” clichés is not necessarily bad theology. Often it’s our discomfort with the sadness itself. The psalmists understood this and did not rush through their lament. “Tears were my sustenance day and night,” the writer said. psalm 42 I confess even though I have hope. The Bible makes room for grief in a way that many of our churches do not.
What does true comfort look like?
True comfort is rarely found through sophisticated explanations or seemingly spiritual words. Rather, it is conveyed In front of you. The most meaningful moments I witness in hospital rooms are often the quiet ones. A friend sits next to a grieving parent. A nurse gently holds a baby whose life is dying. Someone who just puts their hand on your shoulder and listens.
Silence is often the right starting point. And when we need words, we usually use simple, honest, and few words. Comfort begins with acknowledgment, not explanation. “I’m sorry.” “This is incredibly difficult.” “I’m here.”
In recent years, I have experienced this myself, not just as a doctor, but as a patient. When I was diagnosed with a brain tumor, many people tried to comfort me with the same phrases I often heard in the hospital room. “Don’t worry, God has this in mind.” “Everything has a meaning.” “God has a plan.”
I knew those words were spoken with love. But they weren’t much comfort in those moments when fear and anxiety felt overwhelming. Over the years, I have watched people try to deal with grief the same way Joy tries to deal with grief. Now, I understood from the inside out what it felt like for someone to sit in their grief while those around them instinctively reached for explanations that might ease the discomfort in the room.
But the people who helped me the most were those who did something simpler. They sat with me. Some of them cried. One of my friends looked at me and said quietly: “I’m so sorry. I wish you could take this away. It shouldn’t be like this.” The words explained nothing. But they made me feel seen.
When Jesus arrived at Lazarus’ tomb, he already knew what he was going to do. He knew that the resurrection was just around the corner. Yet, standing before the sorrow of Mary and Martha, he wept (John 11:35). He did not rush to a miracle, but first entered into grief. If the Son of God made space for sadness before bringing hope, perhaps we can learn to do the same.
Courage to talk about sadness
Joy spends most of her time inside out Trying to contain his grief, he begs her not to touch the memories, not to interfere, not to make the situation worse. Joy finally realizes that she cannot cure Riley’s pain and allows Sadness to come forward. And when grief happens, something amazing happens. Riley tells the truth about how hurt she is and the people who love her pull her together.
I have seen similar things happen in hospital rooms where children die. When we stop trying to explain away our suffering, when we resist the urge to rush past it, deeper things become possible. people cry. they are hugging each other. They tell the truth about what hurts. And the connection returns.
It turns out that sadness is not the enemy of love. Sometimes that’s what makes love tangible.
Source: Christ and Pop Culture – christandpopculture.com
