Can I just get really honest with you for a moment? I don't feel comfortable sharing things like this, because I know there's a deadly famine and millions of women are being sex-trafficked and who am I to complain about anything...
But I'll admit it. October is a hard month.
This is supposed to be the cozy, pumpkin-patch-and-cider, enjoy-the-pretty-autumn-leaves time of year, right?
Since losing Dad, October is different now.
It's his birthday month. There's less sunlight - the days are getting shorter. The holidays and the cold start creeping in.
Anyway, I look through Dad's blog when the grief hits. (This time, I am struck by how funny he was. Joking about how fat butts require longer needles, or getting high-speed internet and finally being able to do two things at once online!)
For Dad, his hard month was April. He even wrote a post about it. And like usual, his words reach through time and comfort me today:
I know as a Christian I should be writing inspirational messages of how Christ can overcome, and this I do know. But right now I feel like I am in the valley. And I am pretty sure I don't doubt God, maybe I am doubting myself, like the preacher said Sunday. Sometimes we suffer because we are human, it is part of life. Now that I think about it God has always been faithful (even though I may suffer), as well as my community of believers (friends) who has been faithful......... even in April.
On the way home from work today, I caught a segment on NPR about 9/11. Nine people recalled what they did the day before. You can listen here.
Some of the people interviewed lost loved ones in the attacks, and one even happened to sit next to the pilot of United Flight 93 as he was catching a flight to New Jersey to go to work. The pilot had promised his 15-year-old son they would start spending more time together, because he had recently had a busy work schedule.
I was a self-centered high-school senior 10 years ago, and the most prominent feeling I can remember is fear, rather than grief. The events of 9/11 have been so symbolized and exploited for political and religious gain that I never actually took the time to reflect on the individuals and their grieving families.
My perspective has probably also changed because, 5 years after 9/11, I too experienced the horror of losing a loved one unexpectedly. I cannot fathom the pain of the families of 9/11 victims. Not only did they undergo a personal nightmare, but the events surrounding the death of their loved ones are splashed all over the newspaper headlines, the web, and the television. These events are manipulated and used by politicians nearly every day. To have such an in-your-face, ever-present national event accompany your personal grief is unthinkable.
So this weekend, I wish peace for the families and friends of those we lost on 9/11. To honor and respect them, I am choosing to unplug from the internet and change the channel if yet another report or memorial is broadcast. My heart goes out to those affected, and may you be able to remember your loved ones without the constant cacophony of those who wish to profit--politically, monetarily, or religiously--from your pain.
I came across this article in the LA Times about a Joplin tornado victim, M. Dean Wells, and was touched by the struggle of Wells' pastor to come to terms with a tragedy like this. What do you say at a funeral of a man who died while selflessly letting people in a Home Depot as a massive tornado hit, only to be crushed by the concrete walls of the giant warehouse store?
Wells' pastor admitted that he wrestled with portraying the tornado as an act of God. Thankfully, he instead read from John 14:2: "In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you." The pastor remarked: "I would think that in this week in which so many homes have been smashed to smithereens, there ought to be some good news in that — that God is preparing a place for us."
Last week, I was presented another image of this idea that we get a place in heaven, this time in the movie The Invention of Lying. Ricky Gervais, atheist and comedian, wrote and starred in the film. I wasn't too impressed, because it had the potential to be funnier, and I wish Gervais would have focused more on advertising and movies as a big farcical lie.
Warning: spoilers below.
However, Gervais' character, Mark, offers a blistering critique of Christianity, from which I think Christians can learn a lesson. Mark lives in a world where no one is capable of lying or even fathoming the concept of a lie. But, Mark has discovered lying, which means that everyone else considers what he says to be truth. Therefore, Mark can manipulate his world. When Mark's mother passes away, he tells her that, instead of nothingness, she will go to the best place she can ever imagine.
Mark then ends up as an accidental modern-day Moses, basically concocting an ontology and theology that resembles Christianity. But this belief system is a gross mischaracterization of what the Christian faith should be, because its focus is solely to end up in a mansion that "The Man in the Sky" has promised everyone individually.
Mark and his friends end up hanging out by a pool, when Mark asks them if they're happier since they've learned about The Man in the Sky. A friend, played by Jonah Hill, replies:
Well, because I was thinking that if I get eternal happiness when I die, that will be really great. Because it's eternal, you know, so you can't really beat that. So I'm just really happy that that's going to happen, so until then I think I'm just going to stick with the alcohol and my little apartment and just kind of hang out by myself and drink and watch TV.
Mark doesn't think this sounds like a happy life, but the friend responds, "Well no, it won't be that long because the more I drink, the faster I'll die, and I'm just waiting for that mansion."
Leave it to an atheist to highlight how a solely heaven-ward faith can end up being so useless and unable to speak to the pain we have here and now, on this earth. Also, the promise of John 14:2, even taken outside the exaggerated context of The Invention of Lying, can end up meaningless in a society that already has anything it could ever want, materially.
It's a shame that it takes something like a massive tornado to rip us up from our foundations to remind us relatively wealthy and comfortable Americans that we have a place being prepared for us. I wonder what meaning that John 14:2 takes on for our fellow Christians, here and in other parts of the world, who struggle daily to find shelter and food. Maybe these material blessings are a curse at times.
That's why I strive for a faith like Wells', who, understanding that this present life matters, took the time to visit nursing homes and was so selfless that it led to his death. That's why I hope to avoid a faith like Mark's friend, who has no qualms with simply waiting for his mansion, beer and remote control in hand...
I usually don't listen to contemporary Christian music. But one artist, Natalie Grant, came out with a song a few years ago, "Held," that breaks me every time I hear it.
Who told us we’d be rescued? What has changed and Why should we be saved from nightmares? Were asking why this happens to us Who have died to live, it’s unfair
[...]
This hand is bitterness We want to taste it and Let the hatred numb our sorrows The wise hand opens slowly To lilies of the valley and tomorrow
Like many who have struggled with grief, I had a hard time keeping the faith (I still do). A little over a year after losing my dad, a friend from youth group, a Marine, was killed in Iraq. By this time, the fog and shock from grieving my dad's death had lifted, and those still-open wounds hurt to the touch. I was also struggling, as a new pacifist, to deal with the confluence of the church's complicity, U.S. policy, war, and the loss of such an amazing young man all at the same time. It was a dark time.
Each time a loved one would pass, it would just wreck me and bring everything to the surface again. An especially low moment was Kenny's unexpected death. A high school basketball coach, family friend, and fellow church member, his decline in a matter of weeks thanks to a brain tumor dealt a crushing blow to the bits and pieces of faith I had been trying to pick up. I literally had thoughts like, "We live and we die and that's it. And God is cruel if she even exists."
The losses that I've experienced after my dad's death have ended up serving as a gauge of my faith. In the aftermath of Jan's passing a few weeks ago--an especially devastating loss--I noticed this time that I didn't spiral into bitterness and despair. Yes, it's still painful and difficult, but somehow, this time, God was a healer, rather than the object of my anger.
Matthew Paul Turner shared a post yesterday, about how pointless it is to try to scientifically assert or disprove the existence of heaven or God:
When the topic at hand is “provable” only by faith, the less helpful and constructive, in my opinion, these types of conversations become.
Why? Because the reasons people believe and the reasons people are skeptical are personal and often complicated and are usually very difficult to explain. And when we’re debating big topics like God and heaven, it’s easy to become so caught up in our own story and belief and passions that we forget to consider the story and beliefs of the one we’re debating.
He continues, discussing his belief that Jesus rose from the grave:
It's a belief that, for some crazy reason, I can’t escape or leave behind or forget or “unbelieve”. And not because I’m afraid not to believe it. But because it does something to me.
But I have no proof that Jesus rose from the dead–nothing physical or scientific or measurable or anything that would impress somebody[.]
I have no proof of the resurrection, but for some reason, the fact that Jan's funeral was on Holy Saturday caused something to click. Honestly, I haven't felt God's presence since my dad died, and I feel like such a failure to admit that. I've completely lost that emotional, comforting connection that many Christians claim to feel, and that I felt in the past.
But for some crazy reason I still feel a longing to follow Jesus and to continue to hang out with these messy Christian folk. Like Turner, it has done something to me. Although I can't prove absolutely anything, and at times that darkness and bitterness creep up again, I can't unbelieve.
I'm not sure why I'm still drawn to following Jesus, but I think part of it is the hope and transformation and community and renewal that Christ and his church offer. Actually, I can't put it into words. So, thankful that I've survived this round of doubt somewhat intact, I think I'll just allow myself to be held for now.
If hope is born of suffering If this is only the beginning Can we not wait, for one hour Watching for our savior
This is what it means to be held How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life And you survive
This is what it is to be loved and to know That the promise was that when everything fell We’d be held
Yesterday, as I was sitting with a grieving family, I said something that probably a good Christian shouldn't have said. One of the family members remarked, "It will be alright, it will be alright." Today, Resurrection Day, tells us it will be alright -- we all know this. But I, not meaning to give any sort of advice on grieving at all (because everyone is different), automatically responded that if you ever get to a moment where you don't think it will be alright, let yourself have that thought. I said that it's good to work through it. I hope I didn't offend anyone in the room, but after having deep doubt myself, I've become quick to reassure and to make space for those who maybe can't say 100% of the time that "it will be alright."
Maggi Dawn has a great post this morning about just not feeling it on Easter. She echoes what I pointed out yesterday. Easter is the day when we are supposed to celebrate that Jesus is risen:
But what do you do if Easter comes and your spirits do not rise? It’s a bad day in the kitchen, in your marriage, with your in-laws or your hormones or your bank balance? What do you do if your job has disintegrated, your hopes are dashed, your dreams didn’t come true – or if, simply for some unaccountable reason, there is no hallelujah in your heart?
There is no need to beat yourself up. Read the story again, and you see that even his first disciples took time to absorb the news. Mary saw it and jumped at it. Peter and John didn’t believe it, half-believed it, went to look and still took a while to take it in. The other disciples took longer – Thomas, according to John, stubbornly refusing to believe what his eyes could not see. And even when the disciples did get the news, they didn’t know quite what to do with it: for a while they still found themselves fishing in Galilee, a little lost in life.
The hallelujah of Easter, the risen spirits, are not always instant. There are weeks and weeks of Easter still to come; the Church calendar celebrates the slow dawning of Easter for fifty days – even longer than the arduous journey of Lent. Today is a promise of things to come, not a climactic moment that you have to catch as it passes. If your heart doesn’t yet say Hallelujah, let your curiosity lead you, let your doubts be voiced and your questions be heard.
Dark's review of Rob Bell's Love Wins is worth checking out. Here are a few snippets that I liked:
As Barth argues in The Epistle to the Romans, the gospel has to be (and remain) a question mark sitting strangely next to whatever we dare to deem orthodox and sound in our own thinking. And when it comes to what we hope to understand of the judgments of God, we have to leave an awful lot to unwritten history lest we believe ourselves to own the copyright on them or find ourselves explaining them away.
[...]
As Bell has it, one job of the community that might rightly be called “church” is that of a clarifying, lyricizing, parabling stewardship concerning the mystery of God’s redeeming presence in the world. In this sense, the church names the people who “name, honor, and orient themselves around this mystery. A church is a community of people who enact specific rituals and create specific experiences to keep this word alive in their own hearts, a gathering of believers who help provide language and symbols and experiences for this mystery.”
...I was stuck (or in danger of being stuck) in what Bell terms “an entrance understanding of the gospel” which views it “primarily in terms of entrance rather than joyous participation.” To remain there is to hold to and, more tragically, embody that “cheap view of the world” that is born of “a cheap view of God.” While there is for some, perhaps inevitably, a developmental stage of this kind in religious formation, it can become what Bell deems “a shriveled imagination.” He observes that “An entrance understanding of the gospel rarely creates good art. Or innovation.”
[...]
Life in the age to come is as inescapably social and ethically laden as this one, only moreso. With Jesus’ counsel to the young man to sell everything he has and give to the poor, we’re given a vision of here and there which is anything but neutral (economically, politically, what have you).
In a very last minute way, I will get to spend Easter Sunday with my Oklahoma family and at Snowhill, however I wish the circumstances were better. We will celebrate the life of one of the sweetest women on Saturday, not even 50 years old, who passed away last night after a battle with cancer. It will be a weekend full of thoughts on death and resurrection, on so many levels.
“God's not mean...he's holy. If you cheapen that holiness no one wins and God isn't perfect...my heart is heavy again. #lovewins” -Matt Chandler
I recently saw this tweet and it made me think about suffering, and why a place dedicated to eternal suffering would exist. My honest reaction the past few years has been...God is mean. Of course I would’ve never said that out loud. I didn't feel comfortable or safe enough to admit I felt that way. But, stifling that thought made me feel even more frustrated and discouraged.
I’ve been forced to deal directly with my belief that God is in control and works all things for the good of those who love him. Previously I had never thought to question God's omnipotence, but the more I learned in college and just experienced life, I simply couldn't square genocide, war, hurricanes, unexpected deaths, etc., with a loving, all-powerful God. It seemed sick.
I began to notice comments from well-meaning people. Someone mentioned to my mom, just months after my dad's death, that her husband had also had a heart attack, but he survived. The wife commented, “God was watching over us.” So logically I wondered: was God not watching over our family? Why spare this woman's husband, but not my dad?
A lot of people make comments like this, myself included. If I just miss being in a car accident, my immediate reaction is to thank God. But would I immediately thank God if I were to be horrendously injured in an accident? Or on a broader scale, many like to think of the United States as blessed. Look around at our wealth, tranquility, high standard of living...so God has been good to us. The same cannot be said for the majority of the world, so what about them?
Martin Bashir's recent interview with Rob Bell demonstrated perfectly this false dilemma that our theology tends to create: either God is omnipotent but doesn't love Japanese people, or God loves Japanese people but does not have the power to stop an earthquake and tsunami.
These questions left me confused, and I didn't deal with it in a healthy way. I'm not saying that this was the intent of Chandler's tweet (I try not to make assumptions based on 140 characters...), but it made me feel like admitting that God--or rather my perception of God--seems “mean” is a failure on my part as a Christian. If I can't legitimately push those feelings away and hold on to the idea that God is holy and perfect no matter what happens, then surely I must be a heretic.
When I started feeling confused and disgusted, perhaps if I would have had the space and comfort level to ask those hard questions out loud, would I be in a different place spiritually right now? I wonder if the same holds true for many other present and former Christians? Maybe most of us have major issues with the way that Bashir and others frame things, but keep it to ourselves for fear of “cheapening” God's holiness or--gasp--suggesting that God isn't perfect or all-powerful?
Sometimes I wonder whether making sure your theological ducks are all in a row and that God is precisely defined comes at the expense of addressing the real-live suffering and day-to-day junk that we all face. What does it mean if you've had the time and luxury to read the books and get the schooling that enables you to supposedly perfect your view of God? I've noticed that the targets of Jesus' criticism were those who had the most theological knowledge, and Jesus spent a good deal of his time on earth as a healer, alleviating the suffering of those around him.
I love studying theology and am definitely not anti-intellectual, so I'm not proposing we shouldn't think about these things. Nor do I mean to disrespect those who have thoughtfully dealt with these issues and moved on to become atheists or agnostics. I just think we've put correct propositional truth on a pedestal, at the expense of allowing real life speak to the way we think about God. We've boxed ourselves in to a choice between a powerless, loving God or a powerful, cold-hearted God, so the space to seek a third (or fourth, or fifth...) way would be nice. To be honest, I'm growing weary of being “forced” to think that God might be mean...
It's been difficult for me to get involved in a local church again for several reasons. I'm conflicted with involving myself in a community that wouldn't welcome gay people, or that prohibits women from serving in leadership positions. I also don't feel comfortable with churches that are pro-war and that fail to somehow address the massive wealth--and resulting consumerism--that is present in our country. I would love to be involved in a multi-ethnic community, too.
And a broader reason is that I struggle with the issue of theodicy, especially after grieving the unexpected death of my dad. This means that even little things got to me, like a song lyric that was just hard for me to sing, so it became much easier to sleep in on Sundays instead.
After having the chance to attend Snowhill last week, I was motivated to start the search again. Another reason is that seeing someone like Rob Bell put himself out there (and possibly endangering his career?) to encourage a more loving view of God has spoken to me. I have also seen others do this and it is encouraging. That willingness to articulate so publicly an alternative view (it's definitely not a new view), combined with the judgmental responses, somehow made me want be a part of this craziness again - maybe I could take part in decreasing the judgmentalism?
I had heard through a co-worker about a local church, so I attended one of their services this morning.
It was great. The pastor apologized to those who had been hurt by the church, and recognized that Christians can be extremely judgmental, imposing litmus tests, rather than loving. He acknowledged that people felt repelled and couldn't attend a local church because of this. This meant a lot to me, and I was touched by the fact that he recognized this.
Manuel couldn't go with me because he had to work, so he called to see how it went. I told him about the apology, and he was also very touched. In fact, he wants to go with me next week. (He has issues with the Catholic church the same way that I have issues with the evangelical church. I have listened to conversations between him and his Catholic friends that are nearly identical to the ones I have had with my evangelical friends).
The apology wasn't the only thing that stood out today, though. The pastor also stated that it's easy to become cynical and point out what's wrong with things. It's much harder to engage the problems than to criticize them.
I had seen Christians choose condemnation and judgment over engagement and grace, and was disgusted by it. I also felt repelled by often-arbitrary litmus tests created by Christians. Not only that, but I participated in this behavior in the past and felt ashamed, so I wanted to distance myself from it. But in the end, I'm still choosing to judge -- this time the Church. My new litmus tests are whether a church has a much too fancy building, is too lily-white, or doesn't outright condemn the latest U.S. military action. No matter what end of the spectrum I'm on, I still don't have the right to impose a litmus test and insist I'm completely correct about what the gospel looks like.
This does NOT mean that I'm simply giving up some of the much-thought-out beliefs I've come to these past few years (although I would hope my beliefs aren't completely static), but at this point I want to value community and try to overcome this crippling cynicism. Not everything is puppies-and-rainbows; in fact, I'm still far from that. But thanks in part to that apology and to becoming aware of my own lack of grace, perhaps I can start moving away from only criticizing? And maybe I should start thinking about an apology I might owe, considering how potentially powerful apologies can be...
My brother Nate is one of the most talented people I know. In high school, he started on the basketball team, and dominated in any other sport he was involved in. Not only does he have athletic talent, he was also blessed with artistic talent. The guy can draw like nobody’s business, and he has played the guitar since he was in junior high. Really, it’s not fair.
Within the past year, yet another talent of Nate’s has surfaced – singing and songwriting. This Saturday will mark five years since our dad’s passing, so with Nate's permission I wanted to share a song that he wrote about our dad. Nathan was only 18 when our dad died, and it has been amazing to watch him grow into a man who resembles our dad so much. Not only do they look alike, but I think Nate is lucky enough to have also inherited our dad’s character. I’m so proud of him.
“Still Around”
Running my fingers over granite letters My heart has been hurting but I feel a lot better Remembering you
I smile every time I think of yours And all your hard work opened so many doors For your two kids And I'll never forget
I lost a lot of thing when you left But I'm hanging on to the things I like best
The man in the mirror looks like you I got your smile and your attitude My hands hug mom like yours would do I hope I make you proud I got your voice and I got your laugh The best parts of you are sure to last It's good to know you're not in the past You're still around Yeah it's good to know, you're still hanging around
I got that old glove you used to use And that old gun we liked to shoot Down by the pond
Every day I'm reminded of you And those little things you would do I do 'em too
I lost a lot of things when you left But I'm hanging on to the things I like best
The man in the mirror looks like you I got your smile and your attitude My hands hug mom like yours would do I hope I make you proud
I got your voice and I got your laugh The best parts of you are sure to last It's good to know you're not in the past You're still around
Yeah it's good to know You're still hanging around
Running my fingers over granite letters My heart has been hurting but I feel a lot better Remembering you
He will be playing in Tuttle, America on Saturday night and I'm so glad I get to be there!
On the way home from class Friday night, I caught This American Life on NPR. The theme this week was "This I Used to Believe." I wanted to share Act II because it was my former self in a conversation with my new self--faithwise.
A woman, grieving an inexplicable death of her close friend, is a former Catholic who thinks she may be agnostic now. She has a (frustrating) conversation with an evangelical Texas football coach. He goes all arrogant and apologetics (Josh McDowell style) on her, when all she seeks are a few answers to her questions about God and why do bad things happen to good people.
I know that answers to her questions probably don't exist in this lifetime, but I grew so sad for the woman. In the middle of pain and hurt and grief, nobody CARES whether Genesis 1 is literally true or whether postmodernism is wrong. All she needed was a fellow human being to just listen and BE with her in her questioning and doubt. Act II demonstrated why (aside from the church's love affair with militarism, patriotism, and consumerism), I have no desire to be involved in an evangelical church. You can throw all the answers and arguments and facts at me you want, but if you have no way to address the gaping wounds in the world, you won't get very far!
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