There is something stronger than despair

The warren Family

I keep thinking about Matthew Warren and William Cowper; men divided by centuries but who might understand each other.  Matthew was the 27 year old son of pastor Rick Warren, and this past Friday Matthew took his own life.  This, by itself, is a tragedy.  But Matthew had already lived a heartbreaking story, according to the email Pastor Warren sent to his congregation, telling them of Matthew’s death:

Subject: Needing your prayers

To my dear staff,

Over the past 33 years we’ve been together through every kind of crisis. Kay and I’ve been privileged to hold your hands as you faced a crisis or loss, stand with you at gravesides, and prayed for you when ill. Today, we need your prayer for us.

No words can express the anguished grief we feel right now. Our youngest son, Matthew, age 27, and a lifelong member of Saddleback, died today.

You who watched Matthew grow up knew he was an incredibly kind, gentle, and compassionate man. He had a brilliant intellect and a gift for sensing who was most in pain or most uncomfortable in a room. He’d then make a bee-line to that person to engage and encourage them.

But only those closest knew that he struggled from birth with mental illness, dark holes of depression, and even suicidal thoughts. In spite of America’s best doctors, meds, counselors, and prayers for healing, the torture of mental illness never subsided. Today, after a fun evening together with Kay and me, in a momentary wave of despair at his home, he took his life.

Kay and I often marveled at his courage to keep moving in spite of relentless pain. I’ll never forget how, many years ago, after another approach had failed to give relief, Matthew said “ Dad, I know I’m going to heaven. Why can’t I just die and end this pain?” but he kept going for another decade.

Thank you for your love and prayers. We love you back.

Pastor Rick

My mother’s heart grieves not only for the Warren’s loss but for Matthew’s illness.  How hard it must have been for the Warrens to see their son suffer and be unable to relieve his pain.

As for William Cowper, the English poet and hymn writer, he knew that pain well.  His life was marked by episodes of depression that even his evangelical faith could not pierce.  He believed strongly in the power of the gospel and (as a Calvinist) in the perseverance of the saints.  But somehow he saw himself as the one exception to this good news, a man irrevocably rejected by God.  Cowper’s heart condemned him and he lived under the weight of that condemnation his entire life.

William Cowper

Cowper, convinced he was damned, attempted suicide unsuccessfully many times before ultimately dying of an illness.  His first suicide attempt was part of his undoing, in fact, because he saw it as the unforgivable sin.  I recently read the Graham Greene novel Brighton Rock in which a character expresses a common view of suicide:  “It’s a mortal sin…It’s despair….It’s the worst sin of all!”  There was no happy ending for Cowper on this side of the grave.  He died in a state of utter hopelessness, believing he had been abandoned by the only One who could help him.  The same man who wrote, “….and sinners plunged beneath the flood lose all their guilty stains” went to his death suffocated by spiritual guilt.  The last poem William Cowper ever wrote was called Castaway, and includes the lines:

No voice divine the storm allayed,
No light propitious shone,
When, snatched form all effectual aid,
We perished, each alone.

And yet, at risk of presuming upon the grace of God, I’ve always imagined a happy ending.  Something was deeply broken in William Cowper, something that the truth of the gospel could never heal in his lifetime.  His biography leaves room for theories about childhood traumas, but maybe there is no perfect explanation.  Sometimes we can track the trajectory of mental illness and lay blame on abuse or deprivation or genetics.  Sometimes we can only close our mouths and acknowledge that we live in a damaged world.  Things are not as they should be, not as they were meant to be, and some of our brothers and sisters seem to bear far more than their share of the grief of this world.  “The fall, the fall, oh God, the fall of man,” Michael Gungor sings and sometimes that’s about all we can say in the face of what Cowper suffered two hundred years ago, and what Matthew Warren suffered during his life.

But back to my hopes for Cowper.  Was Cowper’s despair a sin?  How can we possibly know?  Only God can see how broken each of us is:  only God knows what we choose in this life, and what we endure against our will.  But even if despair is “the worst sin of all”, what of it?  Didn’t Jesus die and rise to deliver us from even the worst that sin does in us and through us and to us?  What is more powerful, our weakness or the love that crafted the universe, the grace that restores all things?

One of Cowper’s contemporary hymn writers left us with this assurance:

The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose
I will not, I will not desert to its foes.
That soul tho all hell should endeavor to shake
I’ll never, no never, no never forsake.

Sometimes our foes are external, and sometimes our foes are closer to home – our own bodies, our own minds.  When that is the case, I’m convinced that even if no one else knows, God knows, and He does not forsake us.

And so I imagine the moment when Cowper’s injured faith became sight, when he woke in the presence of God to find that he was not a castaway, but a beloved child.  I envision the look of shock and wonder on William Cowper’s face when that truth sank in, when the darkness receded forever to be replaced by light, love and unrelenting joy.

I hope and pray and presumptuously imagine the same for Matthew Warren who bravely kept going through years of pain, and gave in to a moment of despair.  I didn’t know Matthew at all, but I know something about “The LORD, the LORD, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness” (Exodus 34:6).  What is disordered in creation and in us will not have the last word.  Evil does not triumph.  Mercy triumphs.  Grace reigns.  Love wins.

Reality TV explores the mysterious world of clergy families

The “first ladies” of The Sisterhood

I am a preacher’s daughter.  Does this make you wonder what wild rebellions I went through as a teen?  What scandals I brought on my family?

My mom was a pastor’s wife.  Does this cause you to imagine her glamorous, privileged life as “first lady” of a congregation?  Do you envision the delicious cat fights she must have had with other “first ladies”?

If you answered “Yes” to any of these questions, you may be watching too much reality TV.

In its insatiable appetite for new content, reality TV,  that devourer of worlds, has stumbled upon the pastoral family.  Who knew that the world I grew up in, and the world I live in now, as a pastor, is so exotic?

The Sisterhood profiles  five “devout yet fierce” pastor’s wives – or “first ladies”, as they prefer to be called -  living in Atlanta.  The group includes an ex-prostitute, a former member of the girl group Xscape, a “sassy Latina” – well, you get the idea.  Just your typical group of clergy wives.

As depicted on “The Sisterhood”, the life of a pastor’s wife revolves around fabulous outfits and cat fights.  If that sounds like The Real Housewives of Atlanta with less alcohol and profanity, you’re not wrong.  Instead of cursing at each other, the members of the Sisterhood assail each other with Christian jargon.  “Lofty, lofty, lofty!” Ivy shouts at Tara in one episode.  In another episode Tara (who is in continual conflict with one cast member or another) hurls, “The Lord rebuke you!  I’m speaking truth!” at Dominique.  It goes over as well as you’d expect it to.

The Preachers’ Daughters, just acting natural

None of this reminds me of my mom or any of the other pastors’ wives I’ve known over the course of my life.  In the churches of my childhood, the role of a pastor’s wife was less about privilege than responsibility.  When a church hired a pastor they gained two servants for the price of one, and woe to the pastor’s wife who couldn’t play the piano, or work with children, or at least make a good potluck casserole.  My mother didn’t have the time for the petty dramas that fill “The Sisterhood”, and I suspect the increasing number of employed pastors’ wives don’t have that kind of time, either.

The behavior of the “first ladies” is sometimes mild compared to the Preachers’ Daughters.  These P.K.s (Preachers’ Kids, for the uninitiated) are enough to make any parent go to prayer, particularly Olivia, who partied hard and wound up a teenaged mother; and Taylor, who fantasizes about being a porn star.  That information alone should make you wonder about the judgment of the parents on “Preachers’ Daughters”.  Who decided exposing their families to this kind of public scrutiny was a good idea?

The preacher’s daughter carries on in Footloose

The apologetic for both shows is that they offer a chance to show that clergy families are not perfect, that they have problems just like every other family.  But didn’t we already know that?  Any pastor’s kid can tell you that there is a stereotype attached to that particular role, and it’s not a good one.  Preachers’ kids are supposed be rebels, straining at religious strictures and the glass house of the clergy family.  If you want a fictional example, refer to Ariel Moore, the drinking, dancing wild child in Footloose.

I don’t deny that there are unique pressures that come with being in a clergy family.  I’ve been on both sides now, being not only a pastor’s daughter, but a pastor myself.  I know the challenges my children face by virtue of my vocation.  They will see ugliness and hypocrisy in the church at close range.  They will wish that I had less meetings and more free weekends, just as I used to wish for my father.  They will grow weary of church talk and above all, they will see the pastor who lives with them, warts and all.  On top of all that, they must put up with ridiculous stereotypes that are being reinforced by “Preachers’ Daughters”.

I know clergy wives who chafe at the downside of that role, too – the expectations that the pastor’s wife will show up for every service, every church activity, and always with a smile.  And then there are the crazy schedules that have left some women feeling like church widows.  Ministry is certainly not easy on home life:  50% of pastors’ marriages end in divorce.  My spouse, being part of the growing number of clergy husbands, will meet with less preconceptions.  Perhaps, at least, he can write his own script for what it means to be married to a minister.

For  all that, and despite what TV would tell you, clergy families are more normal than not.  My parents laughed and argued and paid bills just like yours.  My dad coached Pee Wee football, played cards with his friends and wished that his kids would give him a little more peace and quiet.  My mother nursed sick children, supervised homework and read every mystery novel the library had to offer.  This preacher’s daughter fought with her siblings, made a mess of her room,  rebelled a bit, but loved going to church where everyone seemed like extended family.  I still feel that way, blessed to know that the church is my home away from home.  I hope my children will feel the same.

A family like ours wouldn’t make for good television; we’re too boring.  As with all reality TV, “The Sisterhood” and “Preachers’ Daughters” are dependent on big personalities, extreme behavior and imposed narratives.  I just hope audiences realize that there’s a broad gap between “reality” TV and real life in the clergy family.

Lazy Blogging on St. Thomas Sunday

Two years ago I wrote a post about Thomas that I still love with all my heart.  Is that a bad thing to say about your own post?  Regardless, it’s true.  Because I understand Thomas, I think, and I have experienced the same kindness and presence from Jesus that Thomas received.

So this post is just to say, please read that post on this St. Thomas Sunday.  Unless you read it two years ago, in which case I offer you this new content to honor your reading this far; a sonnet written by Malcolm Guite:

St. Thomas the Apostle

“We do not know… how can we know the way?”

Courageous master of the awkward question,

You spoke the words the others dared not say

And cut through their evasion and abstraction.

Oh doubting Thomas, father of my faith,

You put your finger on the nub of things

We cannot love some disembodied wraith,

But flesh and blood must be our king of kings.

Your teaching is to touch, embrace, anoint,

Feel after Him and find Him in the flesh.

Because He loved your awkward counter-point

The Word has heard and granted you your wish.

Oh place my hands with yours, help me divine

The wounded God whose wounds are healing mine.

Grace & peace today,
Sharon

Just talk to me

I’ve gotten some hints through the grapevine that one of my recent posts – If we have to choose sides – was a bit concerning to some people.  If you read the post you know that I published it with trepidation, expecting blowback.  I got a handful of encouraging comments (thanks!) but did I receive any criticism?  Nada.  Zip.  I attributed this to controversy fatigue.  By the time I posted people had spent two days hashing over the same sex marriage issue; changing their profiles pictures on Facebook, linking article after article that supported their side, and debating endlessly.  I published my piece just as it was quieting down.  We were all feeling a little hung over and ready for junk food and college basketball, or “Duck Dynasty”, or whatever helps you unwind.

I  didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed by the lack of response, but if you are an incredibly small-time blogger you learn to live with the sound of crickets.  So it was a surprise to find out that there were people who reacted negatively after all.  They just didn’t react to me.  Perhaps they didn’t want to offend me, or were afraid I’d offend them, and it would be uncomfortable or pointless.  If so, I understand their reservations. Talking about difficult subjects is typically difficult.  But if anyone who is reading this was troubled by what I wrote in that post, or in any other post, let me make an appeal to you.

Just talk to me.

I blog, which indicates that I’m not an especially private person.  I blog about controversial issues which indicates…a lack of prudence, probably, but also my desire to incarnate what I want to see among Christians.  I want us to be able to tell each other the truth about what is in our heads and hearts, even if we will sometimes disagree.  I want there to be fewer shadowy places, fewer topics that are forbidden, and far more light.  It’s okay if it gets a little heated sometimes.  Really.  What’s not okay is hiding our opinions or objections out of fear.  I am fine with the Body sometimes being like the Council at Jerusalem, which got pretty rowdy at points.  Far better than being like the McCarthy hearings (“Will you now name the names of those in your congregation who read Love Wins?”).

Which is why, if you disagree with me on women in ministry, or politics, or church governance, or liturgy and ritual, or the inerrancy of the Bible, or whether “Taken” was a terrible movie- or any of the other stuff I’ve written about – I will try not to react with anger, manipulation, shaming or shunning.  I will listen to you.  I promise.

But I can’t listen to you if you won’t talk to me.  If I’m wrong, you may be a channel God uses to correct me.  If you are wrong…well, God once spoke through a donkey so why not through me, once in a while?

Some of you only know me online.  If you don’t want to lay your concerns out in a public forum, feel free to email me.  Here ya go:  sharon65a@sbcglobal.net.  Every Nigerian prince and Asian singles site seems to have my email address, so why shouldn’t you?

Some of you know me in person, and I’ve heard that a few of you are concerned.  Just talk to me.  I can’t guarantee the outcome of the conversation, but I will listen and do my dead level best not to yell or cry.  I promise.

I’m not offended that people would talk about me rather than to me.  I know I’ve done the same thing.  But it’s unproductive, isn’t it?  I’m the only one that can answer for myself; can clear up misunderstandings or confirm suspicions.  And I am more than happy to do both, or neither, or let the chips fall where they may.  I’m even crazy enough to think that we can still be friends even if you decide I’m dead wrong about something.  Is that going too far, going beyond the gospel?  I don’t think so.

So please, if you’re concerned that I’ve gone off the rails, gone beyond the pale of orthodoxy, lost the plot – just talk to me.  You know where to find me.

From the Archives: I want to live in Eastertide

image courtesy stpatsgroup.blogspot.com

Originally posted in 2011.

We make little jokes in our church staff meetings that might seem irreverent to some.  For instance, it was in a staff meeting that I was introduced to the Vintage 21 Jesus – because a certain person on staff, ahem, does a terrific impression.  Yesterday, in the service planning for this coming Sunday,  a remark was made about Easter being over.  “You know Jesus is still risen, though, right?”  I replied.  Our associate pastor added, “That’s right.  He doesn’t have to go back into the grave until the next Good Friday.”

But seriously.  Most of us celebrate Easter for a day and then we’re over it.  We go back to whatever our normal is, as if the unbelievable event hadn’t taken place.  And the event is not the holiday, which will naturally come and go.  I’m talking about the actual Resurrection.  I truly believe that it took place, you know.  For reals, as the young folks say these days.  And that Resurrection was for all time.  When Jesus came out of the tomb something was done that would never be undone, something was rewired in the universe and we live on the other side of that event.  On the Christian calendar the 50 days that begin at Easter are called Eastertide.  But really, don’t those who follow Christ live all of their lives in Eastertide?  Once the stone table cracks, life never return to what was before.

It was my turn to choose a scripture reading for our staff meeting this week.  I’ve been stuck in Ephesians 1 for the last several days, particularly in this bit, verses 18-21:

I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in his holy people,  and his incomparably great power for us who believe. That power is the same as the mighty strength  he exerted when he raised Christ from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly realms,  far above all rule and authority, power and dominion, and every name that is invoked, not only in the present age but also in the one to come.

I am trying to wrap my mind around this.  What power is at work in me?  The same power that raised Christ from the dead.  The very same.  Resurrection power in me.

So how can we say:  this habit is too ingrained to ever be broken; this hurt is too deep to ever heal; this relationship is too damaged to ever be restored; this betrayal is too great for me to every forgive?  How can we be people of such limited vision and limited hope when we not only live our lives on this side of Resurrection, but have Resurrection living in us?

So, fair warning.  I’ve decided that I’m not done with Easter.  I’m not packing the Resurrection away until the church calendar tells me it’s time to pull it out again.  I’m going to keep it in front of my face until “the eyes of my heart are enlightened”, and I begin to grasp that the hope of the Resurrection is not just out in the future, not just a promise that death has lost it’s sting (as fantastic as that is).  The Resurrection is hope for this moment,  that I am empowered to live in the Kingdom of God, to be transformed into the likeness of the risen Christ.

You nine steady readers, I hope you won’t get sick of it.  But at least for the duration of the church  calendar’s Eastertide, I’m going to post things that keep this party going.  I’ve already got some things in mind for later this week….

Alleluia.  Christ is risen.  The Lord is risen indeed.  Alleluia

If we have to choose sides…

It’s been over a month since I wrote the following post.  It came out of me in a burst of heartache and anger, and then…..I chickened out on posting it.  It seemed really bold when I wrote it, but as I reread it now I think, “Is that all?  What was I afraid of?  I couldn’t even stick my neck out this far?”  I’ve seen people take far greater risks in the last few days, and now I’m a ashamed of my own cowardice.  This post which felt like a watershed moment when I wrote it now seems like just another step, just another admission of where I’m at.

I’m motivated to publish this now because of the discussions I’ve seen this week on Facebook, surrounding same sex marriage.  I’m astonished at how many Christians still sound as if they’ve never had a conversation with someone who is gay.  For the love of God – I mean, seriously, for the love of God – the least we ought be able to do is listen to other people.  I honestly think some of us are afraid to do that – afraid to listen; afraid we’ll be infected with empathy.  We can do better.

I’m feeling a little cranky tonight.  I’ve got a head cold and a toothache – my first toothache in decades.  I haven’t missed them one bit, and the fact that this one is located in a tooth with a root canal and a crown doesn’t bode well for the dental budget.

Also, I’m really struggling to catch up on my school work.  I fell behind when my mom died, and every week I come up a little bit short of being really caught up.  The mental pressure of knowing that, at any given moment, I should be doing school work is….fatiguing.  Kids, stay in school.  ‘Cause this business of doing school in middle age is not as glamorous as it sounds.

And then there’s this.  We’re talking Christian Ethics in one of my classes.  That’s practical, right?  We were challenged to think of some contemporary issues or events that call for thoughtful biblical-theological reflection.  One of my issues was the church’s response to the gay rights movement.  When asked for biblical principles that would come to bear on the issue, I talked about the creation account, but I also mentioned the misuse of the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, the small number of scriptures addressing homosexuality (relative to other issues addressed in the Bible), the inclusion of outsiders in the ministry of Jesus and the disciples (including sexual “others” like the Samaritan woman and the Ethiopian eunuch), the golden rule, and blah, blah, blah, etc.

I guess I sounded soft on the issue, or something.  So here’s the response I received from a classmate.

Do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman; that is detestable (Lev 18:22).  If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable/  They must be put to death (Lev 20:13).  Even their women exchanged natural relations for unnatural ones.  In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with  with lust for one another.  Men committed indecent acts with other men and received in themselves the due penalty for their perversion (Ro 1:26-28).  The wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God.  Homosexual offender is on this list of the wicked (1Co 6:9-10).  I believe these verses say that homosexuality is sin.  The Bible tells us to love everyone.  We are to hate evil.  Let those who love the Lord hate evil (Ps 97:10).  Hate what is evil (Ro 12:9).

Really?  REALLY?  I don’t even have the words to articulate how much this bothers me, if this is the entire ethical response that this person has to homosexuality.  I mean, just reading those last couple of sentences makes my tooth hurt more.  Hate.  Hate.  Hate.  Evil.  Evil.  Evil.

“But what,” I want to ask my classmate, “would your ethical response be if your son or daughter came out to you, and wondered if you could still love them?  And what would you do if they wanted to introduce you to their partner?  And how would you respond to the celibate homosexual in your church who is desperately lonely and afraid to share who they really are?  And how would you help to fill the space left by the spouse and children they’ll never have?  Would you open your home, invite them for holidays, make them feel like a part of your family?  Or would you just keep quoting those verses at them?”

Jesus identified with all the wrong people, you know.  They were changed by him, changed by his presence – but that’s weird, because he often seemed to forget to tell them how evil they were, and how much he hated evil.  In fact, he seemed to like those “wrong people”.  He seemed to enjoy their company.  And so the pharisees accused Jesus of being unclean himself, of doing miracles through the power of Satan, because he identified with the unclean.  I love that about Jesus.  He cared far more about people than about his reputation.

I thought of that as I read my classmate’s response, because I heard it as a rebuke directed at me.  She assumes I’m on the side of “the gays”.  And you know what?  She’s right.  I am.  If the choice is between hurling clobber passages at them and erring on the side of love, I choose love.  God knows me.  He knows I want to be faithful to Him, want to do the right thing.  If I’m getting this wrong, I trust that He’ll either show me, or forgive me, or both.

I’ve got so many unresolved questions, but at some point you have to be willing to move in one direction or the other.  I’m choosing to move toward my gay friends, the people too many Christians still describe with words like “pervert” and “abomination” and “detestable”.  Some of them are choosing to be celibate because they believe that’s what faithfulness to Christ requires.  Some of them have concluded that they can serve God in the context of a same sex relationship.  Maybe they’re mistaken about that: I don’t know.  That’s part of my own confusion.  But I know that some of them are in more faithful, long term relationships than the straight marriages that the church supports.

Either way, I’m on their team.  I want to support them as they seek a truly Christian sexual and relational ethic – and I want them to support straight Christians as we do the same.  I really believe if we live in the presence of Jesus, he’ll transform us from the inside out, as he sees fit.

“Love is the fulfillment of the law.”  I choose love.

On Maundy Thursday

The Last Supper, Ugolino di Nerio

The arguments of the past several days – in court, on social media, among friends and family – have given new meaning to “Passion Week”.  But this is Maundy Thursday and my focus is on the last meal Jesus shared with his disciples.  Jesus was the host at that Passover meal:  he washed the feet of his followers, and served them at the table.  My Lord broke bread with his betrayer, Judas; with his denier, Peter; with the “friends” who would sleep when he needed comfort and run when he was facing death.  Yet Jesus still ate with them, prayed with them, sang a hymn with them.  And over that meal Jesus gave them a new command:  “Love one another.  As I have loved you, so you must love one another”.

It is easy in the heat of the moment to see friends as opponents, and opponents as enemies.  Today I am reminded that Jesus, my Savior and my God, has no enemies.  The cross was his definitive act on behalf of those who stood in opposition to him, a message communicated in that final meal:  “This is my body, broken for you….this cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.”  Even in the middle of our failures Jesus is calling us to reconciliation and love, taking the cost on himself.  He is our gracious host as we come to his table – motley, rancorous crew that we are.

This Maundy Thursday I pray for the grace to follow Jesus.  God has no enemies.  I have no enemies.