Tonight we had a deep and serious conversation about suffering at Church Council. Earlier I had written a reflective essay about the work I sense us being called towards this year. It included the following: "I came across an article written by monastic friend (from Boston) who was in worship and heard the old hymn, “Crown Him with Many Crowns,” in a new way. “I couldn’t help but think of my young friend (and many others) as we sang: "Crown him the Song of God before the worlds began, and ye who tread where he hath trod, crown him the Son of man; who every grief hath known that wrings the human breast, and takes and bears them as his own, that all in him may rest.”
+ First, none of us senses that suffering in and of itself is redemptive. In this, we clearly separate ourselves from those traditions that celebrate and fetishize the pain of Christ. We are about easing the suffering of the wounded and exploring Christ's joy in the midst of the suffering. In fact, we have chosen to spend more time reclaiming the "feast" as a core commitment than the fast.
+Second, we simultaneously understand that if we are attentive to God's presence within our pain, we can both grow closer to God through our suffering and grow in compassion and patience. In this, something horrible can be used for a greater good. As Paul says, we know that suffering can lead to endurance and character and God pouring hope into our hearts by the Holy Spirit.
But the people in these pews are also people who suffer deeply and (sometimes) find God in their suffering. These are men and women who make love commitments, are faithful to them through trial and temptation and bear fruits of compassion, spirit-fruits that bless the people around them. Babies, surrounded by hopeful and rejoicing parents and friends, are baptized in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Adults, converted by the gospel, surprised and surprising all who have known them are likewise baptized. The dead are offered up to God in funerals that give solemn and joyful witness to the resurrection in the midst of tears and grief. Sinners honestly repent and believingly take the body and blood of Jesus and receive new life.
What would happen, I wondered, if we lived as though we really believed that was true? Why is the notion that Jesus was (is) somehow immune to the ordinary pain and petty sadness of normal human life so persistent? Why is it that so many faithful women and men seem to believe that their circumstance, their suffering, their life is so different from what Jesus experienced on earth? I’ve heard many variations of this complaint over the years – and to be honest, I’ve made it my own on more than a few occasions – but why? (Kevin Hackett, Society of St. John the Evangelist)
All of which set off a fascinating conversation about human suffering, how we react to it as a congregation and what we are called to do about it. Two points took most of our time:
+ First, none of us senses that suffering in and of itself is redemptive. In this, we clearly separate ourselves from those traditions that celebrate and fetishize the pain of Christ. We are about easing the suffering of the wounded and exploring Christ's joy in the midst of the suffering. In fact, we have chosen to spend more time reclaiming the "feast" as a core commitment than the fast.
I found myself blessed over and over by this honest, careful, challenging and very thoughtful dialogue. And then when I got home, I came across these words from Eugene Peterson in my evening prayers that pushed me over the edge:
St. Paul talked about the foolishness of preaching; I would like to carry on about the foolishness of congregations. Of all the ways in which to engage in the enterprise of church, this has to be the most absurd - the haphazard collection of people who somehow get assembled into pews on Sundays, half-heartedly singing a few songs most of them don't like, tuning in and out of a sermon according to the state of their digestion and the preacher's decibels, awkward in their commitments and jerky in their prayers.
But these souls are mixed in with the others and are, more often than not, indistinguishable from them. I can find no other form of the church in the Bible.
What a strange and often overlooked - usually invisible - blessing, yes? This thing we call the church is so wounded and fragile, yet so strong and loving and real at the same time! I wept tears of joy and gratitude as I drove home in the freezing cold.
8 comments:
And yet, we practice an idolatry of suffering: Mel Gibson and The Passion of the Christ. All of Scott Peck's books. Even the neurotic fixation on the "Cross" in Christianity. Where is the balance?
It is a very challenging balance, I agree. I have found great insight and hope in "the paschall mystery" of God working blessings out of the worst situation with those who seek God's loving presence. And I have been present with those whose suffering is not only tragic, but pointless. Or those who become addicted to suffering. Or those who seek out suffering in the twisted notion that they will become closer to God through it.
Your questions - and some of these responses of mine, Peter - were part of our conversation last night. I am sure we haven't yet found the right balance. The fixation and avoidance are not the right direction, so I continue to tread lightly.
Any ideas from your experience?
In my experience, it is better to acknowledge that suffering is part of life (as in, it seems to be unavoidable;it's everywhere), and that if we suffer, then let it have some meaning, otherwise, it is tragic and useless (and worse).
In deriving meaning, we can redeem the suffering, to an extent. We are called, I would say, to help see one another through suffering.
My adult students have suffered terribly in their lives, for no good reason whatever. If and only if they can heal and make something of their lives with support, then the suffering is at least partly redeemed. But I would say that it is always better that they didn't have to go through what they did to get to where they are.
That said, I say that it is valid to try to find the light in the darkness, the presence of God in the despair and terror.
Jesus chose to undergo torture and murder, for whatever reasons. There is no redemption in that (in other words, ditch Substitutionary Atonement) unless we who follow his teachings live the best lives we can.
This resonates with me deeply, Peter, and I am grateful you took the time to respond. So much of the suffering of life should not happen - and still does. What's more, so few of us have either the community of support to be with us through the darkness or the space to reflect on our experience in a way that is redemptive.
Re: Christ and his choice to enter into the pain, I think there is a point but not the medeval substitutionar atonement. As Rene Girard and others are exploring, Christ willingly took on the role of scape goat to expose God's hatred of what is often an organizing fact of life: making the "other" the enemy and killing the "other" so that we feel better.
Have you read his work? I think it would make deep sense to you.
Sounds like a plan, James.
Maybe we could read something together - and discuss it - during Lent? What do you think?
That's a thought--I haven't put together a Lenten discipline, yet.
Me either - it could be anything - so I am totally game and would love a chance to read and reflect on something with you. Let me know what pops up as you think about it, ok?
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