The Temptation to Manage or Massage the Truth

A Few Good Men (1992) contains one of the most memorable scenes in cinematic history.  In a military trial Lieutenant Kaffee (Tom Cruise) only thinks he's on the offensive and grilling Colonel Jessup (Jack Nicholson.)

Kaffee: Colonel Jessup, did you order the Code Red?!

Judge: You don't have to answer that question!

Jessup: I'll answer the question. You want answers?

Kaffee: I think I'm entitled!

Jessup: You want answers?!

Kaffee: I want the truth!

Jessup: YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!!!     

Ironically, I think there are a lot of Christians--regarding themselves as knowing the Truth-- who actually can't handle the truth.  Here's what has prompted this.  

Recently, an acquaintance, whom I respect in many ways but with whom I also occasionally differ, posted on fb about someone lamenting that she felt "defeated." He asserted, " A believer is never defeated.  Romans 8 (the most positive chapter in the Word) says "in ALL things, we are MORE than conquerors (emphasis his) through Jesus Christ.  While we may be harassed from time to time, we are never defeated. {We are} conquerors.  Let that sink in."    While I appreciate his optimistic hope and faith, I also feel there is an element of denial. Maybe she is,in fact, truly defeated, i.e. maybe her marriage is absolutely hopeless.  Maybe her prodigal son has walked away, never to return.  Maybe she is terminally ill and death will rob her young kids of their loving mother.  These tragedies--and worse--happen to us.  For some of us, it's over.  It's broken beyond repair.  It's irrevocable.  

l am a Christ-follower but I admit there are times when Jesus simply does not fix it.  There are times when the resurrected Lord does not resurrect a broken marriage or a cancer-ridden body.  Defeated.

But many of us can't handle that and we rush in to either explain it away or provide shallow encouragement (e.g." they're in a better place now.")  We have to fix it or minimize it or discount it or spiritualize it--anything but embrace it and sit with it and be present with a friend in the terrible silence wherein there are no answers that help. Can we simply acknowledge it rather than pumping up false hope?  

I replied to his post in this manner:  " I appreciate your Christ-centered hope and optimism, but, on the other hand, even the apostle Paul himself experienced a season when he "despaired of life itself."  Whether we call it defeat or despair or disillusionment  it seems to be the experience at one time or another, of most, if not all, Christ-followers." 

I don't think that settled very well with many. One replied, ". . . even when I'm so worn I know I'm not totally defeated."  Another, "And when that season of feeling defeated is past, we look back and see what God did. {That's why} it says in the Bible to rejoice in everything, be thankful in everything."  And another, "brought down, but not destroyed."  And another rebuttal, "Paul did certainly feel discouraged in Romans 7 but he also know the love and security of the Lord in Romans 8." And others.

While we may have good intentions, I think many of us simply can't handle the truth.  The ancient Christians called it "the dark night of the soul."  Some referred to it as "desolation."  Times when it is dark and there is no light to illumine one's heart or path.  The writers of the Scriptures and the individuals described within its pages were more honest than most of us. David.  Job, The apostle Paul. 

We can say that even though we may feel despairing that isn't truly reality because there is always hope for the Christian.   i would agree that there is always ultimate hope.  But some circumstances are here-and-now hopeless.  Some marriages are doomed.  Someone's child is going to die and no last minute healing is going to take place.  Some 40 y.o is going to receive the news that it's terminal and in 3 months they will be dead. Do we have both the compassion and the courage to enter into that darkness and join them?  Or will we remain safely outside their decimated world and content ourselves with standing outside their crucible and simply lobbing them platitudes? 

 l understand that merely because i feel despairing doesn't mean that life is, in fact, despairing.  Feelings do not determine or define reality.  I get it.  However, if someone is truly feeling despair that is their truth in the moment and do we dare to be present with them and weep with them and be still with them or does the truth of their present experience make us so uncomfortable that we feel obligated to bombard them with platitudes and "answers" and Bible verses. 

Can we handle the truth?  

I made a sobering and yet, ironically, strangely comforting discovery recently. Here's how two of the four gospels describe the final moments of Christ's life.  The very last words that Jesus utters are not Romans 8-esque.  They are not "it's the top of the inning" optimism.  The last words he utters are these:

My God, my God!!  Why have you forsaken me?!?"

And then he died.  No cheery optimism contained in his final breaths.  No warrior-like "Death be damned!" triumphant shout.  Instead, summoning all the strength he has left, he gasps at God, "Why have you abandoned me?" 

Jesus was and is the truth.  Can we handle the truth?

As I said earlier,Jesus' final words are strangely comforting to me. Jesus acknowledged and accepted his horrible forsakenness by God.  With no sugar-coating, Jesus cries out in lament, "God, you have left me to myself!"  This tells me that Jesus knows my own dark night of abandonment. Jesus understands my own flailing in the dark when I beg for answers or presence and neither come.  Jesus understands when it feels like my prayers reach only to the ceiling. Jesus stands in solidarity with us as we navigate through our own journey of faith.

He understands.  Therefore,I don't have to fake it or sound upbeat or engage in platitudinal regurgitation when the dark closes in and feels so suffocating that I question everything    I cling to my trust in him and that's enough.

May God give us grace in two ways:

May he grant us grace to face the darkness and trust in the Light even when all my eyes see is the pitch black.

May God give us grace to enter into our brother's own darkness and may our quiet presence mediate God's own presence.  May God give grace to empty ourselves of platitudes and nervous conversation to fill the awkward silence  and, instead, embrace our sister in her own dark night of the soul..

Some of the Saddest Words Spoken: "I Used To. . . "

                 Some of the Saddest Words Spoken

Wanting to enjoy the sunshine my wife chose to walk to the grocery store.  It’s quite a distance.   With groceries in hand, she was returning and walking through several neighborhoods to get home, enjoying the sound of birds celebrating summer and the sight of flourishing hostas and flowers. Then she heard the yelling of several older people and the sobbing of a young boy.  Initially, it was the harsh volume that caught her attention.  As she got closer it was the unrelenting venomous words being hurled at the boy that pierced her heart.   She slowed her pace, not out of traffic accident curiosity but because she was concerned for the boy.   The three were in their back yard; Les walked just past their residence and then stopped.  She didn't know what to do but she knew the scene could get worse and she wasn't going to allow that to happen.   A man and a woman in their 60’s were standing over the boy, teaming together in their tirade. Eventually, the adults backed off and went back inside their house, leaving the boy alone and crying. 

My wife didn't want to agitate the adults further only for them to scapegoat the boy even more, but neither could she just walk away.  She raised her voice loud enough for the boy to hear, hoping she was under the adults’ radar. 

“Are you ok?” 

“No.”

“Do you want to talk?”

“Yes, I do.”

She introduced herself and asked him a question or two.  He’s “Billy” and he’s 12.  His mom has custody but she couldn't take care of him for a couple days so she persuaded her mother and stepfather to take him.  He was missing mom and they wouldn't let him see her momentarily or even call her.  Instead, they berated him and were intent on screaming and shaming compliance into him.

Les listened as “Billy” poured out his heart to a listening soul.  As he told his story, collecting himself off and on in order to be understood, she cried with him. 

She didn't want to get him in more trouble for talking long with her and she needed to get home, as well.  She asked him if he felt safe; he assured her that there was no physical or sexual abuse taking place.  It was time to say goodbye.

“Is it ok if I pray for you, Billy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you pray?”

I used to; I don’t anymore.”

“I used to; I don’t anymore.”  He’s 12 years old and already his faith has been decimated.  The very people who are to care the most have crushed him the most.  Only twelve and his spirit is already broken.

She walked home and he went back into the house of those who steal dreams and rob kids of hope.

Back From Honduras But A Part of My Heart Still There

I ask if I may enter her little shack.  She smiles and welcomes me.  There is no floor, just mud.  It's the rainy season.  There are massive cracks between boards and metal serving as walls.  The shacks are always dark and dismal even if the sun is brilliant.  They cook over an open fire in the house. The black soot covers the ceiling and walls and surely her children's lungs.  The wind blows not against but through the walls.  The rusted flat metal roof leaks.  I've seen women point to just above their ankles to indicate the amount of rain that may fill their house in any given storm.  Chickens run in and out of the house, as does the emaciated family dog.  It's hell but they take pride even in the hell-hole of a house; I see women sweeping the dirt of their abode with facsimile of a broom.  And you see flowers growing in this hell. Beautiful flowers testifying that these walls may crumble but the spirit of these moms remains strong.
We talk for a while as she tells me her story and then we begin to build her a new house.  She has lived in this squalor for 9 years and been on the waiting list for a new house for two of those years.  Today is the day we begin and she smiles in anticipation.  She is responsible for eight children and 5 grandchildren.  I ask her how she provides for her family;  three days a week she does the laundry for rich people, earning five dollars a day.  I have no idea how they do it.

I visit a thirty something mother for whom we built a house last year.  As I approach she recognizes me and comes running, her eyes full of anticipation.  We hug and enjoy the reunion.  She loves her new home.  It's dry and it provides dependable shelter and even has a front door that she can lock.  She needs to.  Her husband beats her.  She made me aware of this last June and before we left Honduras then I attempted to put in place a support system, but with little success.  

She is proud of her new home and eagerly invites me in.  Even though she is beyond grateful for her house, life remains terribly difficult in light of the abuse.  She admits to me that she has had periods of wanting to kill herself, as she questions her worth and value. As she reveals her sadness I get an idea, a "nudging,"  what I call a "prompting," and determine to follow through with it the next day.  

The next day I return to her house, interpreter by my side.  We sit down and I pull out a bottle of grape juice and a small 6 inch loaf of bread.  She looks confused.  She has little religious history or background.  She knows very little but enough to feel completely unworthy.  I explain these symbols of Christ's death and that God has such a high regard for her--God himself values her so highly--that his Son died for her.  I ask her of she wants to participate and we will share in this ritual together.  She wants to, but her shame tries to talk her out of it.  She tells me, "I've done some very bad things. . . " hinting that her history would preclude her from partaking.  I assure her that it is exactly people like her and me that Christ died for.  We eat a piece of the bread and drink some of the juice together, and I trust and hope that in that moment she also eats and drinks and consumes Christ's love for her. 

I say goodbye, assuring her I will see her next June.

In the meantime, God, hold her in your arms and protect her from her husband's hands.  Give her grace to remember the sacred moment.

On Turning 63: Some Reflections

I am now 63.  Some reflections:

Whoever said, "You don't have anything that Prozac and a polo mallet can't cure," was wrong.  The wrongness runs deep and healing isn't easy or simple.    I still believe and trust in my being an image-bearer of God, but I thought I'd be a better man by now.  Not saintly, but, on the other hand, not nearly still so ego-centered.

Looking back on those early years of marriage, I would have studied less and come home earlier.  I got the M.A. and summa cum laude --thank you-- but I'm not sure my wife got much.  I'm blessed and thankful for a wife who has been in this marriage not for what she could get, but what she could and can give.  

As a dad I would have yelled less and held more.  I'd have avoided less and attached more.  I can come up with innumerable excuses but no reasons.

I'd have rejoiced over the pearl in the poop instead of complaining about all the shit I had to wade through.

I'd have worried much less about what others might think; I gave their opinion entirely too much weight.  

I let fear govern or inform too many of my decisions.  Fear has crippled several dreams.  They are still alive but I am yet to pursue them, and time is running out.  Instead of merely thinking about and entertaining my dreams I would have acted on them.  I'd have pursued them and not allowed the fear of failure to stomp on my neck.  I refuse to give up and by God's grace I will go for it.

I'm grateful for what I'm becoming. The desire to be like Christ--the longing for transformation--is still intense. I do not notice significant change but am told by those wiser than me that the desire itself is a holy and promise-filled thing.

I like being comfortable in my own skin.  I used to hinge my actions and words way too cautiously, fearful of offending or upsetting the moral police.  Now they can ticket me all they want.

When I was a kid my best buddy and I would share a snack consisting of a big pile of peanut butter covered -yes, drenched--in  clear Karo maple syrup.  Each of us ate it by the spoonfuls.  A nearly unparalleled sensual experience.  An epicurean delight.  I need to enjoy more of the simple pleasures in life.

For decades  I have battled and continue to fight depression.  I regret I have allowed depression to win too often.  Too many times the lethargy, the lack of motivation  has caused me at end of day to wonder what in the world I accomplished, seemingly having nothing to show for the 24 hours--except sleep. Too many times it has nearly defined me rather than merely influencing me.  I am determined to fight it.     I am determined to rejoice in the light; I've spent too much time lamenting the darkness.

I still chew my nails.  Embarrassing.  How is this going to look when I'm lying in the coffin, hands folded and people filing by as they whisper about my unsightly hands.  Really embarrassing. I can't imagine how would they would react if they knew I didn't have any pants on.

For the most part I do not like aging.  I'm more forgetful.  I get injured more easily and heal more slowly.  Oncoming car lights bother my night vision when I'm driving.  I'm more forgetful.  I already said that.  I look over not through my reading glasses.  I don't want to die a crotchety old man.  I want to be joyful, I want to laugh more, cry more gentle tears of gratitude.   I want to inspire.  I want to mirror Christ well.

I can't think of a better note on which to end.  So I will.

Finite Understanding of the Infinite God

I've begun reading How (Not) to Speak of God, by Peter Rollins.  Great read so far.  If God is infinite and completely "other" than us some would conclude that therefore we cannot speak of God at all--words are useless and totally inadequate.  Others conclude that because God is infinite and transcends us it elicits volumes of words in attempts to describe or praise him.

He cautions against an easy familiarity with God and encourages a humility in our claims to know who God is.  Some people make all-encompassing descriptions of God as though they have him all figured out and any differing descriptions/theologies are, of course, false.  He urges us to hold loosely to our supposed certainty as to what we believe about God.  In that regard he tells the following joke:

A mystic, an evangelical pastor and a fundamental preacher die on the same day and awake to find themselves at the pearly gates. Upon reaching the gates they are promptly greeted by Peter, who informs them that before entering heaven they must be interviewed by Jesus concerning the state of their doctrine.  The first to be called forward is the mystic, who is quietly ushered into a room.  Five hours later the mystic reappears with  a smile, saying, "I thought I had got it all wrong."  Then Peter signals to the evangelical pastor, who stands up and enters the room.  After a full day has passed the pastor reappears with a frown and says to himself, "How could I have been so foolish!"  Finally Peter asks the fundamentalist preacher to follow him.  The fundamentalist preacher picks up his well-worn Bible and walks into the room.  A few days pass with no sign of the preacher, then finally the door swings open and Jesus himself appears, exclaiming, "How could I have got it all so wrong!"

Finding myself somewhere in the mix, I feel humbled but not shamed and will continue reading.

Hopefully, I will continue living with the tension of less certainty yet more faith.

See the Other as You Want to Be Seen

There are the safe people, the good people, honorable, trustworthy and noble; that would be "us."  And then there is everyone else.  The "other."  And we often view the "other" as possessing none of those same qualities.  The "other" easily can become the enemy.

Whether individually or collectively as a nation people upon encountering someone "other than" themselves often look downward at them rather than eye to eye.  Someone of a different color moves into the established family neighborhood and they are often viewed with suspicion before even meeting anyone.  The person who doesn't speak our language is told to learn English and abandon his native tongue; his language is "other" than ours and obviously inferior.     I look down on the guy that wears his pants halfway down his butt; I doubt his mother has a " My Son is an Honor Roll Student" bumpersticker.  Notice I mention his mother, because I doubt his father is around.  The young man is the "other."

George Byron Koch, in a paper, "The Ministry of Reconciliation," illustrates how profoundly this lens can affect our viewing of others.

Several years ago my brother was staying in a small village in Ireland.  He asked in the local pub about a similar small  village a mere 6 miles away that he was considering visiting.  He was told sharply that the village he was in had nothing to do with the other village, would not speak to anyone there--ever--and that they had no information to share with him about that village.  The anger and distrust in their voices were obvious.  The nearby village was "other," the enemy.
Nonplussed he asked about the reasons for their anger and distrust.
They said, " In 1066 when William the Conqueror came through Ireland he attacked that village first.  They didn't send anyone here to warn us that he was coming."
So "they" couldn't be trusted.  "They" were a danger.  And for nearly a thousand years "they" had remained "other," the enemy.  

At first glance this seems so appalling.  How could "they" be so narrow-minded and short-sighted?  But a look in the mirror silences my judgment.  I, too, tend to look through the same lens of distrust and suspicion. Different target, same lens.  

We all are created in the image of God and, therefore, each of us  and each of "them" are image-bearers of God.  I have to make a conscious effort not see "them" as "other" but as my brother and sister.  I need to step down off my ladder of superiority and look eye to eye at this "other " person.  

To rid myself of that downward look I need to look upward and seek God's grace to do so.  Sixty two years of will power alone hasn't worked so far. 

What a beautiful world it would be if we all could look at the "other" through the same lens that we would want the "other" to view us.

High School Reunions: The Agony and The Ecstasy

A reality check--attend your 45th high school reunion.  

Seeing my former classmates was like a look in the mirror.  I look as old as they do.  That was one sobering glimpse.  In my state of denial I choose to believe that my physical appearance hasn't changed all that much through the years.  A reunion asserts loudly and clearly, "You gotta be kidding."

It's a hard adjustment when, if your mind works similar to mine, you remember people like they were, rather than like they are.  I recall "Bill"* as the class playboy; seeing him today I doubt he can even remember the last time he had sex.  "Virginia"* was captain of the cheerleader squad--outgoing and gregarious,blond, body of a goddess.  Add 50 lbs and subtract her personality she only speaks when spoken to. Fortunately, "Steve"** is still charming, confident, debonair, engaging, --the list goes on.  And completely psychotic. 

A 45th reunion serves as a sobering reminder of our mortality.  Of a graduating class of about 70, 10 are deceased.  That seems like a high percentage that the Grim Reaper has claimed for his own.  It reminds me to treasure each day and live it in a full way because I might also be living it in a final way.

I grew up in small-town America, graduating from Hicksville High School.  Seriously.  Upon graduation I left and never turned back,  escaping my sheltered existence and wanting to experience all that life has to offer.  I wanted to travel and explore.  I've lived with all the jokes about Hicksville.  Do you know what it was like to sit in front of a prospective employer and as he is going through your resume he notes aloud, "So you say you graduated from Hicksville High.  Are you trying to be a smartass?"  I do my best to convince him of my truthfulness but he looks at me, squinting his eyes in suspicion.

Truth is, though I don't miss small-town America  I can say with certainty there is a loyalty to each other, a mutual care and pulling together when a friend is down, a camaraderie that is seldom found elsewhere. The reunion reminded me of those glowing qualities in my friends who have remained in Hicksville.

I look forward to the 50th reunion.  I was asked if I would provide the sermon on that Sunday morning.  Talk about planning ahead.  Then it dawned on me.  I was given so much notice because they probably figure it will take me five years to come up with something of substance to say.  

Some things haven't changed at all.

*    not actual name or person

**  my actual name