October 29, 2013
Dear St. Paul’s Family,
The toughest moments in life are those that cannot be described by a single word. We know joy. We have felt grief. We recognize contentment. Those we can explain to others. But there are times when language fails us, when certain feelings require an assault of our best vocabulary only to have them nip around the edges. Sadness, sorrow, restlessness, itchiness, darkness. Suffering, perhaps. But even suffering is both too strong a word, yet not strong enough. Whatever it is, you don’t talk about it when someone asks you how you are doing. Not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t know how.
As hard as it is to name that feeling, it is even harder to deal with it. Suffering of this nature often presents two distinct responses, which we try in equal measure.
The first is to focus forward. We turn our gaze away from the suffering of the present moment in the hopes of spotting a bright day on the horizon. We cling to the possibility that though things might be rough now, we need not worry: it will be okay someday soon. It always is, we say to ourselves. We justify that hope by shrinking our canon within the canon, theologizing our situation with thoughts of the Promised Land, and Easter, and the resurrection. We take our cues from these select biblical narratives because they reinforce our salved conviction that hope is surely coming, for it says so in the Bible.
But then three days pass. Or forty days, or even forty years, and there has been no resurrection, no rainbow, no promised land. We come to the reluctant realization that this promise we assuredly claimed has not come to be.
So we shift to the other extreme. Since the future cannot be manufactured with expedience, we negotiate a settlement with the present. We resign ourselves to our condition as a sandcastle settles with the sea. We embrace the imminence of our suffering and say it is “not so bad after all.” Our canon within the canon looks different, focusing instead on texts that are less imaginative and more realistic. All is vanity and chasing after the wind, says Ecclesiastes. I have a thorn in my flesh, says Paul. Take up your cross daily, says Jesus. Then, having acknowledged reality, we detach from it. We carry no degree of anticipation or expectation of a turnaround, lest we invest too much emotional capital on a disappointing outcome.
We soon discover that hedging our bets and exercising caution is no great solution either. Imagination and creativity are innate human qualities, and it is part of what it means to be made in God’s image. We cannot help but dream of a future that is better than today.
The end result of these opposing options is a life of vacillation between the two. Between anesthetizing our suffering with hopeful dreams, and suppressing our anticipation with detachment. Between denying the power of our pain through constant longing, and by giving it too much power through acquiescence. In short, between wanderlust and wandering lost. Yet either choice is a form of denial. If we look past our suffering, we deny the reality of the present moment. If we resign to our suffering, we deny the power of the resurrection.
Is it possible – and I offer this to you with earnest questioning – that there might be a third option?
Maybe it would begin with the simple acknowledgement that to suffer means to be alive. Not that suffering is ever beneficial or necessary, but that the capacity to feel complex, even indescribable emotions, is a solid reminder that we are alive. To deny that ability to feel is to deny what it means to exist altogether. Even Job – the poster child for human suffering - realized that his misery was an indicator of his own aliveness. He determined his own path through suffering “as long as breath is in me and God’s breath is in my nostrils.”
Naming suffering as an indicator of our existence can remove any fear of its presence in our lives. We need not shudder or cower. Instead, we can encounter that pain within us and explore its shadows, unafraid of its power. We can plunge into its depths like a spelunker in a cave, or a deep-sea diver in the ocean. In the midst of that dark pressure, we are then surrounded by an amazing, intense complexity of thought and emotion. We can confront our suffering courageously: chronicle it, process it, attempt to put it into words, verbalize it to a friend, write it in a journal, identify its precedents, translate it into art, create its metaphor, see it, express it, and share it. And then, something marvelous can happen. By neither denying or acquiescing to our suffering, we can instead offer it to God as raw material for creative transformation. “Think of the various tests you encounter as occasions for joy,” James writes. “After all, you know that the testing of your faith produces endurance. Let this endurance complete its work so that you may be fully mature, complete, and lacking in nothing.”
In a way, writing today's Mid-Week Message for you is my own attempt at accomplishing this very thing myself.
And just as it is unwise to go ocean diving or cave exploring alone, we must always take this journey with someone else. A trusted companion (such as a loved one, friend, or mentor) or professional guide (such as a therapist, spiritual director, or pastor) can be our lifeline along the journey, ensuring that we surface regularly, checking our gauges to make sure we are ready to continue.
None of this, of course, is possible without the presence of God’s Spirit at work in and through us. For there is no greater companion on this journey than Christ himself, who knew precisely the best course to follow when confronted by human suffering. He was neither overwhelmed by nor in denial of its power. Instead, he “descended into hell,” plunging straight into human suffering and confronting it head on. Only then could our human condition be creatively transformed into new life.
Your baptism, by the way, makes you a participant in that very same narrative. And when life gets too hard to put into words, that is always the best news of all.
Grace and Peace,
Magrey
The Rev. Magrey R. deVega
St. Paul's United Methodist Church
531 W. Main St.
Cherokee, IA 51012
Ph: 712-225-3955
Email: mdevega@sp-umc.org
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