12 Grief Cliche's by Leanne Penny

So, I stumbled across this blog post by my friend Leanne--and I thought she totally hit the nail on the head about the many awful cliches that Christians come up with... and I think she's right that many times the reason is that a cliche is easier than getting too close to the pain and mess that others are experiencing.  So without further ado, here's the beginning of Leanne's post.  You can read the full post here.

Two weeks ago I asked a question via my Facebook page: “In your opinion, what is the worst cliche used for grief and loss?”

People hate clichés, so they were happy to chime in on the flippant things people said to them in their worst moments.

I’ve had nearly all of these thrown at me in a funeral receiving line, all except the ones that pertain to loss of a child, a unique grief which I haven’t walked through.

I’ve spent the past few weeks going over these in my head, turning them over in my heart and I’ve come to realize that there are two central themes running through every one

1) Loss isn’t that bad and it will all be better soon, this isn’t really that hard.

2)  God is the source of your loss, he willed it for the good of all.

I find that every grief cliche has one or both of these going on.
Often those who come bearing these cliches also come armed with scripture that makes us wonder, “wait, are they right? Is the way I’m feeling completely invalid? Is God up there sending the worst into my life like a parent doling out punishment?”

This practice is called proof texting, it’s what people do when they want to say something and they want it to be biblical, so they find a verse that backs up their thoughts and ignore the context completely.

And the google gods have just made this even easier to do… 

Proof texting has backed up slavery, racism, gender inequality, corporal punishment and pretty much all of these awful cliches. So when you hear a verse that seems completely incompatible from what you know to be true of the Gospels and the love of God, dismiss it until you’ve had time to look into the context itself.

For now, let’s blow up some clichés, yes?

To read the rest of the post, click here.

Thanks, Leanne!

Presence in suffering

I had a friend lose a child recently to the criminal justice system, and I was able to stop by the courthouse and stand with my friend as the sentence was handed down.  And I thought that day about the power of presence in the midst of a person's suffering.

See, I didn't really know if I'd be welcome.  I didn't know if it would be embarrassing to my friend to have me there while things were not looking pretty and the horrible realities of life were exposed.  I didn't know if my friend would appreciate the vulnerability that my presence would bring.  We'd never shared an experience like that, never talked deeply about our emotional scars, never really gone to that level.

But still I went, and I stood there, and I experienced those moments with my friend.  And though I couldn't solve any problems or make anything better, I could just be.  I could just be there.  And that means now that my friend will never have to explain to me what happened that day. 

Words will always be inadequate to express what those moments of suffering are like.  If I had not been there, I would never know what happened--not really.  But because I was there and shared that experience no words are necessary.  As my friend deals with what happened that day, I'll never need an explanation for why it is hard or what feelings might be involved.  I won't need the story because I saw the story unfold.  I will know because I was there.

Presence in the midst of suffering is a gift.  And the gift is not in the ability to problem solve, to make the situation better, or to even ease the pain.  But presence is a gift because it means that I don't have to explain to you why my life is hard or why my day was hard or why I am not ok.  You already know because you were there.  And that means that I am not alone.

embracing suffering

Therefore we do not lose heart. 

Though outwardly we are wasting away, 

yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.  

For our light and momentary troubles 

are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.  

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, 

but on what is unseen, 

since what is seen is temporary,

 but what is unseen is eternal.  

2 Corinthians 4:16-18 (NIV)

If you've ever been "hard-pressed on every side" like Paul describes in 2 Corinthians 4:7, you'll understand the struggle not to lose heart.  But Paul says, again and again in so many of his letters, that we should not lose heart.  He consistently talks about finding joy in suffering, comparing today's momentary troubles with eternal glory and abundant life.

But when you're hard-pressed on every side, sometimes it's impossible to see beyond the moment.  When my 38-year-old roommate is literally groaning in pain for hours on end and there's no relief in sight and no hope for future healing, I must admit that I struggle to see anything else.  The abstract thought of life with Christ is so intangible in that moment compared to the solid wall of pain and suffering that's with me in that space and that time.

Paul talks about fixing his eyes on what is unseen, and while I cry out to God to give me that vision--to see what is unseen--it is not a vision that I have within myself.  It's not a vision I can create out of my own mind or even my heart.  I can't produce or imagine what a world free of suffering would even look like, let alone a world  filled up by the presence of God.

But this is what a life of faith looks like, isn't it?  It's a life that embraces humanity and struggle and suffering and invites Jesus into the darkest of places.  It's life that is renewed from the inside out, day by day, no matter what the struggle is on the outside.  It's a life where I know that no matter what the pain and suffering, Jesus is walking with me through it, and the Holy Spirit is interceding on my behalf.

Left on my own, the mere idea of an eternity that I can't see or feel right now would never sustain me through the circumstances surrounding my life.  But what I am finding in this place of suffering is the very real presence of God--not magically fixing all the broken places of life--but transforming me from the inside out and giving me a faith that is solid enough to give me abundant life in the midst of a world where death is mercy.

community in suffering

When I was 15, I traveled to Manila, Philippines for a week for a missions trip.  We did medical clinics in poor areas, checked blood pressure, and played with kids while they waited to be seen by the mission doctors.  Once a day, one of the missionaries would take one of us to deliver powdered milk to the very poorest children in the neighborhood.

The day it was my turn, I followed a missionary woman through tiny pathways in a shanty-town village.  The homes were made of plywood, with tin roofs.  As I peeked around the doorway into one home, I saw a crude table, a small cooking area, and a sleeping area made out of dirt.  There were no couches, no blankets, and nothing that spoke of comfort and home.  If extreme poverty is a type of suffering, then these people were suffering tremendously.

And yet, as I was leaving this same shanty-town, located just outside a dump in Manila, I saw a group of kids playing with a dirty, tattered soccer ball.  There were probably 15-20 kids, and one ball.  Their clothes hung off them like rags, and they clearly had no possessions to their name, yet they kicked and ran and played joyfully.

I remember clearly wondering what gave them such joy in the midst of such suffering.   And I remember realizing that their joy came from their relationships with one another in the midst of the daily difficulties of life.

There are a lot of problems with a collectivistic culture, yet one thing that those kids had that I knew even then that I didn't have, was a strong and deep bond to the community around them.  They were connected to their families and their neighbors--connected in a way that you can only become connected in life when you are facing adversity together.

Community is one of the greatest gifts that suffering can bring.  I know that it has been so for me--that the people I have walked through the last 10 years of life with are the ones that I see as my strongest advocates and my closest friends.  And the depth of the bond that you have to forge with the people who are sharing your journey is not even comparable to the surface relationships that make up so much of our western, comfort-filled lives.

But suffering can also isolate.  As we suffer, sometimes we become so inwardly focused that we are no good to anyone within our community.  Sometimes we lash out from a place of pain and cause pain to others.  Sometimes we simply allow our own suffering to prevent us from joining the community that's around us.

What do you think the difference is between building strong community in the midst of suffering versus allowing suffering to cause division and strife?  I know this is an issue that my new book's characters are going to have to work through, so I'd love to hear from you...

abundant life

When I was little, I dreamed of being an elementary school teacher.  I imagined that I would teach children, have a nice home, a husband, a family.  I imagined that my life would be insulated from trouble and heartache, life would be an adventure, and I would be comfortable, secure, and happy.

When I read Jesus's words in John 10, where he promises abundant life for his followers, sometimes I picture abundant life like that--a warm, safe, vibrant life where there are no worries and there is no pain.  And an expectation creeps in that my life will look like that and feel like that.

But as I've studied the stories of Jesus over the last couple of years, I've come to believe that this abundant life is eternal life.  And eternal life is not just everlasting life--the life we have with God after we die, but the life with the Eternal One that I have right now if I follow Jesus and allow him to transform me.

Life with the Eternal One is always abundant life--it is always the life we were meant to have and the fullest that life can possibly be, no matter what the other circumstances of our lives.

But the way to this abundant life is not what I would expect.  It's not seeking after safety and security and comfort.  It's seeking the kingdom first.   And it's not seeking the kingdom only when it's convenient for me, it's seeking the kingdom though it costs me everything.  Jesus called us to death, just as he died.  He said,  "Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.  For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me and for the gospel will save it."  Mark 8:34-35.

As I've pondered this juxtaposition of abundant life and self-death this week, I've been amazed at how a change in my thinking about suffering affects my feelings about it.  As I've meditated on Paul's statements in Philippians 4 about being content in all circumstances, I think this is the secret that he mentions.  Abundant life is life with God.  Period.  No circumstance, pain, or suffering can take his presence away.  And his presence and communion is what makes life abundant.  A living, growing relationship with the Eternal One is the goal and the reward of life surrendered to Jesus.  Whether I have money or power or family or friends, I know that I belong to God and he is walking with me.  This is abundant life.

The God Who Sees Me

Hagar was an Egyptian slave.  Her owner, Sarai, struggled with infertility, and as was the custom in that place at that time, Sarai offered her slave to her husband to bear her children.  The children would be treated as Sarai's even though she did not bear them.

When Hagar got pregnant, there was a not-so-subtle shift in power.  Now Hagar had something over her owner, and she started to look down on Sarai.  Sarai immediately fought to preserve her power over Hagar by complaining to Abram about Hagar's behavior and abusing her.  So Hagar ran away.

She ran to the desert, found a spring of water, and sat down.  What must she have been thinking and feeling in that moment?  The injustice of her life must have left a bitter taste in her mouth.  She'd run this far, but where was she to go next, as a runaway slave?  How would she care for herself and her baby?

It was there that an angel of the Lord found her and blessed her and promised that she would have a son because God heard her misery.  And she named God the God Who Sees Me.

Human suffering can be so isolating, particularly in a culture so bent on comfort that any mention of a hurt is met with attempts to problem solve or an immediate aversion to further conversation.  No one wants to reflect on suffering or to think it might happen to them.  It's a rare person who can simply sit with one who is suffering and empathize.  So those who are suffering are often left without community to walk with them through it.  We often feel alone and forgotten. 

Leaving aside for a moment the questions of why (like why does God allow suffering at all, or why did he provide relief for Hagar but not for me [my friend, my relative]?),  I find great comfort in this story.  It says something about the character of God, the infinite God who at this time was focused mostly on a guy named Abram to achieve his redemptive purpose for the entire world.  Still, he saw and cared for an Egyptian slave in the midst of her mistreatment.  He saw and ministered to her at a personal level.  Although he didn't fix her situation, indeed, he sent her back to the place she would be mistreated and told her that her son would have a hard time with his siblings, he demonstrated that he was with her even in that difficult place.

God is still the same today.  Even though there are all kinds of human calamities.  Even where there are millions of people suffering at any given time.  Even while God still has a redemptive purpose that is bigger than any one person.  When there is nothing else to hold on to, God is still the God Who Sees Me.

Untitled

60 AD

Euodia stood under the cypress tree, hugging her traveling cloak to her body.  Still she shivered—neither the heat of the summer night nor that of the raging fire could reach her.    But the sound of the blaze insulated her from the gathering crowd.  She saw nothing but the fire, watching almost against her will as the flames danced up the side of her home, consuming everything.   Everyone.

 Atticus.  Jace.   Jace.

It could have been seconds she watched, or hours.  And then she crumbled to the ground and let out a single, piercing shriek.  It was there, huddled on the ground and silent, that Syntyche found her.  



*****

 Several years ago, after my 27 year-old brother had been diagnosed with lymphoma and gone through 9 long months of treatment, my sister-in-law asked me to write about suffering.  It was a super-hard time for my family, bringing my parents home from overseas for a time.  All of us were asking who and where God was and how something like this could happen to someone so young.

Years later, I find myself sitting in a place of a deeper and more sustained type of suffering.  One of my long-term housemates has been struggling with chronic, debilitating nerve pain and brain damage since a lightening strike 6 years ago.  Both of us have lost our fathers to tragic accidents in the intervening years, and daily I face evil and brokenness as I represent criminal clients.

Juxtaposed with all this distress, I find exhortation from Scripture to "embrace suffering" and to look on it as a gift.   In a culture that seeks comfort above almost all else, this Kingdom value is difficult to even get my mind around.  

So it's from this place that I am embarking on this new writing project, as yet untitled.  It's meant to be a novel, with the dual purpose of exploring issues related to suffering and providing background to the book of Philippians for readers who are unlikely to study the biblical back story before trying to understand and apply it to their lives.

In many ways, this project overlaps with what I have been writing about for the past few years.  The question of suffering and evil existing in a world where God is supposed to be good and all-powerful is a question that people ask at an emotional level.  Many seek to have that question answered before they can begin to trust Christ.  For me, and probably for them, the clipped answers of things like "God is in control" or "God is good" simply don't answer the issues of the heart.  And many of my questions are more about what sustainable faith looks like in the midst of suffering - like what does it look like day by day?  And how do you go on trusting and walking with Christ when you're facing down 30-50 years of the same type of suffering with no real possibility of relief aside from miraculous intervention? 

So I don't know what this is going to look like or how often I'll be able to post meaningfully.  I don't know how much of the fiction writing I'll share as compared to the wrestling with the idea and theology of suffering.  But I'm going to aim for the once-a-week posts that I've been doing for the last couple of years.  And I'm going to experiment with involving you as much as I can as the book develops.   

So if you're up for the ride, I'd love to know what you think of the opening scene.  What questions do you have about the characters?  What do you want to hear about next--where Euodia and Syntyche came from, or what they're going through now?