"Hopes like Summer Roses"

Red Herring: Joy

Even though this post joins the company of a Katherine Heigl movie and a Nora Roberts novel in my gaggle of distractions from stress and a backpack full of papers to grade, it came upon me in one of the happiest times of my life.

My brother has safely returned from Afghanistan. I get to see my nephew more than ever. I am surrounded by family and friends that gift me smiles and laughter and support. I work at a fantastic school where my students make me laugh and my coworkers keep me sane. I'm exploring fast-approaching options for graduate school and seminary, and as a forever-student, this thrills me. I'll even throw in the fact that the Gamecocks are in the national title conversation as a source of joy because anyone who follows my Facebook would guess that is the one and only thing that occupies my thoughts.  On top of all of this, I was fortunate, about one year ago, to cross paths with a man who has shown me a new kind of happiness, one that I hope to explore for many more years.

The Real Issue at Hand: Grief

Despite this sap-saturated introduction, this post will not be about the joy I find myself surrounded in today. Instead, I sit down on this beautiful fall day to write about grief.

I imagine this post will not be as poignant as the poems I wrote in the midst of losing one of my best friends to cancer. However, now that grief has had several months to soften, I can write about it with a clearer head.  The agony I felt when Lee left this world will never fully fade-- even though I can remember him and smile because of his humor, his pure-heart, his eternal optimism... I will also always miss him and imagine the wonderful experiences he would have had in this life. The beauty here is that I am certain Lee has found the Kingdom of God, and there, peace and joy and the comfort denied him in his final days. As wonderful as this world is, it pales in comparison to the world that is breaking in, the world that Lee resides in now. Here I find comfort.

When my grief was its most raw, though, I did not find comfort in spiritual thoughts. In fact, I avoided church services even more than I had before Lee's death. (That is perhaps a topic for another post or two or three... despite my love and curiosity for God, I have lately not been a regular church attendee.) But many, I imagine, who might have been concerned or at least curious about my drop in attendance, must have been certain that after such a jarring tragedy, I would seek comfort in the arms of the church.

(I argue that I did just that, seeking comfort in the arms of people that I love, who loved Lee, who love God even if it wasn't during a service, but I'll get off-topic.)

Why is it that during times of crushing grief, I and so many others have fled walls of the church, running from the sound of hymns and praise songs, avoiding sermons and the many acquaintances who would offer their comfort and condolences? I see my brother doing the same, now that he has returned from Afghanistan followed by the memories of his injured and fallen comrades. And Lee's father, a long-time mentor and a surrogate father to me, shared that "since Lee's death, one of the hardest places for [him] to be is in worship."

That was absolutely true for me, especially in the weeks immediately following Lee's death, and it still isn't easy. Again... why?

Like any respectable amateur blogger (or someone who's mind always tends to wander at inopportune times), I have a few theories to offer, parts of which I attribute to my mentors and community at the summer camp I work at, and parts of which stem simply from my own mind, recently riddled with the anguish of losing a friend.

Theory 1: Stage of Grief

As traditionally taught, many people experience grief in 5 stages, in varying degrees and orders.

1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depressed
5. Acceptance

In my own experience, attending Lee's funeral was perhaps the worst moment of my entire life. 99% of the reason for that was dealing with my friend's death... the remainder had very much to do with the setting that surrounded me. His funeral was held in his church--appropriate, as he gave and found so much joy there. But surrounded by the concrete symbols of religion and listening to praise songs literally turned my stomach that day.

I remember singing, "How Great is our God." Well, correction... I remember staring straight ahead, jaw set in fury, tears streaming down my face, as others around me sang. The words caught in my throat-- I was afraid if I opened my mouth, I would scream or vomit or curse or weep even more.

As an English teacher, self-proclaimed literary snob, trained close-reader, and instinctive deconstructionist, I could give you more rational, word-based reasons why that song is not one of my favorites. But, it was one of Lee's, a song that he loved and leaned on. But that day, it made me sick with fury. If God's power was so great, why had Lee died? 

Therein lies my first theory: the grieving avoid church because attending forces them to confront a God who has disappointed them, a God who feels absent, even uncaring in the midst of their agony. That funeral service found me in an odd mixture of the 2nd and 4th stage of grief, and I was not ready to face God.

Theory 2: Songs, Speeches, and Sermons

In my second theory, I get to give you that more rational, word-based explanation of why I am not fond of "How Great is Our God" and many other songs by Tomlin and the Passion-fueled Reformed CCM sector.

It wasn't just my confrontation with God that made me itch to flee that church service and the few others I attended after Lee's death; it was also the liturgy I found there that drove me away.

Take a few stanzas of "How Great" for an example.

The splendor of a King, clothed in majesty
Let all the earth rejoice
All the earth rejoice

Rejoice? Honestly? I felt absolutely no joy on that day. My memories of Lee made losing him that much more painful, and I did not want to rejoice-- I wanted to weep, to grieve.

He wraps himself in Light, and darkness tries to hideAnd trembles at His voiceTrembles at His voice

Not only is the idea of God (male pronoun God, of course) wrapping Himself in light vague and strange... my darkness did not hide or flee or even withdraw slightly that day. And hearing about it fueled my anger.

Age to age He standsAnd time is in His handsBeginning and the endBeginning and the end

This verse was perhaps the worst for me... Time is in the hands of God, and God allowed Lee's to run out. For someone absolutely drowning in sorrow... these were not the lyrics I could sing. And of course, my initial question remains: If God's power was so great, why had my friend died?

Music is not the only element a grieving person might fight unsatisfactory in the average liturgy. On an average day, sermons are not about grief or hopelessness or being so furious with God that you want to vomit. So, someone like myself exploring church services again after a loss will listen to the message about a text or about how to live well and feel a) isolated or even abnormal (is no one else angry or sad? does anyone else feel like God is far away?) or b) frustrated by the emphasis put on topics that seem irrelevant through the eyes of grief. (How can I be a good Christian when I am busy being disappointed in Christ and feel like I can't tell anyone I feel that way?)

And finally, perhaps something that cannot be changed, and something I wondered about in a post about death many months ago, before Lee's relapse. What words can anyone possibly have to offer someone in the throws of grief that really mean anything, that really give any comfort? Church services are filled with people with the best of intentions, but the words often offered to the grieving are cliche and unhelpful.

"I am so sorry for your loss." (Yeah? So am I. No need for you to apologize.)

"He's in a better place now." (That may be true, but I still miss him and I don't feel better.)

"God is in control." (Exactly. That is why I am angry.)

Hence--- songs, speeches, and sermons may keep people away from church after experiencing a loss.

What, you may ask, do I propose as an alternative? 

I am no song-writer, but I know one thing-- I need churches to sing songs about emotions other than joy and praise. Sadly and for most of humanity, it is not the emotion that fills most of our lives most of the time. So when I am never allowed to sing about anger or doubt or hurt, it makes me wonder if feeling these things is ungodly. When I was at Lee's funeral, I did not want to sing about joy; I wanted to sing a song to God that touched on how I was feeling.

My boss and mentor shared a song that I think offers a much more genuine worship venue for the grieving. 

A few lyrics... 

"O heart bereaved and lonely,
Whose brightest dreams have fled
Whose hopes like summer roses,
Are withered crushed and dead
Though link by link be broken,
And tears unseen may fall
Look up amid thy sorrow,
To Him who knows it all"

How much more similar to how I felt! Bereaved and lonely, my hopes like dead summer roses. This was a song I could have sung with honesty.

Oh watch and wait with patience
and question all you will.
His arms of love and mercy,
are round about you still. 

And there it is--- the freedom to question without being abandoned by God whose love can handle any questions or doubts or anger I may have. How I have longed for years to hear these words!

As far as sermons, I am less ready with an answer. I do wish preachers, both at funerals and every other day, offered messages that did not make me feel sinful for having doubts or questions or anger. As much as funeral sermons should celebrate the life of the departed, it should also address the emotions felt by the gathered and not ignore them in favor of offering bland, expected words.

And when it comes to speeches, the alliterative name I have assigned the topic of comfort offered by church-goers... as much as I appreciate your sincere desire to comfort me... you cannot. Your words cannot erase or quicken my grief, as much as you and I really wish they could. So... don't try so hard. Let me be sad and be sad with me. Lament is a true a form of worship as any-- don't make me do it alone.

So, preachers and song-writers and church-goers, of which I am (officially) neither, I have asked a lot of you tonight, but it boils down to this-- I (and so many others) are not always so full of joy as you seem to be, as it seems you expect. In fact, sometimes I am furious with God and doubt God takes any notice of my pain. Sometimes I am so overwhelmed with grief that I can't feel or express any other emotion. So... let me be sad. Give me songs and messages that let me be sad and assure me that it is okay to be sad, that it does not make me weak or a lesser follower.

And you know what? I bet sometimes your hopes are summer roses, too. Now I know-- it is okay to question, to be angry, to feel sick with doubt... God's arms of love and mercy are round about you still. 

 

- Hillary Beasley