What if I'm not a Victorious Christian?

 The existence of fairy tales and their universality tells me something about the condition of the human heart: We love neatly contained stories with closure. It comforts us to feel the end of a story coming, and to know there will be a resolution, even if imperfect, brings a kind of relief. Most fairy tales have happy endings, some have gloomy endings, but they all seem to have a kind of solidly-footed ending. It wraps up the package, the telling: the journey for the hearer is complete. And I wonder if this universal yearning isn't also re-worked within Christendom to promote ideals that may yield fervour on the one hand, but despair on the other. For our fervour, consistency, zealous striving, and success are all prone to wane at times, and we may expect more from ourselves than is possible or realistic. Yet that doesn't stop Christian publishers from churning out books that beckon more from each seeker. 

Who am I to complain? I wouldn't read such things anyway - though I have in the past. But we in the Christian sub-culture have been conditioned to expect closure, and tidy endings (just like the rest of the world). And yet reality shows us that life rarely comes to us with tidy endings. We don't usually get to experience the closure we long for. The life of faith specifically and directly calls us to take stock in the actual reality of God and His faithful goodness to us, and to reckon with the unwieldy life we live laden as it is with uncertainty, unpredictability, loss, suffering, and risk. Faith-life is anything but tidy; it feels more like a wild, scary, dangerous, adrenaline-rush, rodeo ride through the untamed wild west. My life at times seems to be hurtling at high speeds down a circuitous tunnel with surprises around every corner. And sometimes those surprises are frightful. 

As I begin to reckon with the reality of our last month, I enter realms of thought-dialogue with my own soul. I hash out questions, and notice these are mechanisms to tame emotion that lies deep and unreleased. I talk to myself through all this, and talk to God, half the time telling God, 'Don't listen to that bit; it seems heretical in this moment.' I dive into a diatribe on my own theology of suffering. I tell God that I hate suffering. I hate seeing it. I don't like it one bit. I cycle through my own questions and reasonings. And I recognize reason is just another form of the B in DABDA: Bargaining. Maybe if I can reason with my reactions, they'll re-formulate into something...better? More manageable? More tame? And I realize there is rage, sorrow, loss, deep pain, and more rage, bubbling beneath the surface, and remember I used to be a red-head, with the temper to go with it.

I remember telling some of my life to others and them waiting for the happy ending: "You've come through all that and you're okay, right?" I stare back blankly. I don't know exactly what to say. "Uh, I guess." I see the flicker of disappointment. We see God do amazing things and we love the miracle, the visible, tangible reality that God moves in creation, in the lives of His people, He DOES THINGS. But what about when I continue to live with a limp in my soul? 

I've turned over the events of Timo's accident around and around in my mind. I daren't let my heart take part or I might crumble. It's okay to crumble, I tell myself. But I hesitate to believe it. I can't take my own advice it seems. The hardest part is to consider each instant where he may have died - a mere inch of clearance meant the difference between life and death. These thoughts are horrific. And yet, he lives, and I have an alive child here with me today. I am grateful - immensely grateful - for the merciful providence of God, Who no doubt had extra angels assigned to my boy that night. But the reality is not lost on me, that I may be muddling my way through even greater grief and loss. Others mourn a lost child. I only mourn pain, suffering, disruption, and a great financial burden. It seems I am tasting what is known as 'survivor's guilt.' 

The Christian sub-culture loves the idea of a Victorious Christian; one who, in the face of all life's struggles, emerges with unwavering faith, confidence, success and nearly Pollyanna-like glee in the face of every pain, loss, and suffering. I don't want to knock this, because it is truly a joy to watch others persevere in their faith with beautiful ponderings on all they see God doing even in the midst of great sorrow. And in this season for me, I sometimes find myself with crazy unwavering faith and confidence in the faithfulness of God. Notice that word: 'sometimes.' There are other times when I think, 'What if I don't have a fantastic attitude about all this? What if I have a freak out moment of doubt, of challenge, an outburst of rage over the things I'm going through?' What then?'

We love to read the stories of devoted Christians who've gone before, who have suffered, and yet seem victorious in their attitudes about it. It's all well and good to read, listen to, and ponder their lives. But I want to encourage us to think about it carefully: We are reading these accounts long after they processed their sorrow. It took years to write and publish their tales. We got to hear about it when the story was concluded, when there could be a nice, tidy, ending. What about when they were in it? Because right now, I'm in it.

I picked up the Bible and didn't know what to read. 'How about Job?' I thought to myself. 'Noooo. I don't think I want to read that. I'm dealing with enough just now. I don't want to dabble in Job's misery too.' But then I couldn't help myself. I hadn't read it in a while. So I began. I'd forgotten what all was in there. I can't say I was really encouraged by it. More fascinated. More flummoxed.

Job was IN it: BIG time. 

Suffering upon suffering. Grief upon grief. Loss upon loss. This ancient man of old lived and walked a painful, suffering road. And I get to read about it. After 7 chapters I had to stop. I can't take too much in one go of that. It just feels too heavy. How's that for a 'victorious Christian' attitude?

So, yes, I'm  in my suffering. I'm not through with it. I'm not done. And looking back at my life, it seems some of my particular call involves a life of lament. I wonder if I am not called to demonstrate what lament looks like to the Church that often seems to preach more of joy and rejoicing and gratitude (all of which are SO important!) than on the biblical practice of lament. 

And, to demonstrate, I'm going to end this blog post with no real conclusion. There is no ending here. Just like how we experience life: it is ever changing, full of surprises, some joyful and some sorrowful. I know God is faithful - I see that every day. I know God is with me in my sorrow - I feel His comfort and Spirit giving consolation that can only be divine. I sense His love and tender care, even when I dabble in telling God all the reasons this kind of suffering doesn't 'count' for anything (it's not like we're toughing it out in some hostile environment). 

So yes, I believe strongly that God is good all the time. And I also believe suffering sits on our souls like dead weight waiting to be tended. And that in the time it sits, and even while it is tended, I can both believe good and true things and also be in deep pain at the same time. Lamenting is also being victorious. The Psalmist did it. So I can too.