The woman came to my church in early 1998. Her husband had passed away Christmas Eve '97, and her pastor and church leadership at the time had encouraged her to pray for his resuscitation, which they called ressurection, being unaware of the theological difference, it seems. Yes, you read that right. The attractive, mid-50s, professional woman was the widow of a man who died, as doctors predicted, of cancer at the age of 55. For six months leading up to his alleged death, his primary physician was warning the family to get their affairs in order. While he was doing the professionally responsible thing, her pastor was assuring the couple that cancer was not God's will, and so the husband would be healed. You think you know the rest, but you don't.
The very night he died, her pastor (and it hurts to use the word in this context) prayed for and reassured her, followed up on her regularly, and made her transition to a widow's life as smooth as possible. Um, actually, that was the exact fuckin' thing he was supposed to do. Instead, at her husband's bedside, with him recently pronounced dead, he told her it was a test of faith, and she ought to believe that God would raise him from the dead. Elders joined the pastor in a ring around the bed and began to pray for a miracle. He stayed dead.
When the woman shared her story with me after church that Sunday, I was livid, of course. It seems ministry demonstrated more than any job I've ever had that I went straight from uterus to curmudgeon. I knew the church, knew the pastor, and knew some of the leadership. We too were a Charismatic congregation, but we didn't practice the extremes of the movement as this large (and still thriving) church did. I met with her a few times, but she wisely decided that a 33 year old pastor didn't know shit-all about losing a partner of 30 years or the subsequent struggles it entailed, and she went to an older, wiser gentleman for counseling—an excellent choice on her part.
The story isn't meant as a general condemnation of Charismatic Christianity. I believe any form can be practiced in a healthy, non-destructive manner, even the conservative kind. I told it because it illustrates the danger of misunderstanding how language fuctions, especially language that is pulled irresponsibly from a community of reference's lexicon and used wrongheadedly. When I finished my previous post, I received replies from a variety of sources, including friend Jon, not pastor Jon, professor Jon. I'll post a chunk of his comment for clarity:
The literature holds some power of language. One verse in the Bible resonates right now with me: a sad heart is better than a happy one. Of course, these words stem from real people struggling with tragedy and not some abstract concept of gods.
I was irritated with the way Christians were using the Bible in the wake of the tornados; I thought it irresponsible and malicious, if unintentionally so. Jon is right that the words can reflect the struggles of a particular people in the midst of tragedy, and the corollary is also true—some words are used to reflect joy. This makes perfect sense, and the lexicon we are handed by our tradition determines the words we will use to reflect our emotional response to a given circumstance. If we grow up reading the exodus narratives, it makes sense that when we feel "delivered," we call upon God with language borrowed from the Song of Moses or one of the Psalms. When we feel beset by enemies or slanderers or circumstances, we are likely to quote Proverbs or Psalms or even "For our battle is not against flesh and blood..." This is all fine and good. It is a personal emotive response to a circumstance. This is not the sum of Christian utterance in tragedy, though, and I'm pretty sure it's not even paradigmatic.
Christians tend not to cry out like Job did in the parable. He thought it best not to wonder what God's motives were; rather, he insisted on his own faithfulness and his trust in YHWH. That's all fine as well, but it's only sensible if there is a god to give you 14 children after the first 7 were killed. What I seem to see most often in these moments of suffering is problematic from the side of the community, not the personal response. The community, which I certainly believe is the locus of hermeneutical understanding, seems to assert what God's will is, or, by inference, imply that God's will is somehow to be revealed in the tragedy. Post-tornado and post-cancer death, both communities insisted on some understanding or some insight, and I'll grant that the pastor who prayed for resuscitation is a grander douchenozzle than a well-meaning if poorly read Christians who insists "God works in mysterious ways," after an F4 moves through a city. He sure as fuck does. Works like Marduk or Thor, it seems.
This is borrowing from the lexicon with no regard to what the words actually mean. It's an attempt to offer comfort via insight, but it's a theological clusterfuck. It's only exacerbated by placing examples side by side and realizing this one lives and this one dies and this one is maimed and this one is unscathed and this one...You get the point. In every case, the same verses can be applied, which is, I think, far worse than applying different texts. For example, for the woman who lost two sons, "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble," is only comforting if "refuge" is taken metaphorically to mean one who provides comfort. It sure as shit didn't mean shelter. Nevertheless, the verse can be used effectively by the man across the street who has a house and family intact. Better to dig through Lamentations for the woman, and apply, "Bitterly she weeps at night and tears are on her cheeks."
It is the nature of religious language that it be slippery. It's unavoidable, because the words are formed around things that can't be verified in any way. I am free to say anything I want, especially if God is going to let me get away with it. It's no good to say we'll be held to account in the end; that's the same thing as saying we can't verify it 'til we're all fuckin' dead. What a shitastically bad answer. The lexicon can provide a structured way to talk about the world and God and life, etc., but it's never going to be held to account in this life. The dead guy was going to stay dead. They could have quoted as many texts as they wanted from Elijah's and Elisha's ministries, or they could have read the Lazarus passage, but the result would have been the same: the dead stay dead. It's irresponsible use of Biblical language.
Ultimately, Job ends up saying "The Lord gives and the Lord takes away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Awesome. It's to say, eh, shit happens and God can do what he wants. This is only exceeded in masochism by the even more painful utterance: "Though he slay me, I will yet trust Him." Good for you, Job. No other book better illustrates the fruitlessness of following sky gods. Good shit happens. Thanks, God. Bad shit happens. Thanks, God. Reality is reduced to some monistic MMPORPG in the hands of a Janus-like sociopath, such that any utterance is equally true and equally false, and neither means anything. Language, which should be used to build fences around experience so that it can be understood or scrutinized or at least categorized as inexplicable, is forced to serve the whims of a community who is determined to justify belief in any way possible, even by using the same words to describe utterly different experiences of the God they call good. I prefer my own personal insanity, thanks much, and wine.
