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The Suicide Questions What I've learned from a teacher I hate by Michael Spencer
Often, I preface my essays with
the context of my personal experiences. I've been criticized for this,
and I know it's not the perfect example of an appealing writing style.
My reason has been simple: I am not as much of an essayist or
commentator as I am a
confessing existentialist. My own life experiences are inseparable from
my writing. It is life that causes me to write my best, and my mail
confirms that when I have managed to bring a reader down the path of my
own journey, I can often show him a treasure. I don't want to tell you very much
about why I feel I can write about the questions raised by suicide. I
don't want to travel into those places, and I certainly don't want
anyone, anywhere, ever to think I have some magic knowledge about what
goes on in the minds and feelings of those who take their own lives. I
write this essay with as much fear and humility as I can find. On the other hand, I cannot deny
my God-designed journey, and I truly feel it would dishonor those I
knew and loved who made that awful choice if I did not mention them by
name, and orient my reader to a simple fact that allows me to write: I
have lived these questions as
well, and while I would never deny the facts and feelings of your own
journey, I would hope I
could point you in some right directions and away from some cul-de-sacs. So I write to honor Judy, my
friend and fellow servant for three years of youth ministry, who
decided
life was not worth living if her husband wanted to be with someone
else. I loved her like a sister, and her face is always before me,
young and laughing. I write to honor Greg, a mischevious golden boy who
wanted
nothing more than to be a policeman, but who could not face the
humiliation, rejection and destruction of that dream. He
asked that I do his funeral, and I've wondered a thousand times why he
couldn't have called me one time. I write to honor Zach, whose
teenage anger and despair caused him to take his own life, probably
without even thinking of what he was capable of doing. Like thousands
of
teenagers, he hardly ever knew the life he threw away. There are other times suicide has
touched my life. There are many times that I've ministered to those who
stood in the shadows of self-destruction, but never made the final
choice. Like anyone in youth ministry, the "suicidal ideation" that
saturates youth culture has been almost a daily part of my
relationships with students. I understand the voice of self-destruction
that haunts the darkness, and I have heard it in the recesses of my own
struggles. One other part of my experience
influences the necessity of this essay. In the aftermath of Judy's
suicide, my wife's
faith was rocked and almost destroyed. I watched her deal with these
questions and slowly regain her bearings. Each time we have faced
suicide again, the questions re-emerge for both of us. In the recent
suicide of my
daughter's pastor, I am reasonably certain that I know the questions my
daughter and thousands of others in her church and community are
asking. I am no expert, but I have some miles on this road, too. Along
the way, I have found some help worth sharing. So if you are offended by the
questions or consider me arrogant for addressing issues
that are intensely personal, please don't read any
more. I do not want
to bring any pain to those who are already hurting beyond my ability to
comprehend or even empathize. But if you have asked these questions,
specifically in the context of suicide, then I invite you to read and
think along with me. It's my hope that some light of faith will remain,
even amidst the earthquake rubble of suicide's assault on
your faith. Why
doesn't God stop people from taking their own lives? Because,
quite simply, God isn't primarily in the business of stopping bad
things from happening. God is in the business of redeeming a broken
creation through exalting His Son's worth and work. That redemption is
our redemption, but it is not, primarily, about us. Coming to
understand this is one of the most significant discoveries of the
Christian journey. In Genesis 1-3, God clearly has an
opportunity to do what almost any parent would do: stop a child from
making a disastrously bad choice. If God were intending to stop bad
things from happening, here was the ideal place to start: at the
beginning. But, he doesn't intrude and prevent the fall. He allows the
fall to occur. This tells us something crucial about God, something
fundamental about His character at the beginning of the story. God's
sovereignty is not a "hands on" sovereignty that prevents bad things
from occurring, but a "hands off" sovereignty that allows humans to
make real choices with real consequences. The reality of human life
isn't a matter of constantly bumping into a God who intrudes into the
flow of human choices in order to stop bad results. From our
perspective, we are as free as we can be, and God's sovereignty
operates without intruding into this realm. What follows Genesis 3? It's
extremely important to see this: God wades into the river with sinners,
and works to redeem and rescue this fallen world through the person and
work of Jesus Christ. There is a sweeping judgment in Genesis 6-9, but
this is atypical of God's ways in the rest of the Bible. Instead, what
is more typical is Genesis 11: God restrains evil in a general way, so
that this fallen world is not as bad as it could--and should--be. All
the while, God is at work to bring a savior into history. How does God restrain evil? First,
there is a general restraint that God exerts in His sovereign control
of all things. It is easy to be cynical when someone says that what should happen any day is much, much
worse than what actually does happen. This seems absurd when we stare
suicide or tragedy in the face. But that is precisely correct, and it
is God's restraint that makes it so. Secondly, God works through common
grace, the work of Jesus, the work of the Spirit and the influence of
the Kingdom of God to bring a "counter force" into history. This is
experienced on many levels, but it is also a reality for which we ought
to be grateful. Nothing about our depravity provides for or deserves
all the good that comes into this fallen world. Finally, God's sovereignty does cause "all things to work together" for His purposes. No depth of sin's effects can outrun God's ability to bend evil to His own purpose and glory. From God's perspective and in the Gospel's promise, it is certain that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that is to come. Faith grasps and believes this promise, though present experience seldom demonstrates it. I am not an Openness theologian, but I will admit to being very impressed with some aspects of Greg Boyd's theodicy, particularly God At War. Boyd has impressed upon me that when Jesus met evil in this fallen world, He did not stop it from occurring or give a philosophical treatise on God's sovereignty. He ministered to it compassionately. Now I am not wanting to enter the discussion of the implications of Jesus raising the dead, etc., because I believe these are part of the larger agenda of the Gospel writers. But I do believe that we see Jesus "at war" with evil and calling us to imitate Him in His response. His basic approach is the battle of Kingdoms and the compassionate, difference-making, power of God. The lesson for me is that I am not called upon to philosophize or theologize, but to do what Jesus did and taught His followers to do: Help people. Love people. Serve people. When Jesus meets evil, He is not outraged or paralyzed, but moved with compassion. This speaks clearly of what God has determined to do in our world, and it only becomes clearer and clearer as the Passion week progresses.These foundational Biblical truths should affect how we deal with evil, suffering, suicide, and our own struggles and failures. God is working in this world, in and through the Gospel and the power of the Spirit. He is "in the water" with sinners as Jesus was at His baptism. He doesn't stop people from dying, but He weeps, and raises Lazarus as a preview of what happens in the Kingdom of God. So why doesn't God restrain good people from taking their own lives? For the same reason He doesn't keep children from dying of cancer. The same reason He doesn't stop child abuse and divorces among church leaders. The same reason He doesn't stop wars and plane crashes. All these involve "good" people. God's relationship with this fallen world allows terrible things to happen. Go back to Genesis 3 and remember what happened at the beginning. That is what we are living out. It is a miracle of God's grace that He didn't press the "delete" button and immediately "reformat" the entire creation from the first, tragic rebellion against Him. Instead, God is redeeming creation through Jesus, and as the cross reveals, it is not by removing Himself and His purposes from human sin and pain, or by preventing those realities. I often ask my students to imagine four families. One chooses to not have children. The second has children, but takes the infants to a surgeon and has brain surgery performed. This surgery prevents the children from ever rising to the point of being able to make wrong or evil choices. The third family raises their children in isolation from any danger or temptation. The children stay at home, and never participate in sports or have friends. The last family has children, and allows them to grow up with skinned knees, choices, risks, mistakes and consequences. At one point, one of their children is badly injured in a bike accident. Which is these four families has the healthiest kind of love? Which of these four families most mirrors the relationship between God and human beings? Implicit in this question is a
subtle agenda we must all admit: we see some people as "good," in a way
that we feel should insure that less evil ever enters their experience.
We know, of course, that no one is good, and we know that no one's life
is immune from the fall, but that doesn't stop us from thinking in the
terms of our own experience and judgments. This person who took his
life was "good," perhaps even "the best" in many ways. Why did he have
to suffer through the experiences that led to the tragedy? So we are
understandably angry that God allows terrible things to enter into the
experience of those we know to be "good." Can't God see as clearly as
we see? Of course, the first two chapters
of Job warn us off of this kind of thinking in at least two ways. No
one's "goodness" is going to exempt him from the realities of human
life. There are hundreds of examples of this. In fact, Christian
character is often the result of pain and evil entering into the lives
of "good" people. (Look at Biblical examples like Joseph and David.) We
also know that some people are the special focus of spiritual warfare
and struggle. While we do not often see this struggle, behind the calm
face may be a tremendous battle between light and darkness, a struggle
which God may occasionally, mysteriously allow to conclude in a result
like suicide. (IM readers will know that I am
not given to diabolic explanations for human behavior, but I have
absolutely no problem seeing Satanic/demonic activity being a primary
factor in some suicides, and particularly among Christians. I think
Satan is well aware of the discouragement and devastation that is
possible here, and is ready to bring unusual pressure to bear on those
who may be tempted to do harm to themselves or take other painful
routes of escape. This is not to try and minimalize the reality of
mental illness, but it is recognizing what was going on in Mel Gibson's
version of Gesthemene, which I think is typical of what Satan may do.
Again, Job 1-2, shows us that this may be the case.) Years ago, a friend of mine
speculated that whenever an unbeliever faced a painful situation, God
allowed the same test to enter the life of a believer. His reasoning
was that the world would see the differences. I am persuaded he was
onto something, but I am also persuaded that it may be for an
additional reason. God may order suffering so that Christians can see
the similarities between themselves and all other persons. Whenever we see suicide take a
Christian, we are sent to a hard, but occasionally necessary, school.
Death is always a teacher. Through the pain, community and compassion
are created, but we also come to see some of the basic truths that all
persons--especially Christians--must constantly remember if we are
going to live on planet earth. We must accept our brokenness. We must
share our burdens with one another. We must not think we are immune. We
must realize anything can happen to us, and will happen to someone. We
must be honest and take care of our physical and emotional health. If
"good" Christians were immune from disease, mental illness, broken
marriages, wayward children, and yes, suicide, we would be living in a
very different world and God's relationship to that world would be very
different. How
can someone who has all the answers not have the answer for himself?
This question comes close to answering itself, but there is an
observation implicit in the question that's worth noting. There is an
undeniable correlation between suicide--especially successful
attempts--and persons in "high demand" helping and leading professions.
Doctors. Dentists. Ministers. Leaders. (Remember Vince Foster, for
example.) It is not just impulsive lovers or depressed teenagers. It is
people who "have the answers," and it does lead us to ask how an
educated person can come to such a point. The answer is multi-faceted. I do
not in any way propose I have special insight here, but I do have some
observations born of experience and research. Leaders and helpers are
often surprisingly poor at taking care of themselves, and often are
functioning in intense helping/leading roles while being completely
over-extended, exhausted and depressed. These are people who are
surrounded by others, yet tend to feel isolated and not understood.
They are people who find it hard to take time off and shift gears.
These are people others turn to for help and counsel, but who find it
very, very hard to seek help for themselves. (As a counselor myself, I
can tell you I almost have pure contempt for most counselors, and would
be very reluctant to visit one. I would assume I could handle this
situation myself.) These are persons who feel tremendous responsibility
and are often inflated in their perception of the consequences of their
mistakes. Though they are "rational" types, they can be remarkably
committed to "magical" kinds of thinking about their own lives. In other words, as ordinary,
broken human beings go, many of us in helping and leading roles are
very poor at taking care of ourselves. It is why we are overweight,
easily depressed, often angry, frequently divorced, alienated and
sometimes violent. It is why we are unusually blind to our own problems
and write ourselves passes for serious problems that should be
addressed. We are wounded, and at the same time, busy tending to the
needs of people and institutions, and not caring for ourselves. Among Christians, there is a
tendency to think that God will intervene or spare us from the kinds of
brokenness that result from neglect, overwork, moral failure or
attempting too much. Many times, Christian leaders expect that God will
demonstrate His goodness by miraculously delivering them from physical,
mental and emotional consequences of being human, or because of their
work "for Him." We would never tell anyone else to look at his health
and life this way. In fact, we would call it dangerous, but that
doesn't stop us from making the same fundamental errors. Leaders and ministers get
depressed, have affairs, mess up their parenting and fall apart. They
commit moral errors and demonstrate every kind of frailty. Yet, they
frequently fail in handling these situations as well as ordinary
people. We are afraid to be weak, to admit our problems, to step away
from responsibility or to consider the implications of our personal
problems on the work we do. When we do consider these things, we are
more likely to sink into depression and further problems, and more
likely to cope in unhealthy ways. (I know very, very well what I am
talking about from painful personal experience.) Of course, this does not "add up"
to suicide, but suicide is an observable and analyzable human behavior,
and close study of that behavior reveals the truth that "people with
the answers" frequently don't have the answers for themselves, or at
least, don't apply those answers very well. As I look at some of the suicides
I am most familiar with, the situations I have described loom large.
One friend refused continual efforts at help and counsel, determined
that God would intervene. This is one reason that grief over suicide
often exists right along with frustration and even anger at the person
who has harmed himself. Why couldn't he do what he would have told
someone else to do? Others can see where clear avenues of help, hope
and change were available, but not taken up. Why? That is a question
I'll leave for my reader to answer. How
can I trust a God who would allow this to happen? Here is a
question with the unspoken truth lying very near the surface.
Frequently, our version of a faith relationship turns into a
transaction. We will trust God, and He will prove it is the right and
safe choice by sparing us from life's hurts. None of us wants to admit
this demand upon God, but we might as well, because it is typical of
the way humans want God to conform to their own notions of justice. It
is our "bargaining" nature to occasionally tell Yahweh that perhaps we
ought to trade Him in for the God of Deism, who makes no promises of
goodness and therefore requires no risk from believers. The God who meets us in Jesus and
the Gospel has nothing to do with the God of Deism. There is hardly a
Biblical character who could not be cited as evidence that God will
continually test our faith precisely
at this point. (Abraham consistently comes to mind.) That the Bible is
full of people who trusted God, suffered as a result, yet continued to
confess the goodness of the Lord is worth noting. This is not a God who
is bargaining with anyone. It is a God who is producing remarkable
changes in what kind of people we are, despite the fall. It is most amazing that in all the
Gospels Jesus bluntly calls his followers to loss and risk, and makes
this essential to discipleship. At no point does Jesus mislead us to
think that we are signing up for a protection policy from a God who is
looking for customers. That God allows the worst to sometimes happen to
those He loves is a truth as near as the cross. It is there in the
history of Israel, in the prophets, in the martyrs, and in the
tragedies that happen in the suffering church. The souls under the
altar don't pray for God to put a halt to suffering as a problem, but
to bring judgment upon the world as a demonstration of God's
righteousness. Suffering for Jesus and with Jesus is part of the faith
journey, and if we tend to want God to insulate us as a "reward" for
believing, we can be sure this will be dealt with in God's love for us. This is, of course, also an
existential question by people who have been hurt. We naturally want to
protect ourselves from pain, and we want God to cooperate. The pain of
loss is increased exponentially in suicide, and God seems, at first, to
be more of a problem than a comfort. God saw this coming. God could
have changed a thousand small things and prevented it. God could have
sent someone to talk with this person. God could have sent a doctor at
the right moment. God could have changed their brain chemistry.
Couldn't God have better chosen to glorify Himself in a testimony of
rescue than in some unseen, mysterious way no one will ever know until
heaven? What can you say, to yourself or to anyone else? Trust this
untrustworthy God who is playing games with us? Trust a God who will
let someone you love take his own life and ruin yours? I wish there were an easy answer
to this question, but there isn't, and never will be. It is the dilemma
every parent faces when a child stands over a pet who has been killed,
and must come to grips with the awful and terrible truth about the
world as it really is, and by implication, about the God we taught that
child to pray to and believe in. We want to prevent this moment, but
true love and appreciation for anything doesn't come from fantasy. To believe in God offers us
options as to what God we will believe in. To believe in Jesus is to
embrace a God who clearly relates to this broken world in a
non-intrusive way, even as He is sovereign and Almighty. The
willingness to accept pain, suffering and loss are essential to our
human journey of faith, and this God who can and must be trusted will
never become party to a humanly dictated transaction that insures we
will never suffer loss. A few days ago, the news media ran
a story of an elderly, church-going woman who was killed when a large
crucifix fell off the wall of her church and struck her without
warning. It was the kind of story the secular media loves to run
without comment, because the comments are obvious: How can you be so
stupid as to believe in a God who kills His worshipers with falling
crosses? If God were real, wouldn't He protect this woman from harm? Such stories are part of the assault of doubts
about God's existence that constantly stay with me. If I were
looking for examples of the absurdity of believing in God, this type of
story would be prominently featured. Of course, as you may have
noticed, I have not abandoned my faith. Not after this story. Not after
the suicides of strong Christians. Not when pastors and their families
have been killed by drunk drivers. Not when a young preacher I knew was
struck down by cancer at just barely thirty years old, leaving his wife
and daughter. It isn't because I am not
emotionally affected. I am. Deeply. But I also know that God is not
about proving to us that He is trustworthy by rewarding His believers
with protection from falling objects. God is about glorifying His Son,
Jesus, and showing the worth of the Redeemer. God is about redeeming
and renewing all of creation, including us. In the meantime, gravity
still applies to falling objects. Disease still does damage to the
body. Choices still have consequences. And all of this applies to
believers in exactly the same as to unbelievers. Once I was at a faculty/staff
meeting, and a fellow employee was telling us to be sure to counsel our
students to pray to God and ask for miracles, because God would always
answer prayers and work miracles when we asked in Jesus' name. I sat
silently, thinking, "I just don't believe that. It's ridiculous."
Robert Capon says that Jesus is a lifeguard who responds to our calls
for help by drowning, letting us drown, and telling us He will raise us
from the dead. That's not what the religious instincts of fallen human
beings want to hear. God placarded His own Son on the
cross as a curse. Through that absurdity came our salvation and the
Good News of a mediator for all of creation. We must embrace this God
in faith in that person on the cross. The promises of the Gospel are
wonderful, but they don't include protection from gravity, viruses or
automobile accidents. In this world, God is not going to prove His
existence or the truth of the Gospel by anything other than Jesus. We
know this, but it is difficult to hold on to in the aftermath of
suicide. There are other questions, but
I've written enough. I do not mean for questions and answers to
belittle the darkness or the agony of any reader. I do not believe in
cheap, shallow answers for deep, painful questions. I do believe the
people of God are taught by the Spirit of God through the Word and in
the experiences we share together. In my experiences of the aftermath
of suicide, I have learned some things worth sharing. God is good to be
my teacher, and God is great to love us tenderly in the absence of
those we have lost. If, from time to time, I have turned away from God
in anger and hurt because my friend is suddenly gone, I have always
found God there waiting to embrace me all the more. |
