A Letter to the Western Church

 As a grieving, believing, and brokenhearted mama who understands the shattering nature of the death of a child, my heart has been so heavy with sorrow for the mommies, daddies, siblings, grandparents, and cousins of these precious children in Texas. My own three oldest children were themselves at a church camp as the Texas tragedy unfolded. (We also recognize many other painful losses as a result of this disaster.)

 In the sixteen months since Abigail left us I have experienced pretty much every emotion I could put to words (as well as some for which no words exist); sadness, joy, anger, peace, frustration, discouragement, disappointment, fear, hope, guilt, gratitude, devastation, forgotten, remembered, seen, and overlooked are just a handful. Thus, I was not surprised by any of these I encountered this past week. What I had not counted on was the shame, and it hit me hard. Like a magnet, it held to many of the other emotions as well. 

After speaking with multiple mothers across the country (some “bereaved”, others very aware of the various pain in the pews) it confirmed for me I was not alone in this heaviness. Despite the many precious and tender hearts within our churches, corporately we often leave longing for something more. As one mama put it, many of us have stood among our church family feeling like an alien in a foreign land.

Church, we were (and still are) provided a privileged opportunity to weep with those who are weeping guttural cries over the death of their children, to corporately intercede for brothers and sisters whose futures have been shattered and do not have the luxury of an “out of sight, out of mind” mentality, to lament together the devastation and all too imaginable pain these families and communities are enduring. I imagine many of us did this to some degree privately. So, what did we do this Sunday as we gathered together in our churches? As we waited for our own children to arrive safe and well from their respective camps? 

I cannot help but wonder how many churches across our country put blinders in place and proceeded with the seemingly sacred time allotted order of service, continuing even with a rote patriotic July 4th service. Perhaps these families were granted a passing prayer request, but before we pat ourselves on the back let’s sit a moment here. What if these had been our children? There are families facing recovery missions instead of rescues. Let that sink in. These are families planning funerals with too small caskets instead of lakeside BBQ’s over the weekend. And here we sat in our cushioned pews.

Did we give them the decency of even a meaningful and sincere time of intercessory prayer? These are brothers and sisters! As we sang our songs of gleeful worship and jubilee, did we pause to hear the piercing wail of the mothers who will never hold their child again this side of heaven? Did we consider singing a song of lament for her, with her? As we gazed upon patriotic decor, did we pause to see the haunting stares of the precious but often overlooked brothers and sisters who never had a chance to say goodbye? As we remembered and praised those men whose sacrifice and courage birthed our country, did we remember the broken father- no less courageous- who will only ever hear his child’s voice again this side of heaven in the echoes of his memory? 

And if we didn’t, are we really okay with that? Were our times of gathering tone deaf to the suffering around and among us? I can’t help but wonder what prayers Jesus would have prayed, what words he would have spoken, or what songs he would have sung. What would he have led the people in doing as they gathered together on a Sunday like the one prior and sadly many others to come? 

I will not presume to say for certain, but scripture shows him valuing the least of these, pulling children to himself. It shows him publicly weeping over this world’s sting of death. Jesus paused when a woman reached for him in desperation, and he allowed himself (and the crowd) this “inconvenient, uncomfortable, and unplanned interruption”. He did miracles for some, but not for all. Jesus did not avoid the suffering of those outside his core group of disciples. He acknowledged it; he entered in. Do we do the same? 

Sadly, in the many and various churches represented by those I have spoken with, the most attention corporately given to these devastated brothers and sisters in Texas on Sunday morning was a sentence or two prayer request followed by a quick move into the planned order of service. That’s not to say there were ill intentions, but the silence spoke VOLUMES to those of us carrying a heavy burden of sorrow and grief. 

In addition, it is right and good to recognize the miracles and heroism we have seen or heard birthed from such tragedy. But what about the many miracles that didn’t happen? The sincere and desperate prayers that were not answered as hoped? The shattered dreams of many futures that once looked so bright? Focusing on these rescues may make the terror and devastation more publicly palatable, but I can assure you it does nothing to diminish the gut wrenching, life altering pain these parents and families are living as they stare death in its ugly wretched face. 

So, I ask, what do we do when we gather together in our comfortable, well-constructed buildings in the midst of local or national tragedies? If those most closely affected were to limp through our doors on the worst days of their lives, would they ever come back? Given the specific nature of what has happened in Texas, I believe I can tell you many (admittedly, not all) bereaved parents walked out of churches across the country this past week hurt, disappointed, discouraged, or ashamed. Here was an opportunity for our church families to come together and (for just a moment) help bear this heavy sorrow as our hearts weep for those families forced to endure something we know too well. Did you help us?

Did you join us in desperate prayer or quickly move on? Did you acknowledge the tension of joy and sorrow, hope and desperation? Did you force us to sing “happy” songs or take a moment to sing a dirge and lament with us? Did your tears mingle with ours, or did you even notice them? Did our sermons address pain or patriotism? What we do or don’t do in moments of public tragedy speaks loudly to the people in our pews suffering their own personal tragedies. It speaks to those who are currently living in a celebratory or peaceful season but realize one day they could be the ones desperate for something they cannot even put into words. Were they assured of our presence, compassion, and resulting action? It speaks loudly to the people in our community about what kind of family we really are. So, I ask again, what did we say? What did we do? 

We can do better. 

Some may walk away quietly knowing their silence is how they show grace in those moments to those who just do not understand. Others (such as I) may have their lack of silence mistaken for a lack of grace. In this instance it is a call, a plea, to do better.

We can do better.

 

“Come, Jesus, come, please. But may you find us with sensitive, tender, hopeful, compassionate, and courageous hearts willing to enter into the dark corners of sorrow with our brothers and sisters as we wait.”