Gloom, Despair, and Hope

I don't know about you, but sometimes I get discouraged, downhearted, despairing.  Sometimes the weight of life and ministry with the crushing burdens of living in a complex and fallen world are so heavy that it's hard to pray, hard to preach, hard to proclaim the good news. In fact, for many, maybe most of us, there are dark times when God seems absent, when it's hard just to show up and do the ministry stuff to which we are called. It can fill us with doubt, these moments of darkness and bleakness, those times of gloom and heaviness.  We may question our faith, our salvation, our very existence as children of God. Enduring such an experience is terrifying, making us feel abandoned, and yet, it is also totally normal.

Yes, I said totally normal. On June 27, 1766, John Wesley penned a darkly honest letter to his brother Charles in which he expressed his personal descent into the depths using a mixture of shorthand, Greek, Latin, and French. He lets his guard down with stark frankness to his main partner in ministry, the one person to whom he can freely express his spiritual struggles.  Feeling the strain of worsening marital discord, dealing with "enthusiasts" whose theology and actions brought Methodism into disrepute, traveling into sometimes hostile locales with disappointing results, and shouldering the onus of leadership with less and less input from Charles left him exhausted and discouraged. As found on the website of Northern Nazarene College, the extraordinary letter reads in part as follows, with brackets to indicate abbreviations and shorthand notations --

In one of my last I was saying I do not feel the wrath of God abiding on me; nor can I believe it does. And yet (this is the mystery) [I do not love God. I never did]. Therefore [I never] believed in the Christian sense of the word. Therefore [I am only an] honest heathen, a proselyte of the Temple, one of the foboumenoi Qeon. ['Those that fear God.'] And yet to be so employed of God! and so hedged in that I can neither get forward nor backward! Surely there never was such an instance before, from the beginning of the world! If I [ever have had] that faith, it would not be so strange. But [I never had any] other elegcos of the eternal or invisible world than [I have] now; and that is [none at all], unless such as fairly shines from reason's glimmering ray. [I have no] direct witness, I do not say that [I am a child of God], but of anything invisible or eternal.

And yet I dare not preach otherwise than I do, either concerning faith, or love, or justification, or perfection. And yet I find rather an increase than a decrease of zeal for the whole work of God and every part of it. I am feromenos, ['Borne along.'] I know not how, that I can't stand still. I want all the world to come to on ouk oida. ['What I do not know.'] Neither am I impelled to this by fear of any kind. I have no more fear than love. Or if I have [any fear, it is not that of falling] into hell but of falling into nothing.

This searingly painful letter is a good indication not that John lacked faith or that he was a fake Christian but rather that he was human, frail, and in need of the One to whom he directed his every thought, word, and deed. Rather than pinning his hope of salvation to his inner emotional temperature, he put his trust in Christ whom he knew to be ever faithful.  And no sooner does he give his anxious cry of the heart from a very dark night of the soul than he swiftly returns to an account of the work to which he knew he was called, encouraging his brother and seeking Charles' help so that he can continue onward. 

O insist everywhere on full redemption, receivable by faith alone consequently to be looked for now. You are made, as it were, for this very thing. Just here you are in your element. In connection I beat you; but in strong, pointed sentences you beat me. Go on, in your own way, what God has peculiarly called you to. Press the instantaneous blessing: then I shall have more time for my peculiar calling, enforcing the gradual work.

If you care to look, you can find harsh words of criticism leveled against John Wesley because of this letter by those who seek to discredit his life and ministry by calling him a heathen, a hypocrite, a fraud, and a false Christian.  They seem to think that the life of the faithful is one long round of one joyous experience after another and that admitting to doubt or fear or discouragement is a sign of faithlessness and false religion.  I beg to differ.  Scripture (like the Psalms, for example) bears witness to the cry of the heart from human beings who endured all they could stand and who turned their voices towards God in their pain no less than in their joy, hoping and trusting in God's goodness even when they could not clearly see a way forward, even when their hearts were breaking, even when the darkness seemed to overwhelm the light.  It is in that tradition that we, no less than John Wesley, make our stand, pinning our hopes to the God whose Spirit is the Giver of true life and unending light that can never die or be extinguished.  And that's about as real as it gets, here as we stand poised on the brink of the Advent season, in the bleak midwinter, when we celebrate with hope the coming of the light of Christ into the world.

The Duty of Reproving One's Printer

my printer, vanquished at last

I've been auditing a course at Duke Divinity School this semester, and tomorrow is the last day of class.  Dr. Maddox  always sends an email with an outline of the following day's notes so we can print it out ahead of time and have it with us in class.  Dutifully, this morning, I downloaded the pdf and printed it out.  Scratch that.  I TRIED to print it out.  My printer flashed a message to let me know that my print cartridge was dangerously low on ink, but being a thrifty soul, I told it to go ahead anyway, with predictable results.  The first page wasn't too bad, but the second was more blank space than black letters, and the third page.  Sigh.  It didn't print at all.

Again, being a thrifty sort of person, I put the pristine piece of paper back in the paper tray, tried to shut the paper tray, only to hear a crinkling sound from deep in the bowels of the printer.  This is not a good sign.  I then pulled the paper tray out and peered into the darkness, hoping to see the errant paper.  No luck.  I then opened the top of the printer and messed with the rollers, hoping that I could grab it that way.  Nope.  This went on for ... a while.  Then I got a powerful flashlight and shined it into the area behind the paper tray and caught a glimpse of white.  Yay, but how to reach it?  It was too far back for my fingers to grasp it and the space comparable to the area in which a surgeon performs laparascopic procedures.  And dark.  Very, very dark.

By this point, I am angry.  Beyond annoyed or frustrated.  I was downright mad.  I stomped around the kitchen, called and texted my husband to share my emotional meltdown, and then decided that this jumped-up piece of cranky technology was NOT going to defeat me.  I took one of those wooden stir sticks for paint -- the ones that look like a ruler -- and poked at the paper, trying to dislodge it from the various bits of plastic that it resided upon.  Then I got the brilliant idea of getting chopsticks and trying to grab it by one edge.  Great idea, but because of the dark, cramped space and the fact that I have only two hands, I couldn't see what I was doing, nor could I find any purchase for pulling said bit of paper free.  Sigh.  Stomp.  Yell.  (Thankfully, I am at home, so no one could hear!)

This went on for 36 minutes -- yes, I timed it.  I finally got one edge of the paper to move forward just a smidgin and kept trying my wooden implements until I was able to stick part of my hand in so I could tug at the corner and slowly, carefully, gingerly pull it out.  Mission accomplished!  I was triumphant.  No general ever exulted more over a battle won.

So then I did what anyone in my position would do.  I posted about it on Facebook.  A friend immediately responded with these words:  "Surely there is an appropriate Wesley quote!"  I told her I'd find one when and if I ever got the printer working because remember, there's still that empty cartridge to replace.  I quickly ejected the old one, put the one one in, added paper to the tray, and politely asked that it perform an alignment.  It printed for a few seconds and spit out a piece of paper that did not make it clear whether or not it had worked, so I tried it again.  I got a message telling me that I might need to clean the printer heads.  I declined and tried again to print the document that started this whole sorry business.  Within a matter of seconds, the printer smoothly ejected the sheets of paper with everything crisp and black, just as it should be.  I purred with joy, though I must confess that the words "Smoke 'em if you've got 'em" went through my head!

And then I kept my promise to my friend and looked for a pertinent Wesley quote, which I located in Wesley's Sermon 65 "The Duty of Reproving Our Neighbour."  In it, he explains what we are to rebuke, who the recipients of said rebuke should be, and how we ought to go about the reproof.   I figured that if ever anything needed reproving, rebuking, and renouncing, it is my printer.  Here, then, is the quote from section III, number 9.

The manner of the reproof may, in other respects too, be varied according to the occasion. Sometimes you may find it proper to use many words, to express your sense at large. At other times you may judge it more expedient to use few words, perhaps a single sentence; and at others, it may be advisable to use no words at all, but a gesture, a sigh, or a look, particularly when the person you would reprove is greatly your superior. And frequently, this silent kind of reproof will be attended by the power of God, and consequently, have a far better effect than a long and laboured discourse.

As you see, Wesley recommends a few words, a single sentence, or perhaps a gentle sigh or eye-roll, not the frustrated mutterings that erupted from my lips as I contended mightily with this fierce foe masquerading as office equipment.  I guess I'll have to try harder next time.  A silent reproof would have probably benefited the printer and my blood pressure!

In any case, the next time YOU encounter a recalcitrant piece of technology that ostensibly makes your life easier, remember Wesley's words about reproving your neighbor, and maybe you will not only retrieve your piece of paper without breaking or tearing anything up but you may emerge with a calm, unruffled spirit so you can continue doing your work! 

Feasting at the Heavenly Banquet

cemetery near Dunvegan, Isle of Skye, Scotland

November is a beautiful month in North Carolina. The days are crisp and sunny with achingly blue skies, and every autumn colored leaf imaginable welcomes the shift in weather by falling to the ground.  But it is a month of great heaviness to my spirit, in spite of the shift in temperatures and the glory of seeing another season come around.  Daylight Saving Time ends, and the days get darker sooner, and there's All Saints' Day and then anniversary of Scott's mother's death, and then the anniversary of my mother's death.  I miss her.  I miss her smile.  I miss her beautiful blue eyes.  I miss the way she called me "Shug" and "Baby Buns"--  (don't ask!) And I really miss her cooking.  I miss eating the wonderful Southern food she prepared every single day and fed to us with so much love.

Since I'm on transition leave and not serving a church right now, I've been visiting other churches, and it was important for me to worship with a congregation that observes All Saints' Sunday with some solemnity -- and with the sacrament of holy communion.  I also had the opportunity to worship at Duke Divinity School for their celebration of that day, so I got a double dose of "For All the Saints" and the sharing of bread and cup.  There is something powerful about this observance that speaks of the pain and reality of separation that comes from the death of someone you love but also of the hope and reality of the communion of saints and the promise of resurrection and life eternal with them in God's presence.  Perhaps not surprisingly, food plays a big part in that future hope.  The communion liturgy of the United Methodist Church includes these words:

By your Spirit make us one with Christ, 
one with each other, and one in ministry to all the world, 
until Christ comes in final victory 
and we feast at his heavenly banquet.

Feasting with Christ and all the saints at the heavenly banquet as a future hope is also a present reality for us when we come to the table and share the sacrament.  Nothing new there, but I recently learned something I didn't know on Preach the Story, Leonard Sweet's Facebook page.  It's a beautiful description of why some churches have their communion rails built in a half-circle.  Sweet learned it from David Wahlsted, who got it from Charles Henrickson (a Lutheran theology professor and pastor), and Henrickson in turn quotes a Swedish churchman named Bo Giertz:

 Where the circle ends at the chancel wall, the fellowship still continues; in the churchyard is the resting place of the dead, the Lord's faithful, who now are partakers of the great banquet in heaven. They are with us as a great cloud of witnesses, they continue the small circle of people around the altar in my parish church, a circle that widens and is extended both back in time through the centuries and forward into the eternal world. It is a table fellowship without end. Shoulder by shoulder are they with us: our own faithful ancestors who once received the sacrament here at this altar, saints and martyrs elsewhere through the ages, and finally the Lord Himself and His apostles in the glorious kingdom in heaven above where the circle comes to its conclusion. This is 'communio sanctorum,' the communion of saints in Christ's kingdom of grace. Celebrating the Lord's Supper with my brothers and sisters in Christ, I am connected with the saints who sit at the Lord's Table in the heavenly kingdom. I am counted as one of God's holy people.

John Wesley would have warmed to that idea. All Saints' had special meaning for him, and he mentions it in his journal several times, describing it as a "day of triumphant joy" (1756) and calling people "superstitious" who think it wrong to give God "solemn thanks for the lives and deaths of his saints!"  It is clear that he and his mother Susanna had a special relationship, and he certainly numbered her among the saints of God.  He writes movingly of her death:

I went to my mother, and found that her change was near. I sat down on the bed-side.  She was in her last conflict; unable to speak, but, I believe, quite sensible.  Her look was calm and serene, and her eyes fixed upward, while we commended her soul to God. From three to four the silver cord was loosing and the wheel breaking at the cistern; and then, without any struggle, or sigh, or groan, the soul was set at liberty. We stood round her bed, and fulfilled her last request, uttered a little before she lost her speech:  'Children, as soon as I am released, sing a psalm of praise to God.'

Susanna Annesley Wesley Garden, Lake Junaluska, NC

In his book Susanna Wesley and the Puritan Tradition in Methodism, John Newton notes that Susanna's daughter Anne was also present at her deathbed, and that she wrote in a letter to brother Charles who was not there:

A few days before my mother died, she desired me, if I had strength to bear it, that I would not leave her till death, which God enabled me to do. She laboured under great trials both of soul and body, some days after you left her; but God perfected His work in her about twelve hours before He took her to Himself.  She waked out of a slumber; and we, hearing her rejoicing, attended to the words she spoke, which were these: 'My dear Saviour!  are you come to help me in my extremity at last?'  From that time she was sweetly resigned indeed; the enemy had no more power to hurt her. The remainder of her time was spent in praise.'

I have found God's comfort and grace every year when November rolls around, even in the grip of the sadness that inevitably steals over me as I grieve for my mother, I remember that in her last days she, too, was filled with praise of God.  Before she was no longer able to speak, we recorded her singing "This Little Light of Mine" in a voice that was barely above a whisper with a face that, though gaunt from illness, shone with a quiet glow that had everything to do with the One who was present with her through it all.  Perhaps if I had known it,  as soon as my mother was set free I would have sung these words written by Charles Wesley a few years after his mother's death:

'Tis finished! 'Tis done!
The spirit is fled,
The pris'ner is gone,
The Christian is dead!

The Christian is living
In Jesus's love,
And gladly receiving
A kingdom above.

Amen!  Thanks be to God!

communion table, John Wesley's Chapel (New Room), Bristol