Why We Kill Ourselves

"The first duty of love is to listen" -- Paul Tillich

            As we reflect on the loss of so many of our brothers and sisters to suicide, there is so much to come to grips with.  We mourn the loss of their faces and their hearts.  We grieve the future we had together and we remember the stories and times and memories that will not fade away. But we are left with a question…the infernal question, the damnable question: Why? Why did this happen? Why did they die? Why do we kill ourselves?

            And the answers echo from all over.

            We kill ourselves because we are lonely.  We walk in the streets and pass in the hallways, but nobody stops to ask how we are doing. We hear about parties and rumors of parties that we are not invited to.  We stay late at work hoping you don’t realize there is no work to do because we cannot stand going back to our empty home filled with nothing but darkness; to sit in silence as the noises of the busy world surround us only to mock our loneliness.

            We kill ourselves because we are confused.  We often come from homes and families that barely counted as such.  We lived with parents who didn’t understand…or who simply couldn’t.  We are thrown into life expecting to know the answers but only become more lost and confused as the years add up.  How? How did we become this…this thing that is so foreign from when we started? We look at pictures of our childhood only to see a stranger looking at us from the far reaches of time. We do not see a reason to fight the plagues of life because nothing truly makes sense.

            We kill ourselves because we have lost hope.  What hope can there be in a world that only knows misery? Where do we begin to look for hope, when everybody is running after dreams that never come true? Our possible pasts tattered behind us and we know that we cannot take back the pain we have caused others.  Religion claims a new way but we see only judgment with no redemption.  The future offers…what does the future offer? The light at the end of the tunnel grows dimmer and dimmer until it offers no light at all.

            We kill ourselves because we know the truth of ourselves.  At least this is what we tell ourselves. We know our hearts and we know that we are unloveable.  We see the detest in other people’s eyes.  We hear their judgments in their words and we know that we have been found wanting. We feel their desire for other people and we know we are not enough. 

            We kill ourselves because we know that you will be better off without us.  This insipid chorus runs in our head: we have nothing to offer, nothing to share, nothing of value and nothing good.  You say this isn’t true, but we know…we know.  We have sung this song to ourselves so often that it becomes our anthem.

            We kill ourselves because we don’t know what to do with the pain.  We don’t want to burden you with it, because it should be ours alone.  And ours alone it becomes as time goes by we drift further and further away.  We see you but don’t know why you can’t see us.  We hear you, but don’t know why you can’t hear us.  We hide our pain behind jokes and laughter and we become the clowns and jesters that everybody loves but nobody knows.  Or we simply fade off to places where nobody looks.  That dull ache in our heart that we have ignored for so long comes roaring in and we can no longer look away.  It consumes our thoughts, it devours our dreams and it robs our life.  Every day becomes torture and night becomes our prison.  And…in the end…we kill ourselves because we simply want the pain…to stop. 

***if you or someone you know is having thoughts of suicide, please seek help. The national suicide prevention hotline is 1-800-273-8255.  For military personnel, talk to your chaplain, your chain of command or a personal friend.  You may email me at Robert.c.price@gmail.com***

A Tale of Two Easters

It was the best of times…and the worst of times.

            I had a lot of time to reflect on worship this past week.  Holy Week can be one of the most humbling, awe-inspiring, and most passionate weeks of the year.  Or it can….you know…not be.

            One of the local start up churches was advertising for their Easter Service.  There was no Holy Week (No Maundy Thursday, no Good Friday)…just Easter.  As if we could skip those times and go straight to the joy of the Resurrection.  The service promised “dynamic worship, an uplifting sermon,” and a “cup of coffee”.  The entire advertisement was perfectly geared for the consumeristic, capitalistic, consumption based ministry that encapsulates American Christianity these days. They hoped that ‘you had a wonderful Easter experience.’

            For full disclosure, I did not attend these services.  Maybe they were completely spiritual and maybe they had moments of honest communion with God. I don’t know.  I couldn’t get my mind off the ‘complimentary cup of coffee.’

            I attended most of the Triduum with my Roman Catholic friends.  There was no rock band experience.  There was no entertainment, and there was no complimentary cup of coffee.

   I was raised Catholic and have been cut off from the Church.  But I do not remember in my childhood ever attending these services near the end of Holy Week. The three services were Maundy Thursday, Good Friday (Adoration of the Cross) and the Easter Vigil. While they did not offer free coffee…these masses offered something much more precious…Christ.

            Unfortunately I was called away from Maundy Thursday service and could not fully meditate on Christ’s Last Supper before He was betrayed by Judas.

            I was there for Good Friday.  It has been my practice for the last several years to go through the Stations of the Cross on the Fridays during Lent.  I had missed the previous one and I missed Stations the morning of this service.  While this was not the Stations, this service was focused on the crucifixion of Christ.  The altar had been stripped and the statues of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus that had decorated the church for the past few weeks had been covered up. As we went through the Gospel narrative (dramatized by the priest and several lay leaders), I was brought into the narrat

ive.  The congregation had to respond with the words of the crowd to ‘crucify Jesus’ and I heard my own voice calling for the death of my Savior. It was humbling and I once again saw the horror of my own sin.

            As the Crucifix came forward, they slowly uncovered it to reveal the statue of Jesus nailed to the cross.  As is custom, the Faithful come forward and kiss the cross.  I could not come forward.  I dared not come forward.  I was stunned in my pew as I beheld the image of my Savior.  I cried.  I a grown man in my 40s, cried at a statue of Christ as the depth of my sins came home. I could not come forward because I do not deserve the death of my Savior. I do not deserve the ability to kiss the cross which He died upon.  The Church…and churches have always been clear to me that I do not belong and I should not presume to come into the presence of the living Christ.

            We gathered the next the night for the Easter Vigil.  There were nine readings (!).  Evangelicals who say that Catholics do not read the Bible have clearly not been to a mass.  The Mass is the most Biblical worship service that exists because almost every word came from the Bible. There were no contemporary praise songs, no emotionally manipulating entertainment…just the words of Scripture as we recounted the story of God and His redemption for mankind.

            Yes there was kneeling.  But kneeling in the presence of the King was appropriate. Yes there was standing…in an almost Catholic Aerobic workout scheme…but it flowed because it was all focused on Christ.  The entire service and the entire community focused on the celebration of Jesus Christ.  They celebrated the prophesies…they celebrated the coming of the Messiah and they celebrated the bursting forth from the grave. 

            I was sorry I could not make it to the Easter mass.  I went to preach my own service…which I do not know if it was received well. I do know that we do not have the lights, we don’t have the big band…we don’t have the technology to make the service appealing for the masses.  Heck, we don’t even have complimentary coffee.

            But as I reflect back on the week…I began to realize that maybe this is what we are doing wrong.  Maybe we have our priorities screwed up.  Maybe, instead of offering complimentary coffee…and ‘dynamic’ (whatever that means) worship…maybe…just like this Roman Catholic Parish…maybe we should just offer them Jesus.   

Lent in Exile

“By the rivers of Babylon—there we sat and there we wept when we remembered Zion”

--Psalm 137:1 NRSV

 

            Lent gives us an opportunity to reflect on the darker side of biblical faith.  After all, it is a time of mourning as we prepare for the joyous celebration of the resurrection and new life.  And before we get to the celebration, we must go through the desert and examine the themes of grief, loss, guilt and exile.  This year I find myself particularly drawn to the biblical texts about Exile.

            Exile.

            The Biblical Exile happened when the Babylonians invaded Judah around 586 BC and captured the best and the brightest and brought them to live in Babylon.  They had to live apart from their home.

            Away from their families.

            Away from their friends.

            Away from home.

            It is a particularly cruel punishment because at that time transportation wasn’t easy and more than likely the Israelites who left were never going to be able to come back.  They would never see their families or friends or home again. They would never know what happened to those they cared about. 

            They were forced to live in a foreign land, where they did not speak the language and they did not know the customs.  Anybody who has ever spent time in a culture different than your own knows what it feels like to not fit in.  When you don’t speak the language, when you don’t know the customs and when you don’t understand the culture, there is a loneliness that cannot be explained.  You are outside.  You are other.  You are alien.  The Israelites never overcame that feeling.

            A biblical scholar once said that “Exile is not not having a home.  It is having a home but never being able to get there.” You can imagine home.  You can remember home.  You can almost see home, but you can never get there.  You can see the place where you belong, where you fit, but will never arrive.  Even though the world around you may be filled with wonderful people, places and foods, you are never home.  Even in your happiest moments  you know something is missing.

            Those of us who have spent a lot of time away from home can catch a glimpse into this feeling.  Although for us it may never reach the level of the ancient Israelites, the power of Exile can affect us in ways.

            We go on deployment to new countries with a new crew and we feel the power of Exile from everything we once knew.

            We get a diagnosis of cancer and we can feel the power of Exile stripping from us the power of normality.

            We leave our parents and childhood home, never to return, and go off into the world and you look back and sense the power of Exile.

            As I reflect on my own experience, I have to admit that this is where I live.  My situation is not as bad as others, but exile affects me every day.

            I can see home through pictures and messages and Facebook, but I can’t be there.  This weekend my son lifted his head for the first time and I could not be there.  This weekend is a huge celebration for my family (St. Pat’s is always big in my house) and I will not be there.  I will see the messages and the pictures and make the phone calls, but the physical presence of being home…of being where I belong…is gone.

            This is not to say that I do not have great people or great things out here in Japan…but it’s not home. I live in a (for me) foreign culture where I do not speak the language and where I cannot get the cultural norms right.  Even though I love Japanese food and art and the landscape, I am not home.  I work for a great team, but I am not home.  Even in my best moments, there is a pervasive loneliness and sadness that echoes in my heart: I do not belong here.  I belong at home.

            So as I continue my Lenten journey, I will think about these things.  I will sit by the rivers of Babylon and weep.  Because, I, like the Israelites, live in Exile.