Victor Frankl wrote Man’s Search for Meaning more than sixty years ago. In it, the concentration camp survivor describes the horrors of that time in his life. What separates his moving account from other published memoirs of that period, is what he does in the second portion of the book. He writes about the rediscovery of dignity and hope. The second half of his harrowing story explains how he sustained his sanity while he suffered under the hands of the Nazis. Frankl drew meaning out of the experience. He did not let go of who he was. One of the observations the author makes, is the frequency with which many of the captives thought about taking their lives before their captors could. Stripped of nearly all that made them human, it is not difficult to understand that line of thought. Despite the desolation of his surroundings, the writer kept his mind alive and alert.
As I reflect on the increase of suicide among young people today, I am struck not only by its apparent frequency, but also on the implicit hopelessness that brings it about in the first place.
Frankl’s book has touched my heart for many years. He did not allude to a personal God for himself; he does, however, mention the faith some of his fellow prisoners had during those horrible years of captivity. How much more might he have written on this subject had he experienced the freeing love of Jesus Christ?
Some years ago, while a pastor in a small town in Michigan, I received a phone call from one of my parishioners. In a voice broken with emotion, the aging mother told me her successful, lawyer-son, had just taken his own life. During the immediate seconds that followed, I breathed a prayer through my own shock at the news. There were no platitudes I could share and no formula that would ease her pain. As both parents were home, I drove there to spend time with them. We hugged each other; we cried; we talked. I listened to their stories of the young man’s faith, family, and well — established legal practice. As the late afternoon shadows waned toward early evening, we had a time of prayer; then I left. As I walked toward my parked car, I did so gingerly as if I were walking on sacred ground. I had just spent a couple of hours listening, responding and sharing in their tears that centered on a tragedy for which I had no immediate antidote for the couple’s pain.
While there are countless passages from the Bible that address poignantly the pain of the human heart, I knew while sitting in that sunny kitchen over coffee, a reminder of those tender truths would not help, not yet. There are moments in our Christian walk when our thoughts do, indeed, go too deep for tears.
William Wordsworth put it this way:
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for words.
Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood by William Wordsworth
Sometimes, there are no words, as the poet so eloquently writes. Our Lord certainly knows this. The apostle Paul was well acquainted with grief. In Romans 8:26, the first century believer writes, “And in the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.”
The vignette described on the previous page has its own unique qualities of time, place and characters, which give the narrative its own unique flavor. Human beings after all, are not clones. All people are living out their respective stories. What makes us human is that we have been made in the image of God. As we live our respective beginnings, middles, and ends, we are reminded that our Creator fashioned out (this could be put better) plans for our lives. While often and sadly, we lose sight of the master’s vision, it is one that has existed since the onset of the creation of humanity: Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you…” (Jeremiah 1:5).
Frankly, I could tell tale upon heart-wrenching tale about illnesses and deaths that come to us all, but to devote an entire book to such unending sorrow would bring no solace or hope to our souls. The driving force that must pulsate from each page of this chapter and in the ones that follow, is Jesus’ Great Commission:
And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and m earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” Matthew 28:18-20 (ESV)
These words are quoted from pulpits and lecterns with such frequency that it is surprising the amount of ignorance that exists with respect to their meaning. There is much to unpack here; however, it is the intention of this writer to focus on two words: make disciples. In other words, we share our belief in Christ in word and in deed. How? A few components are involved here: 1. Following the master teacher, Jesus in belief and in practice; 2. Teaching others who, in turn, teach others. One example that comes to mind is the narrative between Nicodemus and Jesus, as recorded in John 3, Nicodemus, himself a teacher and member of the Sanhedrin (Jewish ruling council). From this fact, we recognize that Nicodemus was also a Pharisee and therefore well acquainted with Hebrew scripture. In the narrative, Jesus has just told the scholar that he must be born again. Initially, Nicodemus is confused by the phrase “born again”. Jesus explains as he makes a clear distinction between being born into the world (or born of water) and being born a second time (by the Spirit).
I am not a biblical scholar—rather, a retired minister/teacher who believes in the ultimate truth found only in Jesus. I share the above because I also believe the local church is at a crisis point when it comes to discipleship.
With that in mind, let me return to an earlier comment about the nature of loss and how we, as humans made in God’s image, manage to live with such loss.
This fragrant summer afternoon in 2021 is filled with sunshine and birdsong. In the company of our small dog, Emily, I look out on a golf course with mountains beyond. Occasionally, the warm air carries in its breeze, a hint of cool relief, a reminder of the very balance of life itself.
I opened this chapter with a summary of the concentration camp survivor, Victor Frankl, a man who may not have known the Lord, but clearly understood much about the intrinsic beauty and balance of life. I am drawn to such a figure now, decades after Frankl’s eventual death. During these confusing days, a look back at someone with a level of wisdom rarely seen, is a comfort.
Some days ago, I underwent a medical procedure in a local hospital. A short time later, while still under the influence of sedation, the doctor came to my room to check on my progress. As I struggled to articulate my questions, it became clear to me that my mind was not able to work as it usually did. The sedation had altered me. The years 2020-2021 have altered many of us. As we try to make our way out of the pandemic that has held much of normal activity captive for some 18-19 months, we find ourselves off balance, confused and in need of certainty again. T.S. Eliot’s words come to mind:
His soul stretched tight across the skies that fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock.
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing. from Preludes, IV
The early 20th century poet was alluding to something much broader than the confusion brought on by the aftermath of a pandemic (as gravely serious as that has been). Eliot was a student of human nature. These lines from Preludes have moved me from the first time I encountered them. The vignettes of daily life, whether they be drawn from streets in London, or the crowded Verrazano Bridge in New York, are poignant. Our lives have significance. Yet, how often do we think about the faceless people who drive by in the other lane as we’re hurrying to our respective destinations? Eliot was describing what he saw, and more importantly, how he felt about what he saw.
Our small planet is filled with people with dreams and disappointments. The poets and artists of the world generally capture these things and move the rest of the world with their insights. I, too, have been similarly moved by the pathos of daily life, replete as it is with the opposites of good/evil; joy/sorrow. The Master Teacher, during his 33 years on earth, not only saw these things, but participated in them. Jesus also knew the isolation we often feel (surely His was on a much broader scale, of course); the Savior came to save people from their sin by eventually becoming SIN. His participation in human life displayed a willingness to share our experiences, and level of humility we can scarcely comprehend. I might want to insert Peter’s words about the sinlessness of Jesus, a point that needs to be made abundantly clear. Eliot’s description of common, daily life helps us to give pause as we consider what it means to be human and, as believers in Christ, to reflect on the Savior’s part in it all. This last sentence needs work.
T.S. Eliot was born in Missouri. He attended Harvard (later did graduate work there), as well as the Sorbonne and Oxford. The poet/scholar renounced his American citizenship and spent the bulk of his adult life in England. His conversion experience, many literary giants have claimed, is described in another of the poet’s works, Ash Wednesday.
T.S. Eliot’s mission was to write, to inform, and to inspire. Subsequent generations have, in effect, been discipled by the 20th century visionary. Many literary scholars have devoted their lives to those of the poets who so eloquently wrote about the very wonder of the human spirit. Most of them left out the most important component, the role of Christ at work in the human spirit. While I do believe that too many Christians know too little of the record of the human experience, I also believe that once human knowledge, when charged by the spark of the Holy Spirit, does much to empower the church. If we are all called to be and to make disciples (clearly, Jesus was calling for that in His Great Commission), then why does so much of Christendom continue to be in a state of slumber? Well-meaning pastors and youth directors promote the importance of increased numbers. (After all, we’re meant to “grow” the church, right?) Growth is a term that is often misunderstood. (I might need to introduce what follows.)
We humans tend to confuse quantity with quality. We don’t recognize this, sometimes because we have consumer mentalities. Economists use the phrase conspicuous consumption. Whatever it is, we want a lot of it. Bigger is better and more is certainly better than less.
I alluded earlier to different types of growth: quantity vs. quality. (Tie together with preceding material. You fly off in multiple directions. Focus!) To continue with the metaphor of food, let’s describe a different kind of dining experience from the one just outlined above. There is a lovely little restaurant, a converted home on the outskirts of town. The owners grow their vegetables and offer a small menu of delicious, Mediterranean fare. The restaurant does well but is rarely crowded. The cost for a typical meal there is on the expensive side. Meanwhile, the entrée appears and has the eye appeal of that perfectly appointed property you noticed earlier as you drove to the restaurant. Throughout the meal, you become aware of one of Chopin’s Preludes, playing in the background. You have become part of a pretty landscape, completed by a lovely dinner, all of which totaled complete satisfaction. The charming restaurant became a favorite. Its menu provided motivation to improve some of your dietary habits.
Quality takes effort. It always has; it always will. Granted, most of us cannot afford to dine at expensive establishments all the time. But we can make better choices in the food we purchase and prepare ourselves.
Our church leadership need to make better choices, too. Several years ago, while serving a small church in southwest Michigan, I prepared a sermon that I entitled, How Strong Is Your Trunk? (I’m alluding to a tree’s trunk, obviously to our foundation, to what roots us metaphorically. I need to change the wording.) I admit, I wanted to see numerical growth in the congregation. During the moments immediately before the service started, I often counted heads and hoped for more filled pews. However, as time went by in the rural community that outline an Amish enclave some twenty miles away, I began to concern myself more with the spiritual growth of the members and adherents of the congregation. Sometimes, in our zeal for more newcomers, we lose sight of those who face us expectantly every Sunday. What kind of diet are we offering our parishioners? Do we care? So often, people who have not been discipled are urged to bring in more people to swell the numbers while doing little to swell their souls.
(I think this chapter is complete; however, a little editing might be warranted: not sure I like the typical church potluck metaphor,)
