Toxic Positivity: Healthy Negativity

The circumstances of 2020 have brought us many new buzzwords:  unprecedented, adaptive pause, pivot, and, my favorite, toxic positivity.  As a self-described pessimist, I am absolutely fascinated by toxic positivity.  According to The Psychology Group, “We define toxic positivity as the excessive and ineffective overgeneralization of a happy, optimistic state across all situations. The process of toxic positivity results in the denial, minimization, and invalidation of the authentic human emotional experience.” (2019).  This seems to be the idea that it is painful and destructive to counsel or support or collaborate with people going through difficult challenges with platitudes.  For example, when a friend is in crisis, it can be less-than-helpful to say, “look on the bright side”, or “be grateful for what you have”.  To this new idea of toxic positivity, I want to say, “Well, duh…”  

From my personal experience, I know that when a person is experiencing grief, pain, loss, or despair, exhorting them to “cheer up” and “make the best of it” is just dumb.  When my father died after enduring cancer treatments for years, there were a few well-meaning people who said things like, “He is at peace now”.  Not helpful.  That man was at peace every day of his well-lived, well-loved life.  I missed my father.  My soul cried out against the idea of a world without him.  My heart hurt--literally.  I could point to the place in my chest where my grief lived.  It still has a home there, after fifteen years.  If I had tried to put on a happy face, I would have never healed.  Instead, my wise Uncle Dan (an Episcopal priest) gave me some of the best pastoral advice I’ve ever received, “Linda, sometimes, things just suck.”

I needed to be allowed to let things suck for just a little while.  Not to wallow, but to feel and explore the pain.  To dive into the suckiness and swim around a bit. Since then, this simple statement, “Sometimes things just suck” has seen my friends and I through grief and pain many times.  When my dear friend’s sister was killed in a car crash, she said, “You know, you’re right, Linda, sometimes things just suck”.  When another dear friend’s baby was born stilborn, acknowledging the suckiness of it all was the only comfort I could offer.  We acknowledged the pain and sat together while we felt it.  Sometimes we need someone to crawl into our hole with us so that we can find our way into the light.

It’s 2020 and let’s be honest:  things pretty much suck.  We are in a global pandemic, when people are losing their jobs and incomes, and when people are being asked to put their own health at risk to earn their living.  Wallowing in self-pity won’t help us.  But pretending to be happy about things won’t help either.  We need to find a healthy balance of admitting that things do suck and getting on with the important work that lies ahead.  As a person who has little patience with pretentiousness and inauthenticity, toxic positivity just isn’t a trap into which I will fall.  I tend to lean more towards the “healthy negativity”.  It stands to reason that if too much positivity can be toxic, then a certain amount of negativity can be healthy.  

Of course we want to celebrate all the hard-working health-care workers, essential labor, educators, and other professionals who are going above and beyond during these challenging times.  We call them heroes and we make memes about how hard they work.  We tell them they can solve the world’s problems, that “we are in this together”, and that “we can do anything”.  We should celebrate them--we need them and we love them.  It is natural to want to prop our people up and put on a brave face.  However, at the heart of this problem is a very sucky situation.  We are in a global pandemic, when people are losing their jobs and incomes, and when people are being asked to put their own health at risk to earn their living. 

Sometimes, things just suck.  And we get up every day and do our very best.  Sometimes, we need to dive right into the suckiness of it and swim around for a while.  And, then, we have to go to work.  Because, things will always suck from time to time.  Life isn’t fair and (many times) it isn’t fun either.  But things can get better.  We are in this sucky world together.  We can do anything when we help our neighbors.  We are heroes.  So, rather than shielding ourselves with positivity, maybe we could wrap ourselves with healthy realism.  That might help us to get down to the work of making things suck just a little bit less.

References:  

The Psychology Group Fort Lauderdale.  (2019).  Toxic Positivity:  The Dark Side of Positive Vibes.  The Psychology Group. https://thepsychologygroup.com/toxic-positivity/#:~:text=We%20define%20toxic%20positivity%20as,the%20authentic%20human%20emotional%20experience.

Easter--Where Everybody Knows your Name

Easter is different this year. In the midst of the COVID-19 quarantine, I attended a few virtual church services.  Honestly, on the first Easter of no church for me in the last twelve years, I probably had more church than on most other Sundays.  I read several sermons and “attended” a few Easter services on-line.  In the midst of all that listening and watching, the theme of relationship rose anew for me.  It’s nothing new to discuss the relationship of Christ, or the concept of seeing Christ in others, or the idea that one cannot be a Christian by ourselves.  However, relationships can be frustrating and surprising.  Church community is a prime example of surprising frustrations.  We might want to be Christians all on our own, especially during times of social distancing, when we are afraid of other people.  We cannot come within six feet of another person without worrying for our own safety.  

It is tempting to want to separate even further and to stay in my own virtual community of choice.  I wonder if that’s what Mary was thinking as she went--alone--to the tomb that morning.  She must have been terrified, grief-stricken, frustrated.  I wonder if she went alone so she could be safe in her own grief, or maybe because she just needed a break from the community.  She gets up alone and goes alone to the tomb.  And she finds, in shock, that it’s empty.  The angels don’t comfort her; she doesn’t understand what they're talking about.  She’s annoyed by the random gardener talking to her.  She is lost--until someone says her name.

Mary mistakes Jesus for the gardener--until he calls her by name.  She misunderstands the mystery--until it becomes personal.  Our names are perhaps the most personal aspect of ourselves.  Some stories tell that to know the name of someone gives power over that person.  New parents argue and agonize over names for their babies.  When we are confirmed in the church, we take new names.  When we are married, we often take new names.  When Jesus adopted some of his disciples, he gave them new names.  One of the first things you do when you worship in a new church is shake hands and exchange names.  

I’ve been a little apathetic towards my church community for the last few years.  Initially, I dove into the Episcopal church with vigor and commitment.  Within a few months of my first church service, I was leading projects, serving on committees, and taking charge of things.  I felt special--respected.  Our church relationship was going along just fine.  But, as most relationships go, there are bumps in the road.  As is inevitable in any true community, I was disappointed and dismayed at certain decisions that the community made.  Things didn’t always go the way I wished they would.  Due to a few different conflicts, clergy changes, and general shift in priorities in life, I have stepped back from church leadership.  I have begun to doubt whether I should remain in this particular community, or look for a new church. In my head, I know that trials and tribulations will follow me through the doors of a new church; I will only find new conflicts and new compromises with new people.  In my heart, I wonder if I need a change and new inspiration to waken the earlier passion I felt for community life.

One benefit of the COVID-19 quarantine is that I don’t have to make a decision now.  Nothing can be done right now--churches are closed.  I can shop around and attend any on-line service that I can find.  But there are no new people to meet in real life.  I won’t be shaking new hands and telling new people my name.  However, whether or not I find a new church, I need a church.  Just like Mary mistaking Jesus when she saw him, I mistake God in my daily life--all the time.   I miss the sight of Jesus in others and I miss my chance to be grateful and to worship and to serve.  Those chances come clear to me when someone speaks my name.  Mary responded to Jesus because he KNEW her.  You see, when Mary was alone, she saw the risen Lord, but she didn’t recognize him until she recognized the relationship between them.  Spending time alone can keep us safe, it can restore us, and it can heal us.  But the mystery of Christ happens when we are in relationship with others--others who know our names. The miracle was personal to her.  She didn’t understand the angels, she only understood the man who called her by name.  

God happens to us, within us, around us.  We recognize God when God calls our name, in the voice of a person standing in front of us.  The God incarnate, human divine speaks to us through our fellow humans.  During this time of separation, personal connection is even more important.  Virtual church comforts the mind; our fellowship comforts the soul.  I am finding fellowship through group texts, Zoom chats with friends, Facebook Live services with friends separated by miles.  When we are “set free” from this quarantine, I will find God again in a church community.  Like the old tv show, Cheers, I will find the place where everyone knows my name.

Wherever I worship, I will find people and I will relate to them.  We will know the mystery of Christ when we call each other by name. 

Teachers--Let's Tell our Real Story

I am a teacher.  And I’m tired.  Not tired in the way that we always hear of teachers being tired--overworked, stressed, defeated.  I’m tired of the story we tell ourselves about teachers and teaching.  We post blogs and share videos of overwhelmed teachers with a heart of gold, share articles about why so many teachers are leaving the profession, describe in detail all the challenges of our profession.  They are all true--trust me, I know.  I live and work with educators.  We are tired.  But I want to challenge us to something better.  I think it’s time to change the sob story.  Because, let’s be honest, it isn’t working.

We are still fighting for fair wages and smaller class sizes and resources.  Complaining about how much we work and how unfair our demands are and how much we sacrifice our family and our free time just isn’t getting us anywhere.  Truthfully, my brothers and sisters, almost everyone I know is also overworked, stressed, and defeated.  My friends who work in health care, or in corporate offices, or in social work agencies, or in graphic design agencies are also struggling to pay their student loans and to deal with difficult coworkers and to balance their family and personal lives.  As Cherry taught Pony Boy in the Outsiders--guys, “it’s rough all over”.  Complaining louder isn’t changing anything.  Teachers have tried to be the squeakiest wheel for years and we still get the shaft--low pay, low respect, low resources to do our jobs.

Even more importantly, complaining about how difficult things are and how overwhelmed we are demeans all the work we do every day.  Teaching is hard--that’s no lie.  It is time tell the REAL story behind our work.  That we do a difficult job with care and competence and we deserve to be proud. My friends who show up to work every day are damn good at it!  We are experts in our field, experts in our content area, experts in social and emotional development, experts in data review, experts in curriculum design, and experts in collaboration.  We are experts because it’s our job and we are supposed to be.  

We teach children that letters and sounds are connected and that they form syllables and words.  We teach children that numbers have predictable patterns and relationships.  We teach children that stories follow certain structures and that all living things are interconnected and that ancient societies affect our lives today.  We teach those ideas to six-year-olds.  It’s is our job, because we are teachers.

We take complex skills like balancing chemical equations and calculating rate of change and break them down into manageable steps so that twelve-year-old students can master them.  We take universal concepts like the dehumanization of marginalized groups, or the development of identity, or coming of age, or solving problems in society and we make those concepts relevant to teenagers.  It is our job, because we are teachers.

We take those steps and concepts and plan lessons where every student is engaged in the task, communicate clearly the expectations, collect evidence of student understanding, analyze the data with our peers, and plan better lessons to teach the ones who need more help, or to extend the learning of those who already understand.  We analyze state and national data to ensure that our teaching is making an impact.  We hone in on individual students who are struggling and we teach them creatively and responsively until they master the skills.  It is our job, because we are teachers.

We collaborate with coaches and specialists, we attend workshops, we read professional books, and we watch webinars.  We constantly work to refine and reform our craft.   We seamlessly integrate technology that didn't exist when we were students, that didn't even exist last year.  We support each other and challenge each other to do better when we know better.  It is our job, because we are teachers.

We learn about diverse cultures, we make connections with students who lack connections in their lives, we empower the weak and we temper the wicked.  We build communities of life-long learners, who care for each other, and support each other.  We collaborate with teams of people (parents, advocates, social workers, psychologists, specialist, and administrators) to ensure that every student receives the free and appropriate education that he or she deserves.  Sometimes, we may not even like some of those people, but we do it because they are part of our team and they matter in our students’ lives.  It is our job, because we are teachers.

We are overworked and underpaid.  Let’s stop telling stories of overwhelmed, stressed, and defeated teachers.  Let’s start celebrating effective, competent, and empowered teachers.  I know we are there because I work with them every day.  Imagine if someone in power finally told us, “I know your job is tough and demanding.  That’s why we need someone as powerful as you to do it.  And we are going to pay you a fair wage for all of your expertise and knowledge.”    We do a vital service to society and we deserve to celebrate that.  We deserve to expect fair compensation and resources because we are kick-ass makers of positive change.  My friends, let’s tell THAT story.

#blessed on Mother's Day

#blessed:  the image of the perfect mother, with the perfectly dressed and well-behaved children, in a perfectly organized and clean house.  I really struggle with it.  I can't believe it's real.  It seems to me to be less #blessed and more #lucky or #liar.

Lately, in the midst of raising a few young children, teaching other children, and preparing a message for Mother's Day Sunday, I've been considering the role of mothers and the role of shepherds, especially the Good Shepherd.  And how the miracle and mystery of the incarnation affects all of us.  And what #blessed might really mean.

The reading for the week was: John 10:22-30

At that time the festival of the Dedication took place in Jerusalem. It was winter, and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon. So the Jews gathered around him and said to him, "How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly." Jesus answered, "I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father's name testify to me; but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand. What my Father has given me is greater than all else, and no one can snatch it out of the Father's hand. The Father and I are one."

In this reading, we hear Jesus continuing the story of the Good Shepherd.  His followers keep asking him if he is the Messiah.   So he says again, “I have told you, and you do not believe.”

I can almost hear the frustration in Jesus’s voice.  It’s like he’s saying, “I just told you!  Are you listening to me?”  Are you listening to me?  That must be the most common phrase uttered by a mother of young children (maybe any children).  I swear, I say it a million times a day--to my students, to my children, and to my husband.

We have all heard about how difficult sheep can be--smelly, not so smart, stubborn.  Every year on the Good Shepherd sermon week, we hear about how sheep aren’t easy to deal with and being a shepherd is not very glamorous.  So, today, Jesus is speaking to his people as if they are sheep and he is caring for them.  They don’t understand, so he is explaining it one more time, a little louder and a little slower.  And he says to them, “What my Father has given me is greater than all else, and no one can snatch it out of the Father's hand. The Father and I are one."

Here is the beauty of this passage.  Jesus was given grace by the Father.  Through him, we receive that grace.  And how did Jesus come to be standing there proclaiming this grace?  He became incarnate of the Virgin Mary, came to life as a vulnerable baby, and was MOTHERED into this messy, real life, where he became the shepherd to the people of God.

Jesus was MOTHERED into being.  Babies don’t grow up on their own.  In order for a child to thrive, or even survive, another human being must act as a mother--must MOTHER the child.  And Jesus wasn’t mothered by the Mother of the Year, a woman of property, agency, and status, a woman who had proven her child-rearing ability by producing leaders and dignitaries.  He was born of an unwed, teenage mother, and raised in a blended family (Joseph was his step-father, after all).  

I like to think of the Virgin Mary as a young mother.  To imagine her, just as harried and just as tired as the rest of us with young children.  I bet that if Mary had a Facebook page, it wouldn’t be filled with well-dressed, perfectly posed pictures of the Holy Family at the dinner table, or on vacation at the beach, or on their way to temple.  I bet it would be full of real-life moments--the nitty-gritty of raising children.   

My other mom-friends continually text each our own versions of #blessed.  Whenever we are overcome with the messy, frustrating reality of life, we text each other.  Things like: The washing machine is broken.  Guess I don’t have to do laundry today.  #blessed  My child threw up all over me.  At least it didn’t get in my mouth.  #blessed.  None of my children bit anyone today.  #blessed.  I think Mary would be like us.  I mean, Jesus wasn’t a piece of cake to manage, I expect.  After all, when he was a teenager, he got sassy with the other teachers in the temple and refused to leave town with his parents.  It took them days to find him.  I bet the Blessed Virgin Mother wasn’t feeling quite to blessed at that moment.  Thought I lost my kid.  Turned out he was just hanging out at the Temple.  #blessed

All sarcasm aside, I am truly blessed by my children and the friends who are raising their children by my side.  As my wise mother friends often remind me with a wink and an understanding smile, “children are a blessing…”

We are blessed by the love of God and we bless each other when we share it.

The grace that God has given us in Jesus Christ was raised by a mother and is returned to man through our relationships with God and with each other.  We bring about the kingdom of God through our relationships.  We mother and shepherd each other through the messy, loud, frustration of life.

Today, we are all #blessed.

Why? Because... God...

Sometimes the most important questions are the ones we cannot answer.  And the most honest answers are, “I don’t know…” In the unknowing, in the inability to find our own words, sometimes we hear the call of God and his words become ours.  In my life, often, those moments come as a complete and utter surprise.

Recently, I was struck dumb by a question that should have been easy to answer, “Why do I go to church?”  To be honest, my church is going through a discernment process to find our way forward. We have the typical type of church crisis going on:  not enough members, not enough money, not enough vision to figure out how to afford and call a long-term priest. We have faced our share of conflict over theology, finances, and clergy.  We have lost priests, lost parishioners, and lost pledges. At times, we have lost our enthusiasm, our energy, and our passion. At times, we have flat out lost our patience--with each other and with our situation in the world.  Some of us may have lost parts of our faith, or at least questioned it seriously.

So, in order to figure out our path, we are trying to hold real and honest conversations with each other.  One night, I sat with a group of my brothers and sisters in the social hall, working through our “stuff”. And when I was posed the obvious question, “What keeps you at St. Ignatius?”  I had no earthly idea how to answer. I sat there, tearful, and mute. The obvious answers all felt inadequate;  could not speak them. I could not say I came to church for the worship, the fellowship, the formation, the service. Those were just surface-level reasons--not ones that went to the marrow of the bone.  That would have been like saying I married my husband because he’s tall and handsome, or that I chose to become a teacher because I like kids. When I contemplated all the love and anger that comprised my church life, all the celebrations and all the conflicts, I answered the only way I could. With tears in my eyes, I said, “I don’t know…”

I thought of the cost-benefit analysis of my church life and I truly wondered why I stayed.  I thought of the committees, Sunday School, Vacation Bible School, and community service. And I thought of the baptisms, weddings, confirmations, and wonderful friends.  If I weighed the time, money, and effort I put into church against the joy and love I got out of it, I wasn’t honestly sure how the scales would balance.   But, eventually, I also knew that it didn’t matter.  

Because as I sat there, waiting, unable to find the words, I realized.  I stay at my church because… Because… God…

Because, church is not merely about friends, and fellowship, and service.  Church is about God. A God who calls us into relationship with him through our relationships with each other.   He is not content to be worshipped from afar, in pristine conditions, in calm and peace. The God of love in Jesus Christ isn’t content to be found on the forests, or on the beach, alone.  He is the God who, out of his own love for his own creation, came right down and became a part of all of the mess. He is the God who loved the world so much that he gave himself for it. And he didn’t just give himself to be adored.  He gave himself so that we could love him like a real human, and so he could love us back. He showed up and lived with us, while the people misunderstood his message, while his followers fought over who was the best, and while the religious leaders persecuted him.  He is the God in Jesus Christ who showed up and taught and loved us, even when we hated him. Even when we killed him. And he showed us that death wasn’t the end. That grace is greater than that. He told us that whenever two or three are gathered, he will be with us. Two or three--not one on our own. So, my friends, go out and find each other.  Because the best way to love him is to love each other.

Sitting there, in that holy space, endeavoring to have that holy conversation, I found some truth.
Honestly, I still don’t know why I go to church.  I don’t know why God in Jesus Christ loves us so much that he calls us into relationship with each other so that we can see him.  I don’t know why I keep showing up and keep loving my fellow Christians. I do not know why--anymore than I know why I said, “Yes” when my husband asked me to marry him, or why I cried when I held my newborn babies for the first time, or why sometimes the Eucharist actually feels like Christ is in the room with me.  I don’t know why--but I do believe. I believe that we are meant to figure out how to love each other. I believe there is a mystery hidden deep in the heart of us and in the heart of the world. And that mystery is wrapped in love. And that love lives in each other.

So, I will show up again.  And I will hear the word. And I will say confession.  And I will kiss my brothers and sisters with the kiss of peace.  And I will eat and drink of the body and blood of Christ. And I will go out into the world to love and serve the Lord.

Because…  Well… Because… God.

Coffee and Community

Polarization is rampant in society today.  People spend our time in ideological social media silos, surrounded by those with whom we agree, isolated from those whose opinions differ from ours.  Civil discourse is dead.  People cannot hold rational arguments or even “agree to disagree” with respect.  Sociologists, philosophers, and theologians decry the current state of mankind.  We blame the overuse of technology, the economy, the educational system, the break-down of family values, systemic racism and the backlash against social justice, and, of course, the current presidential administration.  All and any of those factors are believed to lead to the political and personal fury that citizens unleash on each other daily.  Perhaps the experts are correct.  I pose a different theory.  Society’s breakdown lies in the way we make our coffee.

Coffee is the life-blood for so many people--the common ground (pun intended), the proverbial water-hole.  The strong, dark, hot liquid  fuels our population, sparking our intellect and our conversations.  Coffee drinkers understand each other.  We recognize and resonate with the need for caffeine in our fellow travelers.  We can see it in each other’s eyes.   Random strangers waiting in line at Dunkin Donuts can commiserate in the desire for that first cup of joe in the morning.  We might like our coffee sweet, or sweet and light, or strong and black.  But we all need the same thing, from the same pot, brewed at the same time.  Coffee makes connections.  Caffeine addicts, who prefer our drugs in the steamy, bitter liquid, take the basic substance and make it our own.  We drink from the communal pot and add what we need to make it our own.  

Consider the humble pot of coffee, brewing in the kitchens and workrooms across middle-America.  When I was a kid, neighbors and friends dropped in to my parent’s house frequently.  The first thing my mom did when someone walked through the screen door was put on a cup of coffee.  Friends sat for hours, drinking cup after cup from the same carafe, sharing conversations, stories, and feelings across the vinyl table-cloth.  My mom’s coffee wasn’t fancy, but she brewed it hot and strong.  You didn’t leave until the pot was empty and you were all talked out.  Sitting around the kitchen table, friends and neighbors discussed politics, religion, community life, family struggles.  They sipped and shared and listened.

In teacher’s lounges, churches, and lunchrooms around the country, workers gathered around the coffee pot.  The first person to arrive in the morning started the brew.  The last one to take a drop made a new pot, or at least cleaned it up.  Someone bought the supplies, and usually put out a donation can--a Folger’s or Hill’s brothers of some sort--for people to contribute to the coffee fund.  Someone stocked the cream and the sugar.  Each coffee pot is just a bit different from another.  Good friends can even tell who made the coffee by the strength of the brew.  

In churches and staff lounges, learning how to make a good pot of coffee is a rite of passage for newcomers.  In order to make an acceptable pot, a person has to pay attention and learn from a friend just how much to measure of the grounds and the water.  Making a pot means you belong to that place and that you care for the people there.  If a pot of coffee can build a community, perhaps the breakdown of our community lies in the advent of the Keurig.

Coffee is gracious and universal.  Keurigs are concrete and specific.  They are limited to the individual.  There is something a little sad to go to a friend’s house and be offered a K-cup to make my coffee. (Not to mention that the K-cup brew always seems so very small.  My eight cup a day habit just can’t be satisfied by four ounces at a time.)  It’s like sitting down to what could be a family-style chicken dinner and receiving an individually wrapped package of McNuggets.  No matter how delicious the coffee, I am on my own.  It’s all mine and I don’t have to share it.   No longer the pot of coffee sitting between two good friends who want to talk all morning long.  No longer the cry, “Come in!  Sit down!  I’ll put on the coffee…”  No longer do we sit around a pot and share it until it is gone (and then discuss if we should make another one).  Now, for each refill, we open another separate container for our own individual self.  We have traded abundance for allotments.

Coffee pots in a staff lounge are communal.  Keurigs are self-serving. In staff rooms and churches, no longer do we gather around a shared experience.  We bring our own particular pods, which we purchase on our own, with our own special brands and our own special flavors.  We use a machine to make just enough for us.  We throw away all the garbage (which can’t be recycled and fills up our landfills), but hey, it sure is convenient, right?  We don’t have to consider that anyone else might like some coffee when we start our day.  We don’t have to make another pot if we take the last cup.  We don’t have to pay attention to who left the pot on at the end of the day.  We take care of ourselves and only ourselves.

I have a four-cup coffee pot in my classroom and I keep it running most of the day.  It’s not fancy. Sometimes it splutters and spills and makes a mess.  It is part of our community life.  My friends know where to go to get their coffee.  There is always enough and I can always make another pot.  If they need some and I just finished it, they make another.   We are considerate and we share the load.  We don’t always agree with each other.  Some days we might not even like each other. But, we do understand each other.  We see a need in our fellow travelers and we meet it.  We care for our coffee pot and we care for each other.  Maybe my silly little coffee pot and my Folger’s brew is making the world a better place, one pot at a time.  So, open up your hearts and minds and return to the shared pot of coffee.  Care for each other through caffeine.

Maybe it’s time to throw out your $200 machine and buy a $20 Mr. Coffee.  Ask your neighbor if he wants to visit and tell him, “I’ll put on a pot…”

Good Friday Christian

I know where grief lives inside my body.  I can put my hand over the spot.  It’s below my left breast, pretty much where I place my hand to say the pledge of allegiance.  Grief moved in there years ago when I lost my father.  It took hold of me and squeezed.  It hurt.  My heart hurt.  I lay on the floor, gasping, and holding my chest, and I thought, “This is what it feels like.”  Since that introduction, grief wakes up in the face of all sorts of sad events:  when loved ones die, when good friends lose a child, when we say goodbye to a beloved pet.  That spot in my heart stabs and aches.  It stabs and aches on Good Friday.

People say that there are “Good Friday Christians” and “Easter Sunday Christians”.  I am a “Good Friday Christian”.  The grief I carry in my heart needs an outlet, and that outlet is the passion of Christ and the veneration of the cross.  For me, without that, the rest of the Christian faith would be just false cheer and whistling past a graveyard.  It would be hope and rainbows and magic promises.  Good Friday is when sh*t gets real.

Good Friday is when we all cry “Crucify Him!”  It is when our righteous indignation and anger result in the death of God.  We participate in the passion to remind us that we, too, are capable of horrible acts.  We participate in the story so we recognize our own tendency to screw things up, to miss the mark, and to hurt ourselves and others.  And we grieve.  We grieve for our own brokenness and the pain that it has wrought in our lives.  But we are not alone in our grief.  We listen to the Lord, crucified by his own people, by our own selves, cry out in pain, “My God, my God, why have your forsaken me!”  And that is when the grief in my heart joins the love of God.

God sees me while I sit and worship, while I sing, “Where you there when they crucified my Lord?”  God sees me as I kiss the wooden feet of Jesus on the cross.  It isn’t easy to be seen as I am and still be loved.  It means I have to be honest about my failures and forgive myself for them.  And, as I forgive myself, I must forgive those who also failed me.  It means that the universal, catholic love and grace of God that sees me as I am and still loves me, also loves every other person, just as they are.  For that sacrifice was made for each and every individual one of us, just as we are.  We all cried “Crucify” and we are all loved.

As I sit in the darkened, bare church, listening to the Gospel reading, I am overcome, again and again. In the image of Jesus’s final sacrifice for all of mankind, my grief and the grief of the world is bound by love.  God-made-man, the divine incarnate, gave up his power to the evil of the world, laid down his life in scandalous surrender, crying out for his God.  Within in this exquisite pain, there is no rationalization, no mental gymnastics, no search for meaning.   I weep, my throat closes up, and my heart breaks open, one more time.  The only real thought in my head is, “make me worthy of this sacrifice, Jesus.”  Jesus saved me, with all my pettiness, selfishness, and brokenness.  I long to be worthy of the immense gift of God’s love.  As I sit crying in the dark, God holds me in my grief, stitching my scars together with love.

I know where grief lives inside my body.  It lives in my heart, surrounded by love.

Blessed Good Friday.