Too Tough for Me

Today was an unexpectedly busy day. As many of you know, there was a horrific Metro train accident a little after 5:00 yesterday during rush hour—nine were killed and dozens wounded. All morning I worked with the church staff preparing an afternoon prayer and meditation service in the Sanctuary, in which people could come and go as they please. The event was advertised online and outside the church, letting all know that the church would be open to everyone for several hours in the afternoon.

As I scratch these words on a legal pad, I am sitting in the Sanctuary—alone. Perhaps a couple people have stopped by, but most—I imagine—saw the signs, notices, and announcements and went on their way. People are busy and afternoons are inconvenient. We weren’t expecting much of a turn-out anyway.

But as I sit here listening to the organ’s echo I cannot help but ask myself a troubling question: Why exactly would people come to church today?

What does the church have to offer to people in shock, in fear, in grief, in despair?

If an institution is dedicated solely to the goal of making people feel happy and secure—in Christ, no less—throughout their normal routine, what happens when the bottom falls out and the shit hits the fan? What happens when said security crumbles? What happens when Jesus songs and sermons and devotions can’t stand the weight of grief and death? Because it doesn’t take much experience to recognize that the weight of losing a loved one hits you like a ton of bricks—regardless of your church attendance.

I ask because in many churches—not all churches—but in many, this is what I often hear:

“Jesus is here for you no matter what.”

“God is in control.”

“Don’t worry—she is in a better place.”

“You’ve always got a friend with Jesus.”

“It will all work out in the end.”

“This is all part of God’s plan for your life.”

It seems like sometimes we try so hard to make people comfortable and satisfied with nifty answers to unanswerable questions. And in this hollow quest for a better night’s sleep we often fail to acknowledge the obvious: bad things happen and no one—yes, no one—knows why. Not the Baptists. Not the Catholics. Not the Pentecostals. Not the Episcopalians. Not the Conservatives. Not the Liberals. Not the Christians. Not the Muslims. Not the Atheists. Not Jerry Falwell. Not Richard Dawkins. Not us. Ouch.

Maybe sometimes—like today—having an adequate explanation is secondary. I think sometimes—like today—it is impossible.

Perhaps, to answer the question—What does the church have to offer to grieving people?—we should be more concerned with empathy instead of answers, compassion instead of explanations, and undaunted love instead of unachievable security.