Two weeks ago I was seriously distressed by a news story I heard on my favorite A.M. radio talk program. That same evening I came across the same story on the evening news. The headline described a boy from Tracy who had been held against his will and tortured in a quaint neighborhood in his suburban community. At some point, some how, the boy escaped and found his way to a nearby gym, probably the closest place with people. Once inside the fitness center the employees couldn't believe their eyes. They literally thought it was a joke. The boy was shackled, hungry, and weathered. Once workers understood the urgency of the situation, the local authorities were notified and the proper steps were taken to locate the boys' guardians and implement some sort of justice. As I processed this story I reflected on the gravity of the boys mental, phycological, physical, emotional, and overall suffering. Why does this stuff always seem happen? Will he ever be able to fully heal? Will he ever be normal? How could some one do this to some one else? Why does our world suck so bad?
The horrible truth is this: Our world will always be filled with these stories. Humanity in its current frame is a forever long song of sadness sung from the hearts of both widows and thieves. Our relentlessly insecure self worship has written a story through history that is overflowing with regret, shame, and disappointment. And it never ends. Every year countless instances of human pain are documented and cataloged in the annals of infinite suffering that is our legacy.
I bring this up because I'm beginning to sense the depth of our state of sorrow both internally and communally. I feel like my hand has touched the cold surface of an iceberg that stretches miles beneath the surface of the ocean. And in contrast to my last post, I've begun to become joyless in context of my relationships to God, people, and myself. I'm disappointed with the details of life that describe a reality where nothing ever seems to get better. I'm burnt by people who constantly make decisions that lead to deep regret. And I'm often filled with shame when I think of the man I could be and compare it to the man I am. I'm processing what it means to reconcile what my heart says the world could be like and what the world in reality is like.
Part of my questioning and struggling in this issue has been the result of a student I had named Josh. I met Josh when he was in seventh grade. Josh grew up in numerous meth-houses where watching him mom get taken advantage of was a regular occurrence. He was fully accustomed to violence, abuse, and addiction. His school record was marred by expulsions, fights, and failures. His heart was full of unimaginable brokenness and sorrow. I'll never forget dropping him off at a house he shared with his mom and a dozen other druggies. The garage of the house had a large city sign notifying the neighbors of the home being condemned by the police. Josh had it hard. My response as a youth worker was to offer my time, finances, support and love to Josh as much as I could in hopes of easing his sorrow.
After years of endless crisis', prayers, and heartache a solution to Josh's situation seemed to finally present itself to us. A welcoming family offered to take Josh into their home and provide for him the safety, stability, and help he never had. It was nothing short of miracle. It seemed like our hopes were met as he started a new chapter in his life. Unfortunately this solution was short lived. After a few months Josh decided to go back to his mom whom he had admit-tingly described as addicted to drugs and unfit to parent. My attempts to talk him out of going back to his mother were futile. Years of pouring emotion, spirit, time and energy into helping Josh were instantly erased as he chose to throw it away. I was and still am devastated. I don't understand why Josh has had to experience the life he has. I'm saddened that no matter how hard I tried to help I was powerless to make a lasting impact on the iceberg of Josh's situation. I'm filled with sorrow when I think of the pain he still feels and I wish with all my heart that things could be different, but they can't.
I feel that most attempts to explain our state of suffering in theological or philosophical terms as a result of sin, selfishness, or desire are patronizing and fall infinitely short of the infinite truth a person experiences when they are filled with true sorrow. How can you tell a kid who lost his parents that it shouldn't have happened, that it wasn't in Gods plan, or that everything is going to be ok? How can any short and contrite response to suffering every fully address the issue? How can a theological explanation ever actually bring comfort to wounds so deep? In my wrestling I've been reminded that Jesus suffered. He did not avoid it or try to explain it away. He lived in it and experienced it to a depth I never will. Why would God allow his Son to experience such a degree of sorrow? Why does sorrow never end, even in our most noble attempts to bring an end to it? How am I supposed to respond to constant fatigue and an endless uphill battle against this sad reality?
I just don't understand what I'm supposed to do with stories like that boy from Tracy. I'm confused with how I'm called to help people like Josh. I hurt and cry over my depravity and the worlds'. I don't get why people I love have to suffer. I'm constantly horrified by stories of human exploitation from around the world. And I'm terrified of my own inner darkness. I just don't get it. Maybe thats the point.
I think that Sorrow is True. It is inescapable and insurmountable. I think that the sooner we accept it, the sooner we can decide how we will act in leu of this realization. We can either let the storm of sorrow and suffering stop us dead in the water, or we can accept it as the weather conditions of life and do the best we can to navigate home. I don't think I'll see an end to sorrow and suffering in this life, but I don't know what else to do with my time on earth besides trying to chip away at the iceberg. It's just so tiring.
"Sometimes when I lose my grip, I wonder what to make of heaven
All the times I thought to reach up
All the times I had to give
Babies underneath their beds
Hospitals that cannot treat all the wounds that money causes,
All the comforts of cathedrals
All the cries of thirsty children - this is our inheritance
All the rage of watching mothers - this is our greatest offense"
-Dan Haseltine
