“Love & Suffering”
I Corinthians 1.18-25
The Rev. Hal Chorpenning, Plymouth Congregational UCC
Fort Collins, Colorado
10 March 2024
 
Buddhism holds four Noble Truths: the first is the inevitability of human suffering; the next three involve the cause of suffering, its end, and the true path to end it.

Unlike our Buddhist sisters and brothers, suffering is something that many Protestants don’t talk about too often, perhaps because it is difficult. Our Catholic siblings are far more conversant with the topic, and some see suffering in itself as redemptive. Most Catholic churches feature a lot of images that illustrate the suffering of Jesus, including the crucifix: the cross with the corpus attached. Crucifixion is a horrific form of torture and execution that involves a painful and ignominious death and can be seen as human suffering at its worst.

Imagine yourself as one of Jesus’ followers in the days, the years, the centuries after the crucifixion. How do you explain the suffering of Jesus on the cross? How do you make sense of what happened? Paul writes extensively about it, saying that in our baptism we die and rise with Christ, and he acknowledges that the cross is “scandalous to the Judeans and foolishness to the Gentiles.” There is something powerful there that Paul is trying to convey by reappropriating the cross, pairing it always with resurrection.

Early Christian theologians continued to try to work out the “why” of Jesus’ death. Being a threat to the rule of empire and to Roman collaborators in Judea apparently was not reason enough for some. Tertullian, writing in the 3rd century espoused an idea that Jesus’ death happened in order for humanity to receive salvation by satisfying God’s need for an atoning sacrifice. (Dom Crossan once quipped that this is not the kind of god he’d like to meet in a dark alley.) And St. Anselm of Canterbury in the 11th century more clearly espoused the idea that “Christ’s death on the cross functioned as a gift to God on behalf of humanity to restore the order of justice subverted by sin.”[1] Where is the evidence that God would demand a sacrifice of his own son in order to restore relationship with humanity? What does this explanation do to describe a God who is merciful and loving?

All of these theories are trying to work out a reason for suffering, in this case the suffering of Jesus on the cross. Perhaps the “why” is that the Empire was morally bankrupt and thrived by military domination and extracting wealth from those who could least afford it.

But lots of revolutionaries have given their lives for a cause. Jesus was a different kind of radical, who in John’s gospel says, “No one has greater love than this than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”[2] The way of love can lead to suffering.
Why all of the theological muddle over the millennia to try and explain that Jesus loved his friends and followers so much that he was willing to give his own life for them?

His suffering is rooted in his willingness to engage in self-sacrifice, which itself is grounded in love.

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The truth is that all of us suffer. And we suffer in different ways at multiple points on our journey through life.

In 1960, Dr. King wrote, “My personal trials have also taught me the value of unmerited suffering. As my sufferings mounted I soon realized that there were two ways that I could respond to my situation: either to react with bitterness or seek to transform the suffering into a creative force. I decided to follow the latter course. Recognizing the necessity for suffering I have tried to make of it a virtue. If only to save myself from bitterness, I have attempted to see my personal ordeals as an opportunity to transform myself and heal the people involved in the tragic situation which now obtains. I have lived these last few years with the conviction that unearned suffering is redemptive.

“There are some who still find the cross a stumbling block, and others consider it foolishness, but I am more convinced than ever before that it is the power of God unto social and individual salvation.”[3]

While Dr. King’s self-sacrifice and his suffering were grounded in love and justice (and Cornel West reminds us that justice is what love looks like in public), I don’t think that all suffering is redemptive.

Physical suffering due to disease is not, in my view, redemptive. It is something that we can and should ameliorate. Karen Lebacqz, an ethicist and UCC minister writes, “The only redemptive suffering is that voluntarily undertaken in the cause of justice and the effort to combat disease. While the moral obligation to relieve suffering is not distinctively Christian, it is certainly central to Christian belief. Christians who, out of compassion, risk their lives by exposing themselves to contagion in an effort to heal others can be said to be modeling Christ’s compassion.”[4]

But what are we to say about everyday suffering that comes with simply living? I invite you to think of an occasion when you yourself have suffered. (As long as it is not so acute or recent that it is retraumatizing.) It might be grieving the loss of a spouse, a child, a parent. It might be rejection by a loved one. Perhaps a professional setback. Or when the physician delivers an unwelcome diagnosis. Maybe when someone has betrayed you. It might be an unrealized dream that haunts you. The ghost of loss can get into us and cause suffering. What is that time or occasion for you?

Many times when we suffer we feel alone in that anguish. Sometimes no one knows that you are suffering because you keep a stiff upper lip and keep on going. But inside, a piece of you feels as if you are dying. Each of us suffers in this way. Even when we feel alone, we are not. God is with us, we are not alone. Jesus tells us at such times to come with your heavy burdens and he will give you rest. Jesus himself underwent one of the worst forms of suffering imaginable, and in doing so, he had the full human experience of agony.

“Come bring your burdens to God, Come bring your burdens to God, Come bring your burdens to God, for Jesus will never say no.”

Not only is God there when you are suffering, so are your fellow Plymouth members. We form a family that supports one another, lifting up one another’s suffering and joy in prayer and in action. Paul writes in Galatians that we are to “bear one another’s burdens, and in this way, we will fulfill the law of Christ.”[5] What is the law of Christ? It’s love.

We can’t get around suffering, because it is a part of life. But we can show up for one another with love, and that helps our kindred to get through the suffering. Sometimes that means a warm embrace or a comforting pot of soup or listening compassionately or a note of encouragement. Just showing up is something any one of us can do for another. Even if we don’t think we have the right words, simply showing up can provide the solidarity and love that helps alleviate a bit of someone’s suffering.

I see people at Plymouth do this all the time! Our Congregational visitors drop in on some of our elders to say hello. Our Stephen Ministers have ongoing caring relationships with others in our congregation. And our Faith Community Nurses provide amazing, compassionate visits to those experiencing medical crises. I was with a family recently who have been going through a sequence of major medical issues — suffering — and they told me how helpful it was to have a faith community nurse guide them through the process and offer a prayer.

The English word compassion has two Latin roots: cum + passio, which means to suffer with. When we share someone’s burden, we do share a bit of their suffering with love and empathy. That isn’t to say we should be doormats or lose our footing by overidentifying with another’s suffering.

We may not be called to lay down our lives for those we love, but being present for another, acknowledging their anguish, letting them know they are loved and cared about can be a great help. Suffering is a real part of life. So is God’s presence. So is the love we share.

May it be so. Amen.
 
© 2024 Hal Chorpenning, all rights reserved. Please contact [email protected] for permission to reprint, which will typically be granted for non-profit uses.
 
[1] Brandon R. Peterson in Angelicum, Vol. 93, No. 4 (2016), pp. 875-894.
[2] John 15.13
[3] Martin Luther King, Jr., in Christian Century 77 (27 April 1960): 510.
[4] Karen Lebacqz in Suffering and Bioethics, ed. by Ronald Green and Nathan Palpant (New York: Oxford, 2014).
[5] Galatians 6.2

“Cause for Courage”
Matthew 14.22-34
The Rev. Hal Chorpenning, Plymouth Congregational UCC
Fort Collins, Colorado
August 13, 2023
 
Part of being human is encountering things that frighten us or keep us awake at night or make us worry about survival. It’s the stuff of the amygdala, the “reptilian brain” that instructs our hearts to beat and our lungs to breathe, and it also is where we get the fight, flight, or freeze response. Has there been a time for you when you’ve had that deer-in-the-headlights reaction where you feel as though you can’t think straight as a rush of adrenaline courses through your body? Most of us have had that sensation, even if we were not out on stormy seas in an open boat as the disciples were.

One of those times for me was when my stepson, Jane Anne’s son Colin, took his own life five years ago. I was out having a beer with one of our members, Mike Byrne, and I got the call. Jane Anne was so shaken she couldn’t speak, so my son, Chris, had to tell me that tragic news. I remember freezing and then telling Mike, “I have to go home. Now.” I drove home through the February snow, and I have no memory of the rest of the evening. At about 2:00 a.m., our doorbell rang, and there was a policeman at the door. I invited him in, and he said that he needed to inform us of some bad news, and I called to Jane Anne to come downstairs. It’s weird and a bit traumatizing to have the police knock on your door in the middle of the night and to hear them make an official notification that Colin had died. We were in shock, and we thanked the officer for coming by. (I’m sure it was very difficult for him to inform us as next-of-kin.)

Last week, I read this quote from James Finley in Richard Rohr’s daily email: “God is the presence that spares us from nothing, even as God unexplainably sustains us in all things.” God didn’t spare the disciples in the storm, but Jesus sustained them.

Viktor Frankl, a brilliant psychiatrist who survived Auschwitz, identified three discreet phases in such circumstances: stimulus, time, and response. Our reptilian brain leaps in after a triggering event (the stimulus) and rushes us to a response. This is great if you are about to walk into the road, see an oncoming vehicle at the last second, and leap back out of the way. In such circumstances, the amygdala keeps us alive. But what makes us human is the ability to expand the time between stimulus and response, so that can use our prefrontal cortex to allow a more considered response. That very brief span of time between stimulus and response is where we can find a sense of liberty in how we respond, using our prefrontal cortex.

What Frankl encourages us to do is practice being conscious of and lengthening the pause between stimulus and response. The disciples were so terrified of the storm and seeing a figure walking toward them across the water (that’s the stimulus) they panicked and thought Jesus was a “ghost.” (To be fair, that is a pretty frightening situation.) And when Jesus reassures them, saying, “Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid,” it allows them to pause, and Peter responds by asking Jesus to summon him out to walk on the water. Peter is now using his prefrontal cortex! Yay!

When Peter steps out onto the water, the wind comes up and he becomes frightened. His amygdala kicks in, and in immediate response, Peter begins to get very wet ankles and knees. As he is sinking, Jesus grabs his hand and hoists him to the surface of the water, saying “You of little faith (trust), why did you doubt?”

All of this makes me wonder if part of living into a life of faith involves disrupting that stimulus and response pattern slightly and inviting time in between to allow not just our logic but our faith to create a more considered response. I’ve never thought this before, but I wonder if faith (trust) resides in our prefrontal cortex, as well as metaphorically in our hearts. Trust isn’t something that just happens; we have to learn it. We develop trust in God through our own devotional lives and spiritual practice, whether that’s praying or meditating or journaling or reading scripture. It takes time to build faith that will last a lifetime.

Fear may be the opposite of faith. And when you think of what fear creates in our world — hatred, greed, racism, self-centeredness, sexism, Christian nationalism, and war — it is antithetical to faith, which I think of as developing a relationship of deep trust with God.

Part of what helped Jane Anne and me to regain our equilibrium after Colin’s death was to trust that we were being held…held by God and held by this community of faith. All we had to do is look in our backyard, where the prayer flags you all made for us were flying near our back fence, and we knew you were there with us. I am grateful. Thank you for surrounding us with God’s love and yours. James Finley writes, “God depends on us to protect ourselves and each other, to be nurturing, loving, protective people. When suffering is there, God depends on us to reach out and touch the suffering with love, that it might dissolve in love.”

We don’t have to go it alone. There is a force infinitely more loving and powerful that anything we can imagine. And relationship helps tether us to that force and become part of that force.

In those moments of life’s greatest intensity, we can invite our faith to come to the fore. Jan Richardson, a wonderful artist and minister, who suddenly and unexpectedly lost her husband Gary several years ago writes this, using images from Matthew’s story of Jesus on the waves:
“Eight months have passed since Gary’s death: a moment, an aching eternity. I can tell you that I know what it means to be borne up when the waters overwhelm. I know the grace of hands that reach out to carry and console and give courage. I am learning—again, anew—what faith is, how this word that we sometimes toss around so casually holds depths within depths that will draw us beyond nearly everything we once believed.

This is some of what I know right now about faith:

That faith is not something I can summon by a sheer act of will.

That it lives and breathes in the community that encompasses us.

That I cannot force faith but can ask for it, can pray that it will make its way to me and bear me up over the next wave, and the next. That it comes. That I can lean into it.

That it will propel me not only toward the Christ who calls me, but also back toward the boat that holds my life, incomprehensible in both its pain and its grace.

What are you knowing about faith right now? Where is it bearing you?”
And Jan Richardson offers this “Blessing that Bears the Wind, the Wave”

That we will risk
the drenching
by which we
are drawn
toward the voice
that calls us,
the love
that catches us,
the faith
that carries us
beyond the wind,
the wave.[1]
 
Dear friends, we are here to be the hands of Jesus to one another, to support and uplift one another. “Don’t be afraid; my love is stronger. My love is stronger than your fear. Don’t be afraid my love is stronger, and I have promised, promised to be always near.”
Amen.

© 2023 Hal Chorpenning, all rights reserved. Please contact [email protected] for permission to reprint, which will typically be granted for non-profit uses.

[1] Jan Richardson, at janrichardson.com, used by permission.