Perhaps it is my fear of the black hole that causes me to hesitate. The fear is powerful. It follows me everywhere I go, never far from my awareness. But when I’m home alone, it makes its presence known. The problem is, I need to be alone. I need silence to heal. I have to stop running. I need to be still. I need to hear God.
Stillness is part of my healing. But that hole of hopelessness stands like a great dog staring at me, waiting to attack when I’m not paying attention. I don’t want to be consumed with sorrow. And I’m running out of energy to fight it.
There is a cesspool of addictions in that black hole; addictions I walk into by choice, but will handcuff me with its unquenchable desires and drag me to the bottom. The evil that would keep me stuck there is the evil inside me. I guess I’m afraid of myself.
I think it was the last of the Toby McGuire “Spiderman Movies” (the good ones) where this black tar-like stuff from another planet somehow “attached itself to the host,” Peter Parker. The tar removed fear from the host, as well as his conscience. The alter ego that was already inside Peter Parker before the tar came out and lived on the surface. He lost all sensitivity toward others and became what we clinically call “antisocial.” He cared for no one but himself. It was the tar-like stuff that removed his care for others. He gained power but lost his soul in the process.
I can enter that black hole voluntarily, but I can’t get out on my own. I fear once in that hole, I will be lost at sea, forced to drink the salt water, driving me mad with my thirst. There is no satisfaction in that place, only thirst.
But then again, life is grim right now.
And it’s in this space that I dwell in my self-pity. These demons are subtle but know my buttons. No one can respect a man consumed with self-pity. He pulls others away with his self-centered preoccupation. The endless cycle of whining makes him a tornado of poop (a poop-nado) of complaints, causing others to run and me to hate myself.
This all sounds like a horror movie. But I think this is what’s going on inside of me.
Integrity
On one side of the responsibility spectrum, there is “self-pity,” which is embarrassingly ugly, like that tar-like stuff in the Spiderman movie (that does not, as far as I know, have a proper name). On the other side of the responsibility spectrum is “integrity,” which stands tall and shiny, kind of like…. a tall, shiny thing. Integrity is “owning my own problem.” And like all my problems, they won’t change unless I take the initiative.
My washing machine is broken. And I don’t know why. I curse the maker (the washing machine company whose name shall not be mentioned for liability reasons) for this infernal beast. And I’m unwilling to pay hundreds of dollars for a repairman to drive over to my house and say, “Yeah, this one doesn’t work. Ya know, you should get a new one, eh?”
I imagine nice ladies are saying to themselves, “Aw, look at Andy, he lost his wife and now can’t wash his cloths. Maybe that’s why he smells so funny.”
I talk to handymen at work, but no one has the answer. I consulted the Great Wisdom in the Sky (YouTube) and found that a “hall sensor” may need replacing. When I think of this, I think of “hall monitors,” and am propelled back to Junior High again. The problem is that hall monitors are cheaper and more effective than the $120 plastic piece with only one vendor. So, I jump into the abyss of the unknown and buy it. I’m unsure if that’s the answer, but I’m taking the initiative. And while I’m waiting, I waffle and start to shop around for new ones. And, in my weaker moments, I ask a friend if they have explosives and a place in which to blow up this infernal beast. But I relent and deny my impulses.
Self-pity is 1) complaining a lot about a problem (even more than I am doing now), 2) taking no responsibility for the problem, and 3) practicing the art of wallowing (wallowing being the operative word here). I fear I could spend endless hours retelling my story of woe to anyone willing to endure my whining. And if I happen to run into another wallower, we will likely both wallow the snot out of each other until one of us starts thinking, “What’s wrong with that guy? Why is he complaining so much?” The only things worse than one wallower are two wallowers.
Integrity draws others to me. When they come to me, they come into my story. They want to know what I did to handle my problem and what I’m doing to fix it. In some ways, I’m talking about grief. In some ways, I’m talking about my washing machine. And no, I don’t smell; I’ve been using my sister’s washing machine.
When I have self-pity, I try to draw others into my problem, hoping someone with a superpower will swoop down and take care of my godless washer and vanquish the evil one (the washing machine company whose name shall not be mentioned for liability reasons). This unstated but implied desire to draw others into my problem makes others want to walk away while avoiding direct eye contact.
The little boy crying because his mom doesn’t buy him a candy bar while going through the slow-moving check-out line is the picture of immaturity. That’s whining and self-pity. That’s what I don’t want to do but end up doing. I want it but can’t have it, so I’m going to punish others around me for not giving it to me.
Am I doing that right now?
I’m thinking of Mr. Tumnus and Lucy in the movie, “The Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe.” He was casting a spell on young Lucy so he could take her to the Witch (good for him, bad for her). Realizing his sin, he confessed to Lucy, “I’m a bad faun.”
“No Mr. Tumnus, you’re a good faun. If you did something wrong, I’m sure you didn’t mean it.”
“It’s not something I’ve done, it’s something I’m doing.”
Am I trying to do that now? Am I trying to work the audience to get a group of “sympathy givers” to pat me on the back and mumble, “Aww Andy” (said in that comforting motherly tone), “this must be terrible,” and “You’re such a great guy for handling all this,” and “You smell a lot better than the other men who lost their wives,” and, “You’re better looking too.”
What a wretch I am. I want sympathy and am willing to manipulate others to get it. And even worse, I don’t think it’s working.
Sympathy vs Empathy
The most popular way to help someone in grief is to give them sympathy. But what is sympathy, and does it work?
Sympathy is, “There, there sweetheart,” which is nice for a little while, but like fish, it’s only good the first two days and then you want to throw it out. Empathy doesn’t offer pity; it’s trying to connect with the uncomfortable emotion in the other person.
Sympathy can be offensive. Empathy is never offensive unless you call the lady you’re empathizing with an “ugly sow” or something like that. It’s not until empathy is offered that we realize how much we want it. It’s quenching a thirst we didn’t know we had. That thirst is called “Being listened to.”
Sympathy is offers pity. I hate that I want it, even if it’s just for two days. Like that second bag of potato chips (after I have already polished off the first one), I want more until I’m sick. I become that boy in the slow-moving grocery line. Helpless, weak, with no integrity, with quite possibly with a foul order.
I want to be a man but struggle to know what that is. At times, I want relief more than I want to honor God. And at times, I still want to be mothered.
My heart can be a vacuum of human pity. I can suck all the life out of a room and leave everyone looking for the exits. I wonder, can I be someone else’s black hole?
I don’t want to do that. My “not wanting” is from the Holy Spirit. Just wanting integrity is a sign of God’s grace. Hating the evil in me is something God does, something he gets the credit for.
I wonder if I have a piece of black hole in my heart. I wonder if that’s why I’m so attracted to its inky black hopelessness.
How?
How do I combat this evil within me?
As I ask this question, I already know the answer before the sentence is fully completed. God wants me to surrender my pain to him. Only after I surrender it will he take it. He will never pull it from my hands. He’s an invitational God, not a tyrant (even when I think he should be). I don’t have the power to do this on my own. I don’t even have the power to want to do this.
He wants me to rest in his presence. When I focus my attention on him, my battle for pity fades, and I see him a little more clearly. Distractions lose their power. My woes become things I keep in the back seat, under the floor mats, accessible but temporarily forgotten. And the important things become important.
I have a strong distaste for what I call “Jesus Frosting.” It’s using the Christian faith to make yourself look good. It’s the right answer with a proud heart that’s trying to look spiritual. It’s more proud than helpful. When you hear it, you want to squinch your nose like you caught the whiff of a decaying animal. Jesus Frosting tries to make you think, “Good golly, that guy sure is spiritual,” while also thinking, “I can’t stand that guy.”
Giving the right answer with the wrong motive is disrespectful. Trying to solve the problem of pain with a “Just praise God” or “Live abundantly” feels like cold water being sprayed on you on a cold winter’s morning. It feels like you are at a Jesus football game and someone is coming up with a good chant the crowd to shout in a frenzy of competitiveness. It doesn’t really honor Jesus. It’s like putting Jesus into a thimble and handing it out, but Jesus does come in thimble doses.
However, if you spend some time with me and allow me to share my sadness, the stuff I don’t fully understand myself, and bring Scripture into that darkness, then your words become powerful. Then they have weight. Words said without heart is a form of hypocrisy. It’s an insult to those struggling with despair. Love takes time. There is no real way around that.
How Do You Love?
The Bible is the solution, but quoting verses with your friend while not slowing your walking pace to make eye contact isn’t. When you spend less time with a friend struggling with death than you do paying a check at a restaurant, then your words become light and flaky. Jesus didn’t do that. He engaged in honest conversations, not as he walked by them, but as he asked life’s most important questions. He had serious dialogues.
Unfortunately, Churches have been places where harm has been done by nervous people who are fearful of saying the wrong thing. These well-intending people offer “the answer” rather than spending the time with you to earn that trust to give that answer. You can’t offer love in less than two seconds. To love, you must wait for the answer to the question, “So, how ya doin’?” Love is patient.
I’ve heard people say they “gave up on Church” due to others’ insensitivity. Love takes time, and you can’t separate “love” from “time.”
If you want to know what love is, you have to go to the source, I Corinthians 13. I love Eugene Peterson’s Message for several reasons. First, it’s beautiful and clear. Second, as Rick Warren said in “Purpose Drive Life,” when you use different words to express the same meaning, the truth of the passage sinks a little lower in your soul and sticks with you.
Understanding how to love is vital to the Church today, so I spent some time putting it down for our review. This passage of I Corinthians 13 is from the paraphrase “The Message” and is pretty direct, in my opinion. On the left side of the page is the Scripture from the Message; on the right side is my exhortation of that section of Scripture and how it relates to loving someone in grief.