On Prayer and Suffering

My father preached a sermon on prayer and suffering a year after my mother died of a recurrence of breast cancer. She was 66 and left behind six children and their spouses, ten grandchildren, a loving congregation of friends and a grieving husband. This was not the way things were supposed to go. My father’s father died suddenly of a heart attack at age 70 whereas my mom’s folks lived into ripe, old age. My parents set up their retirement plan to support my mom living well beyond my dad. He had retired two years earlier and they were looking forward to travels, time with their growing family and sunsets at their Lake Michigan cottage. There was some dispute about how they would divide their time between two beloved homes with their newfound freedom. My dad wanted to spend more than half of the year on the lakefront, enjoying the cottage they built and finished over twenty years’ time. My mother, however, didn’t desire to be away from their lovely home and community in Ohio for so long. When her cancer recurred and ultimately claimed her in nine months’ time, the decision about how to shape their future no longer mattered. The present moment took on hallowed significance as she adopted a phrase that my five siblings and I still embrace: Each day is a gift.

In this sermon my father offered as guest preacher in a Michigan congregation, he addressed the interplay of prayer and suffering. My mother was a beloved part of every congregation my father pastored. She was a devoted Christian who had countless friends praying for her from around the globe. In spite of so many individuals and congregations praying for this Godly woman to be spared from the fate of terminal cancer, she died with much life still to live. Did God not care? Are promises of physical healing in the Bible outdated? Did she do something in her life to deserve this early death? More than 500 people attended my mother’s funeral, some wrestling with these sorts of questions that interrupt our sleep when someone we love suffers and dies.

Intellectually, we all agree that death happens. Our genetics often influence how long we think we will live and what physical trials we expect to face. Lifestyle matters too. If we have smoked all our life, we may fearfully anticipate some sort of physiological consequence because of that addiction. Whether genetics or lifestyle, we often formulate an assumption of how our life will play out. We do this for others as well. When those expectations are violated, sometimes severely, we start asking these age-old questions. For some, their faith in God seems inadequate so they take a leave of absence. “If this happened to my husband, who spent his days selflessly serving others, then I can’t trust God any longer.” Our prayer life dries up and bitterness can easily creep into our hearts.

When someone we love is suffering, we carry our own expectations into our visits with them. We wonder what we can possibly say to someone who is now a paraplegic because a drunk driver slammed into their car. What words can comfort a young couple whose baby was stillborn or whose daughter is withdrawn from their world because of an autism diagnosis? When your neighbor’s high-ranking position is terminated and the family faces financial concern, how can we help if our own budget is tight?

It might feel easier to avoid such people because any response we make seems so inadequate. When we can’t make sense of someone’s suffering, our tendency can be to do or say nothing. After all, we might add to their pain through poor choice of words or actions that hurt rather than help them.

The Biblical story of Job is tossed around as people wrangle with unjust suffering. Maybe we can learn something from his friends who accompany him in his time of terrible loss. When the roof collapses on the house where his children are gathered, all of them are killed. His community is shocked. He is a highly respected elder, known for his faithfulness to God. The friends show up and sit with him. They keep company with him, offering no interpretation to this apparent injustice. Their mute vigil is when the friends do their best work. They are present to him and unable to make sense of his misery.

It is when they open their mouths and offer interpretations to his suffering that their effectiveness tanks. Even Job’s wife famously urges him to “Curse God and die.” She, too, has lost all her children, property and community respect alongside her beleaguered husband. Her suffering is so great that she no longer wishes to live. She cannot understand her spouses’ tenacious relationship with the God she blames for their accursed circumstances. They grieve differently as this adds to their pain as a couple.

People speak of “the patience of Job.” I’ve always disagreed with that description. In chapter after chapter of this story, Job rails at God. He rejects the friends’ suggestion that he somehow deserves this punishment. He will not listen to their claim that God has abandoned him. Sitting in an ash heap, covered in sores and bereft of his children, he keeps the conversation going with the Divine. It’s not a pretty conversation but God takes it. In the end, God shows up and praises Job for his faithfulness.

God Can Handle Our Anger

I’ve always been reassured to know that God can handle our anger, our questioning, our confusion. Job kept up the relationship. If you’re suffering, be honest in your prayers. Just as we hope for our children to share all their feelings with us (no matter how obvious they are), God wants us to express the full range of our emotions. Keeping the communication open in our faith life is the goal. Job was not patient. He was tenacious in his faith even in the most unimaginable circumstances.

God also straightened out the friends, telling them that they were wrong in their explanations for Job’s calamity. Appropriately chastened, perhaps they learned to use their heart rather than their head when confronted with suffering.  Job and his wife? Hopefully they found a good counselor!

Deepened Relationship

Putting prayer and suffering together is a challenge. Our survival instinct pushes us to run or, at the very least, to look away. But sticking close to someone who is hurting offers a deepened relationship. Through our presence, we assure them that they are not alone. In their time of trial, our love becomes a lifeline. We are humbled when facing our mortality, whether through our own challenges or those of another. We realize how fleeting our time on this earth can be. We establish different priorities. Our edges are softened. When our life feels Job-like, we do well to let go of the reins and fall into the good graces of those who love us and the God who is present in the darkness as well as the light.

C.S. Lewis wrote about the death of his beloved wife to cancer. He married late and their time together was too brief. Unlike any of his other classic writings, A Grief Observed is his journal of anguish as he accompanied her in the last chapter of her life. It was so raw that he originally wrote it under a pseudonym, N.W. Clerk. He worried that his vulnerable sharing would diminish the respect people had for his intellect. Instead, he connected with generations who experienced the inescapable pain and sadness that comes with suffering and death. He sat with his wife, Joy, caring for her with a tenderness that must have surprised him.

In his sermon, my father described the effect my mom’s terminal cancer journey had on both of them:

“So what happened through all of this? Obviously, she did not recover. But our relationship deepened as at no other time in our love for each other and its expression to each other. I seriously feel that if I were now given the choice of an instant, sudden death, or a lingering one such as she had, I would think long and hard before choosing the sudden one. A year before that would have been my automatic choice! The values that the two of us gained by this experience were immeasurable. The opportunities to sit and just talk about life’s deeper matters, (such as why the righteous suffer!) were invaluable.”

What Really Matters.

Certainly we don’t need to seek out trials to learn valuable lessons about what really matters. Life comes with problems that insult our expectations. As a hospice grief counselor I walk into sadness on a daily basis. Guess what I hear most often from those who invite me into their pain? Love stories. Their tears are followed many times with laughter as they celebrate in their hearts the attributes of this person they cherished. For those who stayed close to the patient during the last days of their life, they are left with great peace. For those who stayed away, we talk about their regret.

What is crucial is how we respond when our body is failing us or when our heart is breaking because of our loved one’s pain. Are we willing to show love even when our heart receives no answer to the searching question of “Why”? Can we push past our fear of saying/doing the wrong thing and tend to the needs of another with simple gifts that assure them that they are not alone?

Can we shift in our understanding of prayer when suffering or death goes against our expectations?

Is prayer a wish list delivered to a powerful Being not unlike a letter written by a child to Santa? In our mind have we bargained with God, negotiating a deal that enough good deeds or kind words insure us against unforeseen difficulties? Or do we pray to be made more and more fully into the image of the One we worship? Do we fervently ask to become more loving to our neighbor, whoever that may be? Do we give God thanks for being present in the midst of heartbreaking circumstances that are not miraculously cleared away?

In chapters marked by raw emotion and unanswered questions, can we adjust the way we pray? Like my mother, do we notice the abundance of gifts that come in countless small gestures in troubled times?

We sang a hymn in worship a couple of weeks ago that reminds me of why I am here in this earthly life. Let me close with a few verses of “The Servant Song” by Richard Gillard :

We are pilgrims on a journey. We are brothers on the road. We are here to help each other walk the mile and bear the load.
I will hold the Christ-light for you in the night time of your fear. I will hold my hand out to you; speak the peace you long to hear.
I will weep when you are weeping. When you laugh, I’ll laugh with you. I will share your joy and sorrow till we’ve seen this journey through.

Richard Gillard of New Zealand, 1976

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Laurie is an ordained pastor who recently retired from more than 30 years in parish ministry to pursue chaplaincy. She is a spiritual director and retreat leader through her own company, Sunflower Spiritual Direction (sunflowerspiritualdirection.net). She is a grief counselor for Heartland Hospice and author of a book on worship. She loves time spent with her family, cooking good meals, and traveling. You may follow her reflections at preachinglife.net