I hate Pass It On billboards. You know the ones—each featuring a photo, often of a celebrity, and emblazoned with both a pithy cultural value, like kindness or persistence, and an order to pass it on. There’s a billboard with a photo of Jane Goodall, for example (Stewardship: Pass It On). There’s also one of Abraham Lincoln (Civility: Pass It On), William Shatner (Exploring: Pass It On), and Oprah Winfrey (Encouragement: Pass It On).
If being American was a religion, Pass It On billboards would be our creed. They signal who and what our culture considers inspirational—the people we communally believe in—and they command us to align our behaviors accordingly.
When it comes to secular creeds, we could do much worse. After all, many of the values this campaign promotes align with, or at least aren’t antithetical to, Christian ones: love, service, courage, confidence, charity, sacrifice. Even the more questionable values, like ambition and innovation, have redeemable aspects.
So why, then, do I hate these billboards so much? Because in the religion of Pass It On, I’d be among the damned.
Consider the Pass It On billboards that feature people with chronic illnesses or disabilities—the people whom I, a person disabled by chronic illness since the age of 27, am being told to emulate. There’s the one of a Harvard graduate with quadriplegia (Determination: Pass It On). Another of Michael J. Fox (Optimism: Pass It On). There’s one for resilience, and overcoming, and rising above, and inspiration—all qualities I lack. Where’s the billboard of a sick person ugly-crying while punching a pillow? Coping: Pass It On. Or a sick person waiting by their phone, desperately wishing that someone—anyone—would reach out to say hi? Desperation: Pass It On!
If Pass It On billboards are any indication, our society prefers sick people who are strong and inspirational, not angry and sad.
I used to think the church was just more of the same.
Consider, for example, the Christian concept of suffering well. According to Desiring God CEO Marshall Segal, to suffer well is to maintain persevering faith in the face of trials, all while “seeing the remarkable opportunity to encourage and inspire other believers” through your situation. When I think of suffering well, I think of people like Joni Eareckson Tada, an artist, prolific author, and woman with quadriplegia who founded a multifaceted ministry to people with disabilities all while being severely disabled herself. Early on in my illness, she published a collection of devotionals that encourage suffering Christians to get in the habit of singing praises to God. (It’s a wonderful collection, despite my heart not being in a place to receive it at the time.)
Suffering well is a good thing, and the church is right to honor those who endure hard times with unfaltering hope in God. Christ suffered well, after all, by submitting to the will of the Father and making “himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness” and “by becoming obedient to death” (Phil. 2:7–8). Suffering well is at the heart of the Book of Job. Job refused to curse God even as he sat in dust and ashes, scraping his boil-ridden skin with a potsherd.
But I’m willing to bet that no one suffers well all the time. Job had his moment of despair: “I cry out to you, God, but you do not answer” (Job 30:20). On the less-inspiring end of the suffering-Christian spectrum, I stumble along from one inglorious freak-out to the next. My day-to-day experience of suffering involves none of Paul’s delight in weakness or Joni Eareckson Tada’s songs of praise.
Because Christ saved us by grace alone, “suffering well” is, luckily, not a requirement of the Christian life. It’s also okay to be sad, angry, or otherwise uninspiring when walking through the valley of the shadow of death.
So why do I, when in church, feel the need to force a smile? On Sunday mornings (in many US congregations, at least), we perceive “How are you?” as a multiple-choice question: You can be good, you can be fine, or you can be okay. And for those rare sticky situations in which someone does mention their suffering in church, there’s “God works everything for good” and “Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength” and “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle” (the latter being an entirely unbiblical, often false statement).
It wasn’t until a few months ago that I realized how deeply rooted false positivity was in my own church and heart.
My church community is small—small enough for me to assume that I was the only disabled person. So when talking with someone before or after the service, I’ve been careful to tone down the more pitiful aspects of my experience with chronic pain. After all, I had no indication that my brothers and sisters would understand my lack of desire to pray, my aversion to worshiping God, my constant shame at not being tougher. They always seemed happy—joyful, even. And when I asked how they were doing, they’d usually respond with one of the customary answers.
But then, one Sunday, we had a special time of healing prayer. I was expecting to be one of the only people to go up to get prayed over. I knew of one or two other people dealing with physical ailments, but beyond that, I was under the impression that everyone else was all right.
You can imagine my surprise when, after I returned to my seat, another person stood up to be prayed over. Then another. And another. One by one nearly half the congregation came before the church and asked God to heal them of something.
I was shocked. Could it be that half the people in my church were struggling as I was? And if they were, was I really alone in my inability to suffer well?
In the following weeks, some of the people in my church began to open up about their struggles. Others weren’t ready. But the experience was, for me, an eye-opening one. Compared to me, most everyone at my church had always seemed so put together, so faithful, so inspirational. But if the reality was that some of them were as desperate and faithless as I was, then perhaps I was less alone in my church community than I’d always thought. And perhaps if I stopped hiding my struggles from others, I could find companionship in my pain.
A few weeks later, when asked to lead a time of prayer on Sunday, I decided to drop the happy act once and for all. I opened the prayer time by sharing that I’d woken up that morning in tears, terrified by a pain flare I’d had the night before. It was scary to be that honest with others and to risk either rejection or—even worse—trite responses.
But neither of those things happened. Instead, people came forward that day with prayer requests that echoed my fears. I ended up in many conversations with my brothers and sisters about our shared inability to “suffer well” that left me feeling encouraged. God had made room for honesty.
This isn’t to say that we need to air all our dirty laundry when we come to worship on Sundays. In many situations, discretion is wise, and church is not a replacement for therapy.
What’s more, there are plenty of people in my community who are legitimately at peace with their suffering, and I am thankful for them. They’re a picture of the work that I hope God does in my own heart over time.
But for now, I’m content with being a Christian who doesn’t suffer well. Although you wouldn’t know it from the billboards, we live in an anxious age. If the church is to offer any hope to our world, we need to suffer honestly. In so doing, we’ll become a place not only for happy faces but also for the downcast, the fearful, and the brokenhearted.
Natalie Mead is currently pursuing an MFA while writing a memoir about chronic pain, relationships, and faith. Read more of her writing at nataliemead.com.
Related
