Up from Suicide

“My life felt so cluttered and obstructed that I could hardly breathe. I inhabited a closed, concentrated world, airless and without exits. I doubt if any of this was noticeable socially … But underneath I was going a bit mad. I had entered the closed world of suicide.” Most Christians never step over the threshold of that world; even when a minister’s counseling opens a window into it, he rarely understands completely how it feels to be suicidal.

Studies of suicide with theories about its causes, suggestions for its prevention, and statistics about its relation to age, race, sex, and the like are helpful but only skirt the periphery of that closed world. To open the door without actually entering requires literature, with its facility for exploring and expressing feelings. Two noteworthy books about the experience of suicide have recently appeared. One, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, gives a thinly fictionalized account of the author’s suicide attempt when she was nineteen. The other, The Savage God by A. Alvarez (Random House, 1972), begins with an account of Miss Plath’s third attempt, which succeeded, apparently by accident.

Mr. Alvarez’s qualifications for his study of suicide and literature are convincing: he is an established literary critic and poet; he knew Sylvia Plath and worked with her on poetry in the creative period just before her death in 1963; he attempted suicide himself in 1960 at the age of thirty-one. It is our gain that he lived to write about his sojourn in the closed world. It was for a time “the constant focus of my life,” he says. “Each sporadic burst of work, each minor success and disappointment, each moment of calm and relaxation, seemed merely a temporary halt on my steady descent through layer after layer of depression, like an elevator stopping for a moment on the way down to the basement.”

After a survey of suicide in the literature of earlier centuries, Alvarez turns to the twentieth century, where death seems an integral part of the literature and suicide almost the rule among artists rather than the exception. After two world wars, Nazi and Stalinist extermination camps, development of atomic and biological weapons, Biafra, Viet Nam, and other modern horrors, he finds it hardly surprising that current writing deals not with “the facts of life but the facts of death and violence: absurd, random, gratuitous, unjustified, and inescapably part of the society we have created.” Sylvia Plath and others confronted the constantly hovering specter of death by “using every imaginative resource and technical skill to bring it close, understand it, accept it, control it.” But death frequently won; many attempted or committed suicide, either physically or, by destroying their work or refusing to practice their art, symbolically.

Alvarez offers no alternative, Christian or otherwise, to self-destruction; his work merely describes the situation. It is left for us to ask whether Christianity can halt the elevator of depression before it reaches the basement.

While a strong Christian commitment tends to reduce the possibility of suicide, it does not eliminate it. In fact, given our insecure, chaotic society and the Christian’s blessed hope of heavenly life after death, the wonder may be that more Christians do not take their own lives. Paul apparently looked forward to death as a release from life’s vicissitudes: “My desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better” (Phil. 1:23).

One dissuasive factor may be a nagging uncertainty about whether heaven is guaranteed for Christians who commit suicide, especially when they do so for escape rather than as a testimony to faith or an act of unselfish love. Another may be love for family and friends. Survivors of suicide shoulder not only many of the burdens the suicide escaped but also a burden of guilt for his unhappy life and shameful death. (A new Fortress paperback, Suicide and Grief by Howard W. Stone, deals specifically with the minister’s relation to survivors.) To struggle with one’s problems without a spirit of martyrdom can be a form of the great love that inspires giving one’s all for loved ones.

The most basic reason for the Christian’s choice of life over death lies in the core of his faith. God, who forgives and accepts him warts and all, created his life. Good stewardship of that life which God gave and Christ redeemed—that is, living instead of dying—becomes a form of worship, a means of glorifying God, an expression of gratitude for the promise of eternal life.

“The despair that had led me to try to kill myself,” Alvarez writes, “had been pure and unadulterated, like the final, unanswerable despair a child feels, with no before or after. And childishly, I had expected death not merely to end it but also to explain it.” But the Christian who knows through redemption how to celebrate life finds an answer for despair in death, not his own but the death of Christ, which took the sting out of human mortality and put meaning into life.

But no amount of reasoning or explaining will do much to bring someone—Christian or not—up from the basement of suicide. The best anyone can do when the suicidal cry for help comes is be there with loving acceptance to give attention and dispel loneliness. Later the Christian may have an opportunity to talk faith, hope, and love, and he should be prepared to be honest about the valleys as well as the mountain tops of Christian experience, about its earthly existence as well as its heavenly hope. What he is presenting, after all, is not just another form of escape but a new way to live.

Cocu Fragmented

The big news coming out of the General Assembly of the United Presbyterian Church was its decision (by a vote of 411–310) to withdraw from the Consultation on Church Union. This action was particularly significant in that it repudiated the dream of Eugene Carson Blake, who while he was stated clerk of the United Presbyterian Church launched the COCU idea in an address delivered in 1960 in the cathedral of the late Bishop James Pike. Blake has since become general secretary of the World Council of Churches.

The General Assembly’s action casts a shadow of gloom over many ecumenists’ hopes for a monolithic structure that would eliminate denominations and give clout to the church as an undivided superpower. The United Church of Christ earlier expressed its doubts about COCU and church union, and now the United Presbyterians may have dealt the plan a death blow.

In 1970 CHRISTIANITY TODAY published a long, two-part examination of COCU (“COCU: A Critique,” October 9 and 23). A few issues ago (April 14) we printed a penetrating article entitled “Thoughts on Christian Unity” by John Mackay, president emeritus of Princeton Seminary and one of the founding fathers of the ecumenical movement. It may be that these articles and our editorials on the subject helped to persuade some United Presbyterians to vote for withdrawal.

Evangelical opposition to COCU has been based on two considerations: the theological basis of unity and the form the new church was to have. The COCU Plan of Union was grossly deficient at both points. The theological statement was less than biblical in what it said and was quite defective in what it failed to say. It was a syncretistic formula to which even a Unitarian could have assented. The proposed ecclesiastical restructuring with its complex parish plan, which greatly de-emphasized local congregations, would have eliminated longstanding patterns with no assurance that the new forms would be an improvement. Moreover, the proposed episcopacy was of doubtful acceptance to staunch high churchmen, while still too strong for denominations of non-episcopal heritage.

The cause of true unity has not necessarily been hindered by the setback to COCU. Indeed, it may have been considerably advanced. We hope evangelicals will not sit back and gloat over this turn of events but will seize the initiative and set forth in detail, as John Mackay has done in general terms, the biblical nature of unity and how it can be attained at a time in history when we all should be one.

Bullets For The Candidate

The attack on Governor George Wallace has caused a new wave of soul-searching and self-criticism to break over the American psyche.

It is hard to find words adequate to condemn this resurgence of murderous violence in the 1972 political campaign. Not only was a terrible injury done the wounded man and his family; once again the whole democratic process has received a staggering blow. The consequences for the 1972 campaign will be, at the least, increasing shielding of the candidates, limitation of their freedom of movement, and a growing sense of frustration and alienation among the voting public.

Of the four major political assassination attempts made in this country during the last decade, two were committed with rifles, two with pistols. The easy availability of guns undoubtedly facilitated these crimes, especially if—as we are led to believe—each was the work of a loner, not a conspiracy. On previous occasions, CHRISTIANITY TODAY has spoken in favor of strict and effective gun-control laws. Probably the chief beneficiaries of improved control would be not the prospective targets of political assassins, who can almost always get lethal weapons, but the thousands of ordinary people who are killed in often unpremeditated violence each year.

While supporting effective gun controls as a restraint on violent crime, we must not delude ourselves into thinking that guns are the root of the problem. In a sense, politically motivated crimes such as the attacks on the Kennedys, Dr. King, and Governor Wallace, which have or could have a definite goal in mind, fall into an old if dishonorable tradition and are less symptomatic of the deteriorating social health of our nation than are the far commoner crimes against ordinary people. They merely dramatize what is becoming evident at every level of society: the naïve, naturalistic faith in science and progress of the postwar years, fattened for decades on an apparently endless growth of affluence and creature comfort, is rapidly turning into generalized resentment and blind rage as the deeper values of life not merely elude us but seem to be on the point of vanishing entirely.

Affluence disillusions those who gain it as it builds envy in those who lack it. Like spoiled children who have been promised a treat and then denied it, we are turning nasty and vicious. And so people lash out at those who, they think, are standing between them and their desires—a president in Dallas or a policeman in a jewelry store in downtown Washington.

Perhaps our increasingly obvious failure to find solutions to the deep problems of life in politics or any other purely secular quest will drive us ever deeper into senseless and destructive fury. Or perhaps, by God’s grace, more and more of us will come to our senses, and realize that what we really long for cannot be provided by industry, science, government, or any other secular agency. Then we will stop trying to destroy whoever appears to be an obstacle to us, and turn instead to God, to find the transforming power and true fulfillment that only he can give.

Nineteenth-Century Or Christian?

Columnist Milton Viorst recently lampooned Richard Nixon’s views on abortion and contraception by putting the following words into the President’s mouth: “I have read [the Commission on Population Growth’s] intelligent recommendations, and decided to stick with my traditional answers and conventional prejudices.” The column was entitled “Preserving Nineteenth-Century Morality” (Washington Star, May 11, 1972). Now, it seems unlikely that President Nixon has a deep commitment to the nineteenth century. It’s possible, perhaps even probable, that what is at stake, in the President’s eyes, is not nineteenth-century morality, but Judeo-Christian morality.

Despite all the inroads of secularism, it would still not be very productive in America today to attack a man or a speech as “defending Judeo-Christian morality.” It is far more effective tactically to stigmatize the offending principles as “outmoded,” or better yet, “nineteenth-century.” Two things are objectionable about this tactic: it is historically misleading and it confuses rather than clarifies the moral choice to be made.

The century or year when a principle was best stated or held in highest honor says nothing about its validity. Civil rights happens to be a nineteenth-century idea; mass extermination of civilian populations in concentration camps and by area bombing, by contrast, is a modern, twentieth-century idea. The explicit condemnation of abortion is not a nineteenth-century idea; in the Christian tradition alone, it can be documented from one of our earliest post-biblical works, the Didache (5, 2). Permissive sexual morality is also not the least bit modern, though its advocates like to call it the “new morality.” These “new” ideas and behavior patterns were already propagated and practiced in ancient times—notably in Rome during the decades of its greatest decadence. So the chronological label is frequently false, and whether false or true, it confuses the real ethical issue.

We cannot fault people for finding biblical standards objectionable; even believing Christians, with every reason to follow them, find them difficult, to say the least. But we can fault those who present ethical decisions as though they were questions of date or style. Many inherited traditions are pure conventions and can be changed as wisdom dictates. But where a so-called traditional answer is actually a divine commandment, we reject it at our peril. What is at stake is more than semantics: it is a question of salvation—that is, of life itself—in this world and in the next.

The Widening Circles Of Coveting

“Beware of covetousness,” Jesus said. Covetousness is one of the root sins, equal in its potential for evil to pride; it is the precursor to other sins that at first glance appear far worse. Yet rarely do we hear sermons preached on this theme.

Adultery is one sin to which covetousness can lead. David, for example, coveted Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite. How tragic the consequences—not only adultery but murder.

Ananias and Sapphira lied to the apostles and to the Holy Spirit, losing their lives as a result. They lied because they coveted a reputation for generosity that they could not reconcile with a grasping attitude toward their own possessions.

As James reminds us, war is often caused by covetousness. It may be simply the desire to get from another nation territory or resources that the aggressor wants or thinks he needs. Or it may be power that the aggressor covets, the ability to dominate weaker groups of people.

Judas Iscariot coveted money, and this led him to betray Jesus Christ. Avarice is not less a sin today, although it is often masked by euphemisms such as “getting ahead in business” and “moving up in the world.”

Much advertising is pitched at the level of covetousness; it tries to create within people the desire for things they can do without. The impression is left that life consists in the abundance of things a man possesses—in bigger cars, more luxurious houses, more extensive wardrobes, more gadgets, more impressive vacations, than the Joneses have.

Jesus related the parable of the rich fool to warn us against covetousness (Luke 12:15 ff.). This foolish man, already rich, wanted more riches, so that he could more sumptuously eat, drink, and be merry. That very night God required his soul of him, and he found he had to leave the world the same way he had entered it—emptyhanded.

Queen Semiramis built a magnificent monument to herself on which she had inscribed: “Whatever king wants treasure, if he opens this tomb he may be satisfied.” When King Darius saw these words he opened the tomb, only to discover another inscription: “If thou were not a wicked person and of insatiable covetousness, thou wouldst not disturb the mansions of the dead.”

If we must covet, then let us covet only the best possessions—love, joy, peace, faith, humility, hope.

Managing editor David E. Kucharsky was among the newsmen who accompanied President Nixon on his visit to the Soviet Union. Soon after his arrival in Moscow he sent this report:

President Nixon’s week in the Soviet Union opened on an intense note. Within two hours of his arrival in Moscow May 22, Nixon was in a private conference with Leonid Brezhnev in the Soviet Communist party chief’s office in the Kremlin. That first unscheduled meeting, arranged hurriedly on Brezhnev’s initiative, lasted for more than two hours. Because of it, Nixon was twenty-six minutes late for the dinner given him that night by Soviet leaders.

The next day Nixon participated in a string of four summit sessions, each lasting about two hours. He left Mrs. Nixon to do the sightseeing.

It should come as no surprise that the President got down to business so quickly, putting aside most of the ceremonial possibilities in favor of hard negotiations. Nixon is characteristically a disciplined man who makes the most of his opportunities, and this one might well be his greatest.

Midway through the talks, there was still no clear impression of how much “success” might be achieved, and indeed what could be considered “success.” Previous summits should have taught the world to be cautious. What seems at the moment to be an achievement may turn out in the long run to be a disaster.

In this case, the very fact that the “Spirit of 76” landed in Moscow seemed to denote progress. Almost to the last hour there were grave doubts whether the trip would come off at all. There was persistent speculation that hawks in the Kremlin might prevail and have the summit called off—or at least postponed—in retaliation for Nixon’s decision to mine the North Vietnamese harbors.

The day after arrival, two formal agreements were signed, one on joint efforts to deal with environmental problems and the other providing for exchange of data on major diseases such as cancer and heart trouble. Presumably these documents had been prepared in advance. The specifics of the real confrontation between Nixon and Brezhnev were not immediately revealed.

Nixon did tell newsmen in general terms in advance of the trip that the discussions would center on three major areas: arms limitations, trade, and cooperation in space. No one doubted that Viet Nam would be on the agenda as well. But the Soviets were eager to sell the idea that the summit held no peril for the Communist Vietnamese. President Nikolai Podgorny said in a brief speech at the dinner for Nixon that “the Soviet Union deems it possible and desirable to establish not merely good but friendly relations between the U.S. S. R. and the United States,” but “certainly not at the expense of any third countries or peoples.”

Many hoped that the Middle East, and perhaps even Ireland, would also come up for some fruitful discussion. These are two of the world’s big trouble spots that entail a more explicitly religious, and therefore an ultimately more important, dimension. So often, the basically religious questions underlying the world’s major problems go by unnoticed in the political rhetoric that predominates. The Nixon-Brezhnev talks can be seen as a classic confrontation of Christianity and Communism, albeit with a less-than-pure ideological strain on each side. They have been little noticed in this light.

Somewhat more to the fore has been the question of religious freedom. Jews urged the President to speak up for the rights of their comrades in the faith, and there was reason to think he might. Presidential adviser Henry Kissinger told reporters covering the summit that Nixon is aware of how eager American Jews are to get some concessions from Soviet authorities. He added that the President would look for an opportunity to bring up the matter.

There are between two and three million Jews in the Soviet Union. Some want to emigrate to Israel, and the government has been reluctant to let them go. That Soviet authorities are sensitive to the question is shown by the fact that among the books placed at the disposal of newsmen in the press center in Moscow were several related to Soviet Jewry. One, The Deceived Testify, was a sixty-four-page collection of complaints from Jews who said they regretted going to Israel.

An American rabbi says that Soviet Jews were looking to the summit in an “almost messianic” way, feeling it could be the event that “turns the corner” for them. There was some reason to think some Protestants in the Soviet Union might have entertained similar hopes, though their situation has received considerably less attention.

The start of summit week in Moscow was pleasantly warm, though there had been snow on the ground just three weeks before. It was a reminder that the course of international events can change quickly, especially if forces in the Kremlin are able to exercise their influence.

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