John Mark Hicks

I am a divorced person.  In a previous post I expressed what I felt in the aftermath of my divorce.  Now—out of my own experience and not out of some expertise—I offer some suggestions for helping those who have been through the valley of divorce.

Stick with us.  Connect with us.  Don’t leave us alone and isolated.  If you were our friend before the divorce, stay our friend now.  If we hung out together, continue to hang out with us. Invite us over; invite us to dinner, breakfast or lunch. Invite us for a day of recreation or for a walk.  If you are a married couple, allow the same-sex part of the couple to spend some alone time with us. Hanging with a married couple as a divorced person can be rather uncomfortable—but not always. 

Don’t Pry.  Don’t inquire, listen.  We will tell you what we want to tell you. Keep the questions to a minimum.  Focus on presence and listening.  Keep your curiosity in check.  Recognize that pushing for disclosure of details is more about you than it is about helping us. Hear whatever we are willing to tell, let us take the initiative in disclosure and never pursue your curiosity with us.

Don’t Interpret. Whatever the circumstances, don’t offer an explanation for why God allowed this or why we did what we did or even what the ex did.  Don’t condemn or judge; listen and encourage.  When speaking focus on expressing your own feelings rather than managing our feelings. You are not present to “fix” anything—you can’t fix it.  Rather, you are present to share our experience with us as we are willing to reveal it to you.

Bless us.  The shame is practically unbearable. Shame assaults our self-image.  We need someone to bless us for our authentic identity—to love us for who we are rather than judge us for what we have done.  We need someone in our life who will say—“no matter what has happened or why, I love you and I will walk with you through every valley of this horror.”  We need people who will never leave us or forsake us; we need people who will be the instrument of God’s own faithfulness. Remind us that God loves us through your presence and blessing.

Affirm us.  We need to hear that though we have experienced the horror of divorce that we are not necessarily bad people who have always done bad things. We need to hear that we have value, gifts and talents.  We need to hear that we are worthwhile persons who have a future and can do worthwhile things even though we are divorced. Affirm our good points and remind us that our divorce does not define us or our future.

Help us in deed rather than mere word.  We need advice but only offer it when we ask for it unless you see something quit harmful coming down the pike that we don’t see.  We need assistance—sometimes with kids, sometimes with finances, sometimes with jobs.  Just as widows need help in various circumstances, often the divorced need similar kinds of help.  The church seems more willing to help the widow rather than the divorced. This increases the stigma, shame and guilt. Come to our aid as the instruments of God’s own aid.  Ask us what we need; do something for us without asking. Demonstrate God’s love to us as a way of reminding us that God loves us since we find it difficult to believe that God loves us when the one whom we married in love no longer does.

Much more could be said, but were one to love us in at least these ways, it would be truly transforming and comforting for us.

May God have mercy.

I was divorced in 2001 after eighteen years of marriage. I have no intent to assign blame in this post—if blame were assigned I am only beginning to see that I deserve much more than I would have earlier admitted.  I only want to speak of the experience of divorce itself, but even in that I can only speak of my own experience.  My feelings in the midst of divorce may not be the same as another’s. These are my own personal feelings about my own divorce.

These are the emotions and thoughts I felt and thought. Whether they accurately reflect the reality of the situation or whether they correspond with God’s own compassionate understanding of the circumstances is of little consequence because they are nonetheless what I felt and thought. Whether right or wrong, this is what I experienced.

I have rarely spoken or written of my divorce.  I’m not sure why—it still hurts and I certainly don’t want to speak for or about my ex, but perhaps it is mostly because these feelings still persist in some ways.  I share them here for the first time in writing though I have spoken about them (but only on two occasions).

Incredulous.  I wanted to cry out “this is not the way it is supposed to be!”  I did not marry in order to get divorced.  Even now—almost seven years later—it is still difficult to believe that I am a “divorced person.” I still feel it even though I have remarried and enjoy a new relationship with Jennifer.

Failure.  What could I have done differently? How could I have messed up the most important thing in my life?  I failed at the most important relationship in my life. How could I feel good about that? How can I recover from that? If I failed in this, what does this say about me and about any future relationships I might have?  How can I minister to others when I failed to minister to my own wife?

Hurt.  Not only, of course, my own hurt, but the hurt that reverberates throughout the lives of my children and others. This is generational pain that entails wounds that will affect my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  My heart hurts not only for my own loss but the losses that are yet to be felt in the lives of those connected with me.

Guilt.  God hates divorce, and so do I.  I have felt the burden of the sin of divorce on many occasions; I have felt the guilt of failure.  My marriage did not image the oneness of God’s own loving community.  Instead, brokenness and woundedness destroyed my marriage’s oneness.

Shame.  This is the most nasty of all feelings.  It is more devastating than guilt.  I feel guilt for my part in my divorce–guilt relates to what I have done.  But shame is something I feel because of my identity as a “divorced person.” Shame relates to who I am; it is a mode of existence. It reaches to the core of my own self-image.

Rejection.  The rejection may even be mutual, but the feeling of rejection is nevertheless real.  Whether the rejection is passive in the sense of distance or withdrawal or whether the rejection is something else, the result is the same.  At one time one feels chosen—the one the other wants and desires, but now rejected. Now the divorced—on both sides—feel unchosen.

Embarrassment.  Wearing the big “D” on the forehead is like wearing the scarlet “A”. The failure, hurt, shame and rejection are public—everyone knows about it. Some disconnect from you. Some distance themselves.  Others don’t want their children to marry your children. Some churches don’t want you to serve among them. I sometimes didn’t even want to show up at the assembly.  Who am I to minister to people when I could not even minister to my own wife?

Brokenness.  Life is different.  Everything, it seems, has changed.  Loneliness becomes a part of life in a way that it had not before. It seems that it will never be the same again.  Who can put Humpty Dumpty back together again? I wondered whether I would ever heal and in some ways I still have not healed.  The trauma is massive.

Disconnected from Community. I became uneasy with my old circle of friends, especially the married ones. It didn’t seem the same anymore.  I stuck out like a sore thumb. Being with married friends only reminded me of the pain of my loss and the reality of my loneliness.  They were not the problem, but my circumstances took me to places in my mind that skewed even their best efforts to show me friendship.

Jealousy.  I confess it.  I am jealous of those whose marriages have survived for 30, 40, 50 years.  I wanted to be in that number myself and thought I would be. I do rejoice with others at those anniversaries…but I also admit that have a strong tinge of envy and jealousy at the same time.  My brokenness remains with me.

How do you help?  I’m not sure but perhaps I will offer a few thoughts later.  But for now just sit with me as I experience my own feelings.  Sit with me without judgment, without correction, without condemnation…but as a friend ready to listen, pray and embrace.

Recommended Reading. For the questions surrounding the practical theological and ethical issues, I would recommend Rubel Shelly’s recent Divorce & Remarriage: A Redemptive Theology. For practical spiritual, emotional and redemptive perspectives on divorce and life after divorce, I would recommend Dana Hood’s recent I Will Change Your Name: Messages From the Father to a Heart Broken by Divorce.

What can we do for someone who has lost a loved one to death? I lost my first wife (1980), father (1994) and son (2001) to death, and my second wife and I divorced in 2001. I share here based more on my experience than any expertise.  

1. Have a healthy sense of inadequacy. The worst and most offensive thing to a sufferer is for someone to come with all the answers.
2. Be there and be silent. From a sufferer’s point of view, the most important thing is not what you say but your presence. Be present and be God’s instrument of comfort. 
3. Listen. It’s difficult to listen to a sufferer, and the tendency is to try and change the subject. Take a cue from the sufferer. If they lead you into remembering their loved one, go with their lead. If they talk about something more superficial, talk about the topic they choose. Be willing to listen to questioning doubt. Job’s friends were unwilling to hear Job’s questioning and tried to stop him. What we do represents God for them.  They will experience God’s listening through our ears.
4. Be willing to experience pain with the sufferer. We may have enough problems in our own lives that we often don’t want to experience the pain and hear about the problems of others, but a sufferer needs someone to listen, feel with them. Proverbs 25:2. When we are willing to sit with others in their feelings then they can also feel the empathy of God’s own presence.
5. Express your love without interpretive statements. Don’t say, “It’s all for the best,” or “God plucked a rose from his garden.” Never try to interpret why a person died or what God’s intent was—this is not only arrogant but doesn’t help the sufferer. Say something that you feel, such as “I feel awful about this. This is terrible.” Never tell a sufferer how they should feel, but you can tell them how you feel, that is, how you hurt with them and how awful you feel about the circumstances. 
6. Do something. Don’t say, “If there’s anything, anything I can do, call me.” Why not? Because this places on the sufferer the responsibility to do something, to figure out something for the person to do for them and make a call. This is a time when the sufferer doesn’t need more burdens. Have you ever really been called by someone who is suffering after you told them this? Most likely, you’ve been called rarely, if ever. The sufferer may not want to inconvenience someone nor decide who to inconvenience. Statements like, “Call me if there’s anything I can do” only extend the suffering rather than helping. What needs done? In some cases, everything needs to be done. Do something for the sufferer that you perceive they need. Mow their lawn, take them some food, help them clean their house, change the oil in their car. Show up and do.

I often get requests for CDs of two seminar series that I have done for many churches.  The two most requested are “Anchors for the Soul” and “Come to the Table.”  They are both available on my Audios page.

 “Anchors for the Soul” is my attempt to reflect on what we might say to those who are suffering.  There are definitely somethings we should not say, but there is something we can say at the appropriate time.  The five anchors are:  (1) God loves us; (2) God listens to our laments; (3) God empathizes with our suffering; (4) God reigns over our suffering; and (5) God ultimately wins over suffering. These lectures are the substance of my small group study book Anchors for the Soul: Trusting God in the Storms of Life.

 “Come to the Table” is my attempt to understand the theology of the Lord’s Supper and offer practical suggestions for experiencing the Table in more communal, interactive and joyous ways.  These lectures are the substance of my book Come to the Table Revisioning the Lord’s Supper.

I have recently created some pages where I can offer some previously published and unpublished materials for download.  I will occasionally comment on these to alert readers of their availability.

At the moment there are several documents available on the Academic Materials page.

One article is a presentation I made at the Christian Scholar’s Conference on a Christian rehabilitation of the concept of Law as a guide for sanctification.

Two articles focus on the Lord’s Supper.  One attempts to understand the eschatological meaning of the Lord’s Supper and the other reflects on the meaning and practice of the Supper among Churches of Christ in the early and mid-20th century.

Two articles focus on Stone-Campbell theology.  One explains the meaning and significance of sacramental theology within the Stone-Campbell Movement (baptism, Lord’s Supper and Lord’s day assembly) and the other is the set of handouts I used in lecturing on James A. Harding at the Center for Spiritual Renewal (Lipscomb University) a few years ago.

Another article is the presentation I made at a meeting of representatives from Southern Baptists and Churches of Christ at Abilene Christian University several years ago on the subject of baptism.  I sought a kind of reproachment between the two fellowships on the design/function of baptism.

The final article is one that was presented at a sermon seminar at Rochester College on preaching community laments. I focused on Psalm 44 and 58 as my primary examples.

 I hope some find these helpful as I make them available in this form.  There will be more to come as I have time to post them.

Shalom

 John Mark

My wedding day. Sheila Pettit was my bride. We married in Ellijay, Georgia.

I was 19 years old, though I had just graduated a few weeks before from Freed-Hardeman College. I was nervous, but excited.

We had dreams…and plans. First we would housesit for various people as I served as a summer Youth Minister for the Springfield Church of Christ in Springfield, VA just outside of Washington, D.C. Then in late August we would move to Philadelphia, PA where I would attend Westminster Theological Seminary.

We moved to Philly with no money. All our savings had paid tuition for the first semester. We had no jobs, but we had paid the first month’s rent on our apartment. We were going faith or perhaps naivete. Nevertheless, the Lord blessed us. We both found jobs within two weeks–including a preaching opportunity at the NE Philadelphia Church of Christ.

We had dreams. We planned to serve God in Germany, perhaps behind the Iron Curtain.

That first year was exhiliarting, and as with all first years of marriage a learning experience…learning to adjust to each other in our love.

We experienced tragedy that first year. Sheila had a miscarriage. But we were surrounded with a healing community in our small church.

It began on May 22, 1977…29 years ago today. It ended on April 30, 1980 when she died.

May 21 and May 22 come right after each other. I sort of wish they were spread out a bit. Those two days bring a mixture of sadness and joy to my heart. They are part of the stuff of my life and give meaning to my life.

And they (Joshua and Sheila) have shaped my life and enable me to be the person I am–whatever that is worth. But it is worth something because God has given me love once again and the joy of relationship and intimacy with Jennifer.

God be praised. He gives and he takes away, but he keeps on giving…and one day his gift will be without end.

Joshua,

I miss you. You died five years ago today.

There are times when I look around for you and expect you to be there. There are times when I remember your laugh, your smile and your hyperactive joy. They bring a smile to my face. You created laughter in our family even when we knew you would not always be with us.

There are times when I remember your suffering. I remember your aching joints, your deteriorating mind and capabilities, and your loss of activity. I remember your last years confined to a wheelchair or a bed.

Laughter and suffering–you experienced both, and your led us through both. We laughed with you and because of you. We suffered with you and watched you suffer. And both had their value, though I often wonder what exactly the value of your suffering was, if any.

Joshua, you gave us laughter and we also wept with you as you suffered. Life has not been the same without you. Life changes. Lives go on. But there is a hole in my heart that belongs to you. One day that hole will be filled as we see each other again.

I guess what I miss most is to hear you say “I love you.” Though you died at 16, I have not heard those words since you were 10. I long to hear them again. But though you could not say it, your cooing, your snuggling, your eyes conveyed it. Those are the memories that linger, and they are the hopes that will be fulfilled.

Joshua, I long to hold you again, speak to you and love on you. And I know one day I will.

Until then, my son, I will hold you dear in my memory….but there is a at least one joy that is not memory. My son, I enjoy my weekly time with you at the table of the Lord which we share with all the saints, past and present, every Sunday. There we meet in sweet communion with our common Savior and God.

Joshua, I miss you….but I’ll “see” you again next Sunday, my son. Rest in the peace of God’s arms and may God give my heart a share in that peace with you.

Love,

Dad

It is not a significant date for everyone, but it is for me. It was the beginning of a new journey in my walk with God.

Prior to April 30, 1980, I thought I had God basically “figured out.” Oh, I don’t mean that I arrogantly thought I had fully comprehended God or knew everything there was to know about God. By no means! Twenty-two year old ministers can be quite arrogant, but I was not that arrogant.

Nevertheless, I was working on the quid pro quo plan. I thought that if I did my part–did the best I could, sought the will of God, dreamed big for God’s church and my ministry–then God would do his part. That is, he would bless my plans, dreams and goals. God would be “good” to me because I was “good” to him.

I may not have thought of it that crassly and memory does play tricks on you, but I am certain that my understanding of God was rather mechanistic. I did my part–I worked the plan, and God did his part–he would bless. It was an impersonal understanding of God; non-relational at its heart. It was as if God had worked out a deal with humanity, and me in particular. It was a pactum, to borrow a term from medieval nominalism. God and I had a contract.

But God did not keep his end of the bargain.

I planned to do big things for God–missionary to Germany, doctoral work under Pannenberg in Munich, and then return to the States to teach theology and missions in one of our Universities. I was going to do my part–I had goals, dreams and hopes. And I had expectations. I expected God to do his part.

But God did not keep his end of the bargain.

On April 30, 1980, at about 3:00am in the morning I was awoken with the news that Sheila, my wife since May 22, 1977, was dead. She died when a blood clot went through her heart as she slept. She was recovering from back surgery that would have permitted her to carry our children full term.

God did not keep his end of the bargain!

My mechanical understanding of God went kaput! It took me many years to work through what exactly shifted in my thinking as a result of that experience. It involved months and years of lament, some rebellion, frustration with God, shifting theologial thoughts, and even silence (refusing to speak to God). But ultimately somewhere along the way–almost unidentifiable in my experience–I shifted from a mechanical to a relational understanding of God.

This shift was primarily a shift in my understanding of prayer, providence and God’s work in the world. But the shift had implications for my understanding of the Holy Spirit, worship, grace, etc. In other words, my whole theology made a slow turn toward the relational. My “doctrine of God” shifted and as a result my whole theological orientation shifted.

As I think back on that slow shift that began on April 30, 1980, I am awed by how I was changed through that experience. I can even confess with the Psalmist that “it was good for me to be afflicted” (Psalm 119:71).

God was not seeking a pactum with me, but engaging me in a relationship. While journey language has become almost cliche, it is nevertheless the reality of my walk with God. And the journey took a radical turn on April 30, 1980….twenty six years ago today.

The Lord gives and the Lord takes away; blessed be the name of the Lord.

Nine years ago Jennifer delivered Leah stillborn. The next Sunday her congregation sang, “God is so good.” The words caught in Jennifer’s throat, and she could not sing. Instead she found a place to weep alone.

“I’m dead inside,” Becky says. Her church, shepherds, family and friends had begged God for sixteen-year-old Joshua. But Jeff’s and Becky’s only son died as a result of surgical complications nearly a year ago. “How, God, can this be the reality of my life?” Becky asks.

Though for six months Liesa had requested special prayers for her only son, 23-year-old Chad died in a car accident one year ago. Feeling the overwhelming shock and loss, Liesa, along with her husband Ted, struggles to find the heart to worship.
Like Jeff and Becky, we also named our only son Joshua with the prayer that God would make him a leader among his people. He lived sixteen years before his weak body lost its long struggle with a genetic disorder two years ago.

Since October Becky and Jeff, Liesa and Ted, and Jennifer and I have met twice a month to share our hearts and thoughts. We cry and pray together. We study Scripture and discuss the twists and turns that happen in our lives. We vent our feelings and hurts.

Grief has not created intellectual doubt within our group. We believe God is there, but we do wonder why God is not here. We believe God exists, but we wonder why he permitted such horrendous loss in our lives. Like C. S. Lewis, after the death of his wife of three years, we are not “in much danger of ceasing to believe in God” as much as “coming to believe such dreadful things about Him” (Grief Observed, 5).

Grief has not attacked the intellectual dimensions of our faith but did create an emotional distance between God and us. We do not doubt God’s reality, but he feels so distant. We feel angry. Did God not hear us? Did he forget us? We hurt. Did he decide to leave us in pain instead of continue our joy? We feel betrayed. Did God give us such wonderful gifts of life only to, as Job says, take them away? (Job 1:21). We even sometimes feel abandoned.

The lament Psalms ask similar questions. “Why do you hide yourself, Lord, in times of trouble?” (Psalm 10:1b). “How long, O Lord…How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all day long?” (Psalm 13:1a, 2). “Lord, where is your steadfast love of old”? (Psalm 89:49). “Why do you hold back your hand; why do you keep your hand in your bosom?” (Psalm 74:11).

We discovered that our relationships with God enabled total honesty with him. In grace we are free to be honest—-to pray what we authentically feel. Before God and with each other we are able to be who we are rather than pretend who we are “supposed” to be. We bonded as a group because we shared the same journey in our lives. Indeed, through the journey we have experienced God’s presence through confronting him with our hurt and anger.

Most—-perhaps those who have not lost a child—-would be appalled at the words we speak. Many would not understand, and some might condemn. We do not expect everyone to understand. Perhaps without experiencing loss of this magnitude there is no genuine empathy or understanding. We feel safe in our little group because of our shared experience. We verbalize our feelings, confess our ignorance and wrestle with God together. It is our “safe place” to express our faith through doubts and questions. All grievers need a “safe place.”

Can faith doubt and question? The doubts and questions are real, but it is faith nonetheless. Genuine faith perseveres and is sustained through faithful lament. Without lament emotional doubt would eat away faith like a cancer, but through lament faith speaks to the one who alone can heal that emotional pain and close the distance. God, we are confident, will hear us and comfort us through our lament. God will draw near even as we at times feel so distant from him. He will carry us when we cannot walk and he will be present even when we are angry.

Lord, we believe. Help our unbelief.

Originally published in New Wineskins (May-June 2003)

This will be my last installmenet on the subject of the present status of those who have died in the Lord. Grievers are usually curious about their loved ones. There is some comfort in a pastoral word about how our loved ones live in the presence of God around his throne. There is comfort in recognizing that we worship with the saints around that throne. When we sing “Holy, Holy, Holy” (the liturgical Sanctus) we join with the heavenly chorus that surrounds the throne. The church militant is one with the church triumphant.

While there is certainly comfort in these perspectives–and I relish them, meditate on them and enjoy them, this is not the ultimate hope of Christians. Even the saints around the throne are yet waiting for something more. The journey is not yet over. God has not yet redeemed the cosmos. Death has not yet been fully defeated. The dead have not yet been raised.

When Paul sought to comfort the Thessalonians over the death of some of the saints in the church there, he appealed not to their “intermediate” state (their present experience of the heavenly throne room) but to their resurrection at the second coming of Jesus. Just as we believe that God raised Jesus from the dead, so we believe that God will raise those who have fallen asleep as well.

Paul says this in an interesting way. In 1 Thessalonians 4:14 Paul claims that “God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.” Those who have died in the Lord will accompany Jesus at his parousia; the saints will come with him (1 Thess 3:13). They will share in the glory of that day, and their glory will be their resurrection as they receive glorified bodies. They will be like Jesus, the new human (Phil. 3:20; 1 Cor. 15:49). Those who are still alive will be changed (transformed) in the “twinkling of an eye” (1 Cor. 15:51).

The new creation will be complete as human beings live upon the new earth with new bodies. We will meet the Lord in the air, the earth will be refined by fire, and the “new Jerusalem” (the bride of Christ) will descend upon the earth united to her bridegroom. There, upon the renewed earth, God will dwell with his people as a husband dwells with his wife. Hope realized. Community restored. Everything new. Humanity together again. God and Humanity mutually indwelling each other. The journey completed, but only just beginning.