The Fault in our Churches

Yes, that headline's a play on the title of the film that Laura and I should have taken an entire box of tissues to this afternoon, The Fault In Our Stars.  It deserves the hype of being more than a mushy teen tearjerker.  It doesn't avoid the hard questions about physical death, afterlife and "oblivion."

And from a provincial perspective, the Episcopal Church is a prominent part of the setting for the film.  The two lead characters, Hazel and Augustus, meet at a support group meeting at a church clearly marked as Episcopal.  I just wish the Church and its ordained ministers had been more of a help than a hindrance to those two.  That the author of the novel on which the film is based was once planning to become an Episcopal priest, but dropped out after serving as a chaplain to children like Hazel and Augustus, makes its portrayal of the Church even more humbling to those of us called to serve through this Church that we love.

SPOILER ALERT.  SPOILER ALERT.  SPOILER ALERT.

Did I mention that spoilers are coming?

At the beginning of the film, we meet Hazel, who doesn't want to go to the church support group for teenagers fighting various cancers.  Leading the group is a young adult who has survived testicular cancer ("Ball cancer," as Hazel bluntly puts it).  Apparently, being a survivor gives him the authority to stand up with a guitar and sing, "Jesus is your friend, he'll be there til the end.  Jesus is your friend, he'll be there til the end."

No one says this in the movie, but I immediately thought, So Jesus won't be there after the end?  Here we see someone representing the Church singing insipid songs with easy answers, and assuming that because he has shared part of these teens' experience, he knows exactly what they're feeling.  Of course, he has survived cancer, and presumably is looking forward to a long life.  In Hazel's case, the cancer that started in her thyroid has spread to her lungs.  As others stand to tell their stories, it's clear that many of them will not survive to full adulthood.

Thus, the Church is the dispenser of easy answers and shallow hope.  And while the film and novel are fictional, I suspect that it is based in truth.  The author of the novel, John Green, was on the "ordination track."  But then he served as a chaplain to the families of children who had died of cancer.  "I found myself really unfulfilled by the answers that are traditionally offered to questions of why some people suffer and why others suffer so little,'' Green told The Sydney Morning Herald.  In that overly earnest facilitator is a damning indictment of the Church's inability to be open to the questions an doubts of those who suffer.

SPOILERS CONTINUE

As Hazel and Augustus grow closer, it would seem that Hazel will be the first to die as we watch struggle to exert herself, even with the oxygen she always carries with her.  But it is Augustus whose cancer returns with a vengeance, and who dies late in the film.  At the graveside service, we hear the Episcopal priest read the familiar words of the 23rd Psalm.  Then he recognizes Hazel as Augustus's "special friend."  As she walks over to the casket to deliver a eulogy, she softly but clearly says, "I was his girlfriend."  The priest is initially taken aback by Hazel's rebuke, then sheepishly nods his head.

I wish that the scriptwriters had instead had Hazel say, "I was his lover."  Yes, this is a love story, and during the movie, Hazel initially describes herself as a "grenade" that will explode, and she wants to limit the damage done by that explosion, which at first means "just friends."  Eventually of course, they consummate their love.  Legally married they're not.  But why can't a Christian minister show more grace than to come up with that awkward phrase, "special friend?"

Our Lord, Jesus Christ, was able to meet the Samaritan woman where she was, five-times married and living outside of legal marriage.  Is it really the case that so many of his priests and ministers are unwilling to do the same with the any people who struggle to find another to commit themselves to, but are financially unable to get married legally?  Thus the Church is the so-called moral authority of our culture, to whom so many turn to at their worst moments, but find a dishonesty that springs from discomfort.

Having lost my mother to a tragic accident when I was 17; and having heard those easy, shallow answers born of discomfort with the fears brought to mind by terrible tragedy, I would like to think that I have successfully avoided that mistake as a priest.  Of course, I represent the Church that is the Body of Christ, the continuation of the crucified and risen Christ in this world.  In our holy scriptures, in our timeless liturgies, we do offer answers to the grieving.  But what John Green teaches me is that the Church must also allow the space for silence, for listening to the aching questions of the grieving without hurriedly reaching for answers that are meant to make us feel better, rather than the grieving whose minds we cannot read, and whose hearts we cannot know.

And we need to be a Church that meets people where they are in their search for love.  Perhaps after we have listened to them, and loved them, then perhaps they might be ready to listen if in their search for love they are "missing the target" (the root meaning of the Greek hamartia, in English, "sin").  If the fault is in our churches, then let us honestly face it, and repent.

[Updated June 21 with hyperlinks]