In my previous post, I affirmed the important posture of listening while acknowledging that there comes a point where we are expected to speak. Sometimes the most meaningful interactions come from direct questions asking for honest input and conversation. I say this to reiterate the point that I am not trying to devalue the indispensable gifts of silence, listening, and hopeful presence. However, with this concession as our foundation, there does come a time to speak. My hope for this post, as in the last, is simply to encourage all who are working diligently in faith communities to continue their valuable, challenging, and thoughtful work.

In part 1, I wrote that in my setting in ministry at the end of life, I am noticing two particular concerns coming out of the pandemic. The first topic was guilt and the opportunities it represents for the church to respond. This second topic is the potentially distressing and theologically-laden issue of hiddenness. I want to use the term with nuance to speak specifically to the perceived absence of God in light of suffering and the felt abandonment by support groups.

Abandonment is especially painful, because it is connected to, arguably, one of the most difficult forms of suffering: isolation. The perceived absence of God is equally pointed because it challenges expectations about God’s love, goodness, and relationship with us. Expression of abandonment or absence does not necessarily confirm that this is the case or that the isolation experienced was not self-induced. However, I want to avoid any easy ways out. One of our pastoral roles is to acknowledge that perception matters. Even situations of misplaced feelings of abandonment deserve serious attention.

So how do we respond to abandonment as ministers and Christian leaders? I don’t like talking about abandonment, and my first instinct is to find excuses as to why the situation may have occurred or why circumstances were inevitable. Similarly, I find it more palatable to identify issues within the person that may explain why a person may feel irrationally abandoned. If only we can reframe their way of thinking, things will even out! But this outlook doesn’t do justice to the seriousness of the issue. Perhaps our first pastoral response is to put these impulses on pause and suspend judgment for a moment.

The abandonment I encounter often comes from people who ought to have been there but did not consistently step up during times of crisis, illness, etc. However, occasionally these sentiments are directed at the church, which is particularly painful considering all we espouse to be. These situations represent an opportunity and a somber challenge.

First, imagine the creative opportunities to offer support to those who are seemingly alone during crucial times. We don’t have to go any further than our own communities to practice Matt. 25. Second, imagine the posture of confession. I wonder how the conversation might unfold differently if humble confession was the committed starting point in ministering to those who may feel, or actually have been, abandoned by their faith communities. I believe that part of bringing peace with us is to acknowledge when we might be a part of the issue. I believe that there is potential healing in speech and action that are tempered with genuine humility.

This brings me to the second aspect embedded within the hiddenness issue: the absence of God. One of the hardest parts of my work is when an individual refuses to talk to me and states with conviction that God has left them. Close to my heart is the memory of a person who laid in bed in his final days and stared at me with bitter and defiant silence. How do we deal with that? I’ll turn the lens toward us as practitioners. These are opportunities to struggle theologically with these questions for ourselves. I feel in myself a tendency to sidestep serious issues with a pious admittance that there is no good answer but expression, which is definitely a needed move. But there are also times to speak, and when we do, I pray that we do so from a place of deep reflection, prayer, and theological substance.

So where does our wrestling begin? I’ll offer one suggestion with the request that you forgive me for not mentioning the many other wonderful possibilities. Regarding hiddenness as it relates to God’s perceived absence, it is helpful for us to consider what we mean when we talk about God’s nature. I’ll admit I’ve been guilty of being a little too loose with my adjectives about something so important. Scripture offers a wide range of approaches to talking about God, ranging from an incarnated Christ who can sympathize with our weakness to a God whose thoughts and ways are not the same as ours (see Heb. 4:15 and Isa. 55:8). How we talk about God matters. Here are two questions for your own reflection that I hope are helpful.

1. What do we mean when we call God transcendent? [1]

2. What are the limitations of our analogies using the incarnation?

The answers we come up with here may not be appropriate as pastorally sensitive responses, but the value for us as practitioners is in the process of wrestling. The pain associated with believing that God is absent is in the feeling that expectations of love and relationship have been violated. As Christian leaders, we must be willing to explore that gently but to explore it nonetheless.

As I stated earlier, my goal in this post is to encourage all who are working diligently in faith communities to continue in their valuable, challenging, and thoughtful work. My hope is that we view these issues of hiddenness as opportunities for healing ministry.

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[1] For further reading, consider Michael C. Rae, The Hiddenness of God. (United Kingdom: Oxford University Press, 2018).