Soteriological Implications of Personal Pain

    As It Relates To The Cross

Note: This paper was written two months after the passing of my wife, Ezelle, from cancer. My good friend from Seminary, Reverend Frankie Tanner, suggested I write this paper to help me through my grief. I did not want to write this, but my pain was so great I had to try something. Writing this paper helped me and enabled me to move forward with my life and take on the role of being a single parent. This paper was written almost 35 years ago. I was fortunate to find Debbie, and we have built a powerful life together. Debbie is my soulmate, and she has been my strongest partner. Just goes to show we should never give up in life. 

            The cross, originally crafted from coarse wood and used in gruesome crucifixion rituals, has become the universal symbol of Christendom as it aligns nations with nations, families to families, and faiths to other faiths. As a symbol of pain and degradation, the cross became the universal picture of Christendom when it was used as the instrument of death for Jesus Christ, the Son of God. Though entirely humiliating and painful, the cross was used in His crucifixion because it was necessary for the fulfillment of prophecy. His crucifixion provided a means for our salvation, for it was required that he die a public death so there would be many witnesses that His death was confirmed. Today, it is natural to equate suffering with salvation, for it is within the suffering of Christ on the cross that we obtain salvation.

            Pain has been with us since man first recognized he was a sinful creature. The scriptures tell us in the book of Genesis that Adam and Eve ran and hid from God when they realized their sinful state. Today, our pains come to us in many forms and affect us in various ways. Along with these pains of life comes the doubt that God exists and He is there for us. We ask, "Why," but receive no verbal response. The intensity of our pain causes us to search for answers, but usually, we grow more and more despondent. Groping in darkness, we wonder how it is possible to believe in a God of love and mercy and constantly endure pain.           

            If Jesus's painful death has salvific ramifications for us, is it possible that our pain is a direct link to salvation? Can our pain be more meaningful with a complete understanding of God’s presence in our most difficult times? Examining pain on a personal level is necessary to answer these questions.

            Since I am currently grieving from the death of my wife, and since I, too, have wondered about the existence of God, I will use my pain for the process. I hope that as this topic is written, God will become more visible, and my pain will have a measure of validity. It must first be understood that my pain is current. My wife, of seventeen years, has been dead for less than two months. I am bitter and feel rejected by God and man. I have two small children to raise, and the times are difficult for us. I am willing to put my pain upfront because I am desperate to find answers to the many questions that plague my being. A wonderful woman, wife, and mother is dead at the young age of thirty-seven.  As a result of such loss, I harbor some intense anger at God because I thought He should have spared her. My pain seems unbearable.

            Ezelle and I were a normal Christian couple. Yes, we had our ups and downs, but we were very close. We have two children: Derek, aged nine, and Megan, aged five. Ezelle and I enjoyed each other’s company and loved our children. We were the couple down the street from you, and our children played with your children. As I write this, the pain floods my heart, and I am more than ever reminded of the severity of the loss. Though the pain is intense, I know I must go on for the benefit of healing that I believe will be found only in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

            My pain began when the physician told me that Ezelle had terminal cancer. This surgeon met with us shortly after surgery and gave us the shock of our lives. As he spoke, I kept thinking that Ezelle was still under anesthesia and was unaware of the things being said about her and her life. Perhaps she was even having a pleasant dream. I couldn't believe it. The surgeon must have missed something. His words could not apply to the wonderful woman I had kissed before surgery. Ezelle had always lived a clean and healthy life. She was a model of decency. How could this be true? It seemed like we were talking about someone else. My heart was exploding in the agony of this news.

            The doctor told us that with aggressive treatment, Ezelle could live for eight months to a year. Believing (as most folks would) that she would live the year, it came as a shock when she died just two months later. I can still see the tears on her cheek as she was settled into her bed at the hospital the last time. She was going into a coma and was unable to speak, yet the tears served to tell me she knew. I think she was surprised at such an early end, too. The tears were the only method of communication she had. There was no time for that last goodbye or our final embrace—such painful remembrance.

            Amid the worst agony I've ever felt, I wondered where God was. Was He on vacation? Was He taking a nap? Was He even in the world? I wondered why the many prayers that had been prayed for her had not been answered. Why didn't He do something? I was despondent because I couldn't do anything, and God didn't seem interested.

            My life had been completely rearranged. Nothing seemed sane, and I felt a close kinship to Job. Job, as you will recall, lost everything. A wealthy man, his loss was no more than mine. His life was filled with pain, and he, too, asked where God was. In the book of Job, we read, "Does it please You to oppress me to spurn the work of Your hands, While You smile on the schemes of the wicked?" (Job 10:3) Perhaps it is significant that we had called upon God at all. If there had been any doubt about God's existence, this would have been a perfect time to jump ship. Even in our dark pain, we called upon His name and sought His face. As I walked alone on the night Ezelle died, I looked at the stars and gave God credit for a marvelous creation, then I said aloud, "But You sure engineered a mess down here." I was uncomfortable that I had spoken with Him at all. I returned to the house and was reminded of a Sunday before Ezelle's death. I had gone out and mowed the front yard. When I came back inside, Ezelle asked about the noise. I told her I had mowed the yard, and she replied, "On Sunday?" I said, "It's okay; I don't think He noticed."

            I had endured the hardships of war while serving as a Marine in Vietnam, yet I had never experienced a pain as intense as this. My foundation was shaken, and I was lonely. My anger was as fierce as my pain, yet I still knew within my heart that this was part of a Divine plan. I wished God would come down and explain things while I was alone and desperate for comfort; I knew only He could provide.

            During the period when everyone was coming around to help, I became very uncomfortable with the cliques that said little and even caused me more pain. "God won't give you more than you can bear" was one statement that said, in effect, that God had designed the pain of losing my wife specifically for me. "This is God's will" meant God had been busy confusing and hurting folks when He should have been more of a comfort. I understood very soon that if I were going to come through this struggle with my sanity and a fresh knowledge of His presence, I would have to do it myself. I am still working on it, but I have found some light to spread over the darkness, and the soteriological question is beginning to make sense.

            As much as Job suffered, Jesus suffered more. He suffered the personal abuse of the religious rulers as well as rejection from the common man. Rocks had been hurled at him, and He was condemned when he allowed his friends to eat corn on Sunday. I believe Jesus understands my night-time tears because He wept over the death of His friend Lazarus. He weeps when Megan comes to me with tears, saying, "I miss Mommie." It comforts me that He grieves with us over the loss of Ezelle.

            It should be noted here that Lazarus' sister Martha was angry at Jesus for not being there when Lazarus was sick. She believed that if Jesus had been there, Lazarus would not have died but would have been healed. She was so angry that she went out and met Him when she found out He was near. She told Him in plain language of her pain. "If you had been here, he wouldn't be dead," is how she got her point across. I am not the only person who has recognized an anger directed at God.

            Given a critical examination, it appears pain does have a direct relationship to salvation. Indeed, the cross was a painful experience for Jesus. No one would doubt it, but the pain is relative to the experience. Perhaps His death had to be under such circumstances for a proper historical reference. Possibly, His most significant pain was in the humiliation of seeing those who had come to witness the event. Could we bear the statements and actions that accompanied His struggle in death? He was publicly mocked, and soldiers gambled for his clothes. He, too, had prayed for another way, but there would be no deviation from the grand plan. Crucified between two thieves, a board above His head, "Jesus, King of the Jews."

            While Jesus was dying on the cross, He spoke of Paradise. The reference was personal and directed to one of the thieves who hung beside Him. Because he believes in Jesus as the Son of God, Jesus said the thief would be with Him that day in Paradise. In pain and sorrow, they had met, and salvation was promised. I have often wondered if this man sits on the right hand of Jesus instead of one of the disciples who had argued over that position. Even the centurion, who was there to validate the proceedings, noticed a difference in this particular occasion of death. Salvation came to him due to his profession of Jesus as the Son of God.

            During the last two months of her life, Ezelle sought God's face in a spiritual sense. She prayed with vigor and praised Him for every sign of hope. When others came to minister to her, she ministered to them instead. She never gave up the battle or the belief that God would cure her. She prayed for me and the children, too.

            I remember one night when her pain was too brutal for her to bear. She had prayed constantly for relief from the pain that so restricted her. When the pain continued, she asked me why the pain needed to be so intense.

            She wondered if she was praying correctly. As I looked at her and touched her hand, I was reminded of the book The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boon. In this book, Corrie Ten Boon thanked God for allowing the barracks they lived in to be so miserable. She did this because, as a result of the awfulness of the conditions, the guards did not come in, which left the sisters free to mingle among the group and witness the love of Jesus. I told Ezelle that perhaps we, too, should thank God for the pain. When she asked why, I replied, "If you're feeling pain, then you know the forces inside you are still active, fighting for your life." I further said that her pain was an indication that she could still reason and feel, which was not the case with so many people who had cancer. She and I then prayed together, and I gave thanks for the pain and then asked that God would relieve her of at least some pain so she could sleep. The prayer was sincere, and Ezelle felt better immediately. She slept for several hours.

            Today, I view the cross as empty and lonely. I am uncomfortable placing myself in the area around it. Only when my mind focuses on truth do I move slowly toward the cross to see and hear more clearly? I am only there as an observer, not a participant. As I approach the cross, the ground begins to shake, and the sky darkens. I become frightened. I feel lonely, yet an incredible presence prevents me from running away. I do not speak for fear of an audible answer. I know this is Holy ground, and He is here. It is here that I feel the most acquainted with grief. Here, I think the closest to Ezelle and to the God we worshiped together. The journey to this place was His way of telling me that all is in His plan and that Ezelle is with Him. It is here that I know for a certainty that God does exist and is here for us. I believe in time; I will come through my grief with a better vision of God and a complete understanding of His presence in our times of pain. Someday, Ezelle and I will walk the streets of gold together.

            Perhaps the most straightforward answer to the soteriological question is in Megan's actions as a grieving daughter. Megan has not forgotten her mother, and she also seeks to identify Ezelle's death with something positive. To that end, Megan has written two letters to her mother instead of dictating. She also sings songs about her mother, who she makes up. In both forms of communication, Megan is not directed by anyone, and she acknowledges Ezelle's presence in Heaven. "Someday," she says, "I'll be in heaven with you." Megan may not know all of the theological arguments, but she has heart, and in her grief, she too sees the cross as salvation. Megan finds comfort in Knowing her mother is in Heaven.

            There are substantial soteriological implications for personal pain. Perhaps the pain itself causes us to seek the answers told on the cross by Jesus. It could be found in the biblical approach to the struggles of others. I now realize I wanted to blame God for Ezelle's death. In so doing, I built a wall between me and God, which God began tearing down as I drew closer to Him. The unrelenting force of the pain caused me to seek His face with renewed vigor. I am confident of my salvation and His purpose for me and my children.