Jesus and John Wayne, or how American Evangelicals Came to Support Trump

 

I generally resist arguments that trace straight lines between events, showing how a certain cause led to a defined effect. 

Life is way too complicated and complex for simple solutions, even if they help us try to make sense of the world. 

But when it comes to how evangelicals in the U.S. ended up supporting Donald Trump for president, Kristin Kobes Du Mez, author of Jesus and John Wayne: How White Evangelicals Corrupted a Faith and Fractured a Nation, makes a convincing case for how and why it happened. 

Earlier this year I wrote about a webinar presentation on the book by Kobes Du Mez, a professor of American Christianity at Calvin University, a Christian Reformed university in Michigan. 

In the book—which is well-researched and informative, but also by turns depressing and angering—Kobes Du Mez traces evangelical support for Trump back to the arrival on the scene of Billy Graham in the 1950s and through the rise of the conservative evangelical right in the 1970s and beyond. 

It was during that time conservative white American evangelicals began promoting and adopting a hyper-masculine, authoritarian, patriarchal, patriotic, nationalistic, pro-military and anti-feminist approach to their faith. 

They were, she said, creating a version of Christianity in the mold of John Wayne, something tough, rough and muscular. 

It was the kind of Christianity that was led by a “warrior Jesus”—not a more traditional meek and mild saviour who spoke about peace, love and brotherhood. 

For these American evangelicals, Jesus became more Rambo than Mr. Rogers. 

This pro-Trump development can’t be traced to one person or one event. It occurred over decades through preaching, teaching, books, conferences, activism, music and other media. 

Leaders included well-known men such as James Dobson, Jerry Falwell, Franklin Graham, Tim Lahaye, and a host of TV evangelists, along with lesser-known ones like Mark Driscoll, Tony Perkins, Bill Gothard, Paul Weyrich, and many more. 

Their goal was to kindle fear in the hearts of American evangelical Christians about things like Communism, secular humanism, feminism, multilateralism, Islamic terrorism, and the erosion or religious freedom.

It was, she says, "a tried and true recipe" for success, enabling them to rally followers "to fight battles in which the fate of the nation, and their own families, seemed to hinge." 

The election of Barack Obama as president in 2008 invigorated their efforts. 

“The first African-American president, the sea-change in LGBTQ rights, the apparent erosion of religious freedom—coupled with looming demographic changes and the declining religious loyalty of their own children—heightened the sense of dread among white evangelicals,” she says. 

But the message did not need to be invented for when Obama became president; evangelical leaders, she says, had been “perfecting that pitch” for 50 years. 

And the pitch? “Evangelicals were looking for a protector, an aggressive, heroic manly-man, someone who wasn’t restrained by the values of political correctness or feminine virtues, someone who would break the rules for the right cause,” she says. 

When Donald Trump came along, he proved to be the one who embodied that vision, someone who flaunted “an aggressive, militant masculinity,” the “ultimate fighting champion for evangelicals.” 

The result of all this is that, today, Trumpism and much of conservative white evangelicalism have become one and the same. 

“For conservative white evangelicals, the ‘good news’ of the Christian Gospel has become inextricably linked to a staunch commitment to patriarchal authority, gender difference, and Christian nationalism, and all of these are intertwined with white racial identity,” she says. 

For them Trump is a throwback to a time when “rugged masculinity was forged in 1950s America, a time when all was right with the world.” 

He became “the culmination” of all their efforts and desires, a someone who represented their decades-long pursuit of a militant Christian masculinity that would make America strong and great again. 

Altogether, it resulted in their worshipping a “badass” Jesus, a tough guy who took no guff or prisoners when it came to faith—a Jesus like the Hollywood image of John Wayne.  

It was, as she puts it, a Jesus who “was over a half-century in the making. Inspired by images of heroic white manhood, evangelicals had fashioned a saviour who would lead them into battles . . . the new rugged Christ transformed Christian manhood, and Christianity itself.” 

As someone who grew up in an evangelical in the 1960s and 70s, some of what Kobe Du Mez writes feels autobiographical for me. 

The church I grew up in was influenced by some of these authors and preachers—especially Tim Lahaye, whose apocalyptic vision fueled my view of the future. 

Although I narrowly missed going to one of Bill Gothard’s Basic Youth Conflicts seminars, in my later teens the Jesus movement group I was part of was heavily influenced by his patriarchal authoritarianism—the leader was always right and could never be questioned, a stance that ended up badly for the group and also for me.

As for the book, although it is written by an academic it is not an academic book; the prose is accessible. That doesn't mean it isn't hard to read at times, what with the stories she tells of how the evangelical movement was co-opted to support Trump. 

And the last chapter, about sexual abuse and sex scandals among some evangelical leaders, is especially difficult to read; it made me sad and angry.

Looking back, Kobes Du Mez says that writing the book was a difficult and depressing experience. When her editor asked her to try to end on hopeful note, she couldn’t. 

“The best I could muster was ‘what was done can be undone,’” she says, adding the current state of affairs for American evangelicals doesn’t have to be this way forever. 

It was “not handed down by God from the beginning of time.”

Can A Pacifist Wear a Poppy?

 

Can a pacifist wear a poppy? The answer is yes—I’m a pacifist, and I wear one. A few others that I know do, too.

But many people who oppose war have ambivalent feelings about poppies. I think they’re afraid that wearing one will suggest that they are, tacitly or otherwise, supporting war and militarism.

Some compromise by wearing red buttons that say “To remember is to work for peace.” Every year Mennonite Central Committee distributes thousands of them. It’s a good message. But I think a poppy says the same thing—I’ve never met a veteran who thinks war is a good idea.

I don’t wear a poppy to celebrate war. I wear it as a sign of respect for the many men and women who sacrificed years, youth and, for some, their lives during this country’s wars.

They did not plan those wars. They did not seek them. They did what they thought was right at the time. In the same situation, I might have done the same.

I also wear a poppy for personal reasons. I wear it for my Uncle Harry, who was wounded in Europe in World War Two. Each remembrance day he would march with the other veterans to the cenotaph in my hometown, pausing for two minutes to remember the dead.

Later, he’d go the Legion and drink and reminisce and cry with his buddies, remembering the friends who never made it home.

Uncle Harry, like most vets, never talked about the war, even though I pestered him as a child. He’d just shake his head and change the subject.

I also wear the poppy for my father. Due to a medical condition, he was rejected for military service in 1944. This bothered him his whole life, especially since so many of his high school friends went overseas, and some of them were killed.

After he died, I went though his belongings. Among his prized possession I found his certificate for rejection for general service. Why did he keep it all those years? I think it was his way of proving, to himself, at least, that he was no shirker.

Maybe it was his special way of keeping faith with friends who served and died.

I wear a poppy for conscientious objectors—for those who bravely decided to go against prevailing opinion by choosing not participate in the military during this country’s wars.

During World War Two, 10,782 men did some form of alternative service on farms, in hospitals, planting trees, building roads and other things, showing there were ways other than fighting to serve their country. Over 3,000 were from Manitoba—more than any other province. 

I wear a poppy because I am a pacifist. Over my career in international relief and development, much of my work has been in response to hunger and suffering caused by war—people uprooted by conflict, in need of food, shelter and safety. 

According to the World Food Program, of the more than 800 million hungry people in the world, about 490 million, or 60 per cent, live in countries affected by conflict. Some 74 million people, or two thirds of the 113 million people facing acute hunger in the world, are located in 21 countries affected by conflict and insecurity. 

And more than 80 per cent of resources requested by UN humanitarian appeals in recent years have been for humanitarian action in conflict situations.

Finally, I wear a poppy to show that pacifists can be patriotic, too. Being against war or militarization is not to be anti-Canadian. And service to country is not reserved for those who put on a uniform.

We can all serve by volunteering, by supporting charities that help needy people here and around the world, and by promoting a vision of peace for everyone, everywhere.

That’s why I wear a poppy. Why do you wear one? 

(Originally published in the November 10, 2012 Winnipeg Free Press.)

Christian Service for Death by Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID)

As I noted in my Winnipeg Free Press column about Medical Assistance In Dying (MAID), it is becoming more acceptable among religious people. Yet there are no formal Christian liturgies or services available for those who choose the procedure.   

For the dying through MAID of John Regehr, his son, Rennie, prepared his own liturgy/service, which he has given me permission to share.

Service for the Medical Assistance In Death of John Regehr, November 7, 2019.

Prior to the service, the doctor arrived. The family was ushered out of the and John was once again asked to confirm once again that he wanted to go ahead with MAID. 

His answer: “My wings are poised. I’m ready for flight.” 

Outside the room, the family was told what would happen, the drugs involved, how they worked and in what sequence. They then rejoined their father and the service began. 

Family Blessing 

First reading: Isaiah 41:10. 

Fear not, for I am with you:

Be not dismayed, for I am your God.

I will strengthen you;

Yes, I will help you.

 

John Regehr’s Blessing for the Family

 

Second reading: Numbers 6:24-26.

 

(The ancient blessing, as written by John, and read by Rennie on his behalf as John could no longer speak.)

 

The Lord bless you

with all manner of good,

and keep you

from all manner of harm.

The Lord make his face shine upon you

and be gracious to you,

assuring you that you belong to him,

and he delights in you.

And when you stumble,

and are burdened with regrets,

the Lord will turn his face toward you

in compassion and love,

and give you peace again.

 

Scripture Reading

 

Psalm 23.

Liturgy of Committal and Blessing 

 

Jesus said, "I am the resurrection and the life" (John 11:25-26). “I am he that lives, and was dead,” says the LORD, “and behold I am alive forevermore. Amen” (Revelation 1:8). 

So … “Blessed are those who die in the LORD from now on. Yes, says the Spirit, they are blessed indeed, for they will rest from their hard work, for their good deeds will follow them” (Revelation 14:13). 

And “this is the promise that He has given to us, even eternal life” (1 John 2:25). 

“Can anything separate us from Christ’s love? … I am convinced that nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:35-39) 

And then, directing a question to John: 

“John, can anything separate you from the love of Christ?” 

Shaking his head emphatically, he unequivocally answered: “No!”. 

Response: “This then is our hope and this is our life. That Christ lives and will return again; and we live with him. 

Benediction 

John, go forth from this world: 

In the love of God the Father who created you,

In the mercy of Jesus Christ who redeemed you,

In the power of the Holy Spirit who strengthens you.

And as you join the communion of all the faithful who have gone before you, may you dwell this day in peace.

Holy Lord, almighty and eternal God, hear our prayers as we entrust John Regehr to you. Enfold him in the arms of your mercy, and into your eternal rest, through Jesus Christ our Lord.  

We look forward to the great resurrection at the last day when those who die in the Lord shall be raised to eternal glory and an endless life of joy and peace with God. 

We ask now that you would renew us with hope for the future. As you receive John’s spirit we pray that you would strengthen our spirits. Keep us faithful as we await the day of resurrection when we meet you face to face. 

May your Spirit give comfort to loved ones gathered here, and those who are present in spirit. Be gracious to them, comfort them, and grant them your peace. 

Now may the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God the Father, and the presence of the Holy Spirit be with you all, Amen.” 

Sending music 

At this point, the family indicated to the medical team that the drugs could be administered. Rennie then began to play one of John’s favourite hymns on his viola: Wehrlos und verlassen. (In the Rifted Rock I'm Resting.)

When it was over, the doctor leaned over and listened to his silent heartbeat. “He’s in flight,” 

Explaining Evangelicalism Today: An Interview with John Stackhouse

 

Ever since the 2016 U.S. presidential election, there’s been a lot of focus on evangelicals in that country. Specifically, why so many of them voted for Donald Trump—and why they continue to support him. 

That support has prompted some evangelicals in other countries to put distance between themselves and their American co-religionists, and to try to define what evangelicalism means in their own nations.

 One of the leading voices for that in Canada is John Stackhouse, a professor of religious studies at New Brunswick’s Crandall University.

Stackhouse, who formerly taught at the University of Manitoba, is writing a book on evangelicalism—what it is, what it isn’t, and how it is different from what we see in the U.S.—for Oxford University Press. Before it comes out next year, I asked him a few questions about the book and the state of evangelicalism today.

The book is due out next year.

What prompted you to want to write this book?

Evangelicalism is widely recognized but not widely understood. There are lots of simplistic versions of it, from critics who think it means just “fundamentalism” or “Trump supporters” to people who think it means just “true Christianity.”

So because I have been a historian of evangelicalism, a theologian within evangelicalism, and a journalist on behalf of evangelicalism, I thought I could help a wide audience see evangelicalism as the richly interesting style of Christianity it has been for almost 300 years.

What are you planning to write about in the book?

I’ll cover the history of evangelicalism, of course, from its European and American origins to its current status as the world’s fastest-growing form of religion. I will also, however, take considerable time to define it: to sort out what it is and what it isn’t.

I’ll be careful to discuss not just its main convictions, but also its defining characteristics. That means looking at evangelicalism in terms of social science as well as theology, as an actual coursing phenomenon in history and not just as a collection of beliefs.

Evangelicalism is not only doctrinally orthodox about Jesus, say, and the Bible, but it is also a deeply populist and sometimes ruthlessly pragmatic form of religion.

It is fundamentally a “heart” religion, but it has strong convictions about one’s “head” and “hands” as well, in some forms aimed literally at world domination, while in other forms simply trying to better society as it can.

Perhaps controversially, I'm going to suggest that in Christianity there are three basic styles: conservative, liberal, and evangelical, and they show up across the Protestant spectrum and even within Roman Catholicism and (small) parts of Orthodoxy. Evangelicals, that is, aren’t just Baptists and Pentecostals!

What do you see as the future of evangelicalism? (In Canada, the U.S.)

Historians know enough not to try to tell the future—at least, the careful ones predict it very carefully.

For the short term, evangelicals in Canada are going to continue to just get along, make a few converts, work hard to retain the allegiance of their young people (which they do better than almost anyone else), stay out of trouble, and do some good for their neighbours here and abroad.

It is an open question, however, as to how much pressure will be exerted on evangelicals to conform to an increasingly heavy-handed regime of “correct” thinking that insists that all physicians, lawyers, professors, teachers, pharmacists, public speakers, media, and more get in line.

There are too few people defending meaningful freedom of religion in Canada, and evangelicals, among others, are being constantly squeezed by jurists, politicians, professional societies, and others to conform to a particular secularist orthodoxy.

In the United States, well, let’s see how the presidential election goes. Black evangelicals, like Black people in general, have been energized as well as saddened and infuriated by the recent spate of high-profile killings.

White evangelicals have been told that “reconciliation,” their favourite word for relating to Black Christians, might just have to wait until justice is actually significantly increased.

Meanwhile, the Trump phenomenon that has so badly scarred so many people’s estimation of (white) evangelicals will play out in ways none of us can foresee.

You have said that a move to the left by younger Christians today is a straightening out of evangelicalism. What do you mean by that?

Evangelicalism in Canada, and much more so in the United States, was so worried about young people losing their faith and being lost to “the world” that they formulated mores of a highly precise, vivid, and strict kind—and policed them rigorously. Hence the old line, “We don’t dance or smoke or chew, and we don’t go with the girls that do.”

Doctrines likewise were defined extensively and insisted upon rigidly. That conservativism, typical of fundamentalism but quite widespread in evangelicalism generally, has relaxed considerably since the 1960s.

Some worry that evangelicals have slackened the reins too far and have become indistinguishable from the world around them, and in many cases that’s true.

But surveys have shown that faithful churchgoers manifest strikingly different lives from the rest of the population, and mostly for the better: in terms of marital and sexual happiness, financial stability, volunteering and contributing to charities (both religious and otherwise), use of drugs, incidence of depression and suicide, and more.

So some of the “leftward” movement has been a helpful emancipation from an overly defensive stance, while of course, like any social movement, it may well go too far in the other direction in at least some instances.

You said there “approximately zero” evangelical churches aimed at intellectuals, artists, dissidents. Why?

Because North American evangelicals have been worried for more than a century about doctrinal liberalism, ethical looseness, and any other sort of deviance from the norm, evangelical families, churches, and other institutions have not been fertile places for criticism and creativity.

That is to say, lots of critical and creative people have been raised in evangelical homes and congregations, but then have felt they had to leave because they were too hot to handle, condemned as disruptive instead of welcomed and perhaps also mentored as Christian creatives.

Many evangelicals will disagree with this characterization and point to churches with highly educated congregants and a lively arts program of some kind. But in terms of the broader culture, in terms of any decent university, the tolerance for diversity, or even ambiguity—which are the stock in trade of creative people—remains pretty low. Those smart, artistic churches are still very conventional.

What would an evangelical church look like that resonates with people who resonate with The New Yorker as much as with Christianity Today?

Such a church needs leaders who have significant training and experience in the big world of ideas and arts. There is no substitute for actual engagement, not even education about contemporary ideas and arts that one can get in a good evangelical university. One has to “get it,” and you don’t really get what you don’t really do.

Instead, alas, we have “groovy” evangelical churches pastored by charismatic men who perhaps have a single degree in theological studies and no expertise in philosophy, social science, or the fine arts trying to interpret a culture they have hardly experienced themselves and then telling the budding intellectuals and artists in their churches how they ought to think and feel and act.

That’s no environment for genuine experimentation and supportive evaluation—which is the only way real creativity progresses.

What does it say about evangelicalism today that Americans have dominated it so much? How did it end up being so American-centric? How has this impacted global evangelicalism both positively and negatively?

Americans have dominated evangelicalism mostly in the same respects in which they have dominated the modern world, especially since the Second World War. Money, initiative, and innovation are a powerful combination whether you’re Exxon, Google, the CIA, or World Vision.

Global evangelicalism has been quite aware of the mixed blessing of American participation, and evangelicals on every continent are consciously trying to move forward in ways authentic to their own cultural heritage without being ungrateful for American help but also trying to emancipate themselves from it—not unlike the way previous generations had to extricate themselves from unhelpful dimensions of the British and other European empires.

With the current situation in the U.S. politically, and how many evangelicals have allied themselves with the GOP and Trump and nationalistic fervor, what does this say about the character of American evangelicalism? And why should evangelicals in other countries do about it?

My American editor wants me not to write a book that is focused on the United States. And, indeed, evangelicals worldwide are now predominantly non-White. She also wants me not to fixate on Trump, so I literally have not mentioned him in the first draft and likely won’t mention him even if he is re-elected.

Why? Because the most important stories about evangelicals in the world today are being told in Latin America, Africa, China, and Korea. Those are the places with the largest evangelical populations outside the United States and those are the places evangelicalism is exploding. 

Support for Donald Trump in the United States among White evangelicals seems to be largely a function of White Christian nationalism, a belief rooted in American Christianity right back to the Puritans that America is special. America is a light to the nations, a city on a hill, an example to “Old Europe” and the rest of the world of what a godly nation looks like.

Indeed, America has a God-given mission to bless the world: originally as this inspiring example, and progressively as the bearer of American goodness to the world—the American version of Kiping’s “white man’s burden.”

This messianic complex is uniquely American, and White evangelicals see themselves as the original and as the (most) authentic Americans. They want America to be great again in all the ways they define “greatness”—and they believe that’s what God wants, too. 

Other American evangelicals—Black, Latinx, Asian, and so on—shake their heads and distance themselves from that ideal, as do Canadians and, indeed, evangelicals all around the world.

Indeed, we’re all hoping and praying that Americans can somehow rid themselves of this toxic syncretism of Christianity and racist nationalistic “manifest destiny” once and for all. But it doesn’t look like it will be soon.

What would a uniquely Canadian evangelicalism look like?

Canadian evangelicalism would be faithful, fervent Christianity that was at once pragmatic, tolerant of even deep difference, and focused on the everyday virtues of security, prosperity, justice, and neighbourly compassion, as we see in the best emphases of Confederation itself, in the best ideals of multiculturalism, and in the best elements of our Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

Chronic Illness and Faith: A Conversation with Allison Alexander, author of Super Sick

On June 6 the Free Press published my article about Allison Alexander’s new book Super Sick. I was only able to include a bit of what Allison told me about the book, which focuses on her experience of chronic illness and faith. Here is the complete transcript of her remarks.

What is the nature of your chronic illness?

I have severe Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). I also have several other issues that may or may not be related, such as iron and B12 deficiency, nausea, insomnia, recurring infections, anxiety, and depression.

During the past couple years, I’ve added chronic pelvic and neck pain to that list. Conditions seem to pile up for people with chronic illnesses. Most of the people I interviewed in my book have more than one thing going on. 

How long have you had it?

For as long as I can remember—my best guess is it started when I was around 7.

What are the challenges it poses?

I get severe attacks of stomach pain anytime, anywhere, and usually have to find a bathroom fast. There are lots of challenges—for one, it's not a "socially acceptable" illness—sicknesses that involve bowels, constipation, and diarrhea never are. For another, it's invisible. People don't know I have it unless I tell them.

Chronic illnesses of any kind pose numerous other challenges—exhaustion, feeling worthless because you need to rest and can't always do the same things others can, feeling guilty when you cancel so often, depression, and anxiety.

Finding friends who understand can be difficult. Singleness, dating, and marriage are difficult. The list goes on.

How has it changed your outlook on life?

This is a difficult question because I've never not been sick. This is just how it's always been for me, so I didn't experience a change like some people do when they develop an illness at a later age.

That being said, I still grieve the loss of good health. I have good and bad days, and the good days give me an inkling of what being healthy all the time would be like. Being sick has certainly contributed to my outlook on life and my personality, but I can only speculate as to who I would be without it.

It has certainly contributed to my awareness of minorities and my understanding of what other people with disabilities go through. I suspect it has made me a more compassionate person, as well as an emotionally exhausted one.

How do you incorporate it into your writing?

The topics I write about the most often in online publications are pop culture, faith, chronic illness, and mental illness (sometimes all in one article!). I find myself writing more and more about chronic illness lately, especially in relation to how its portrayed in fiction.

I also write fiction stories in my spare time and include heroes with chronic illnesses and conditions because I want to be the hero, not a side character or villain.

Allison Alexander.

What is Super Sick about?

Super Sick is about living with a chronic illness in a society that tells us we need to be healthy, productive, and successful to be valuable. I share my life experiences and include insights from other people who wrestle with chronic conditions.

I also point out how illness and disability is represented in TV, movies, books, and video games, and why that matters.

Why did you write it?

For three reasons:

First, I've written articles on chronic illness in the past and realized I had more to say on the topic.

Second, I've felt isolated in the past, not realizing there were other people out there going through the same things I was. I wrote this book so others wouldn't feel alone.

Third, writing is cathartic for me. It can help me work through my own struggles and emotions. Writing this book helped me to think deeply about each facet of my illness, how it impacts my life, and how to find peace through the pain.

What do you hope readers will take away from it?

I hope disabled people will experience hope, learn to find peace in suffering, and know they are not alone. I hope healthy people will understand their loved ones' illnesses better and the challenges they face. I hope everyone will realize why representation matters.

What has the reaction been so far?

The reviews I've seen have been overwhelmingly positive. Readers have latched on to the pop culture angle of the book, and many have said they have never thought about how disability was represented in fiction before.

Several have also commented on my candidness and willingness to talk about difficult subjects, no matter how "taboo" or embarrassing. That was also one of my reasons for writing this book—that so few people are talking about this stuff, which results in silent suffering.

Can you give me an example from the fantasy world about chronic illness?

J.K. Rowling intended the character of Remus Lupin to represent the stigma surrounding blood disorders like HIV and AIDS. In the Harry Potter series, Lupin is a werewolf, and even though he takes a potion every full moon that makes him safe, he can't hold a steady job because of the prejudice about his condition.

In Super Sick, I discuss Lupin in the chapter about dating and romance. Lupin struggles with letting himself be vulnerable and thinking he is worthless because of the way others have reacted to him—something people with chronic illnesses and disabilities are familiar with.

He pushes away the woman who loves him because he thinks she could do better, even though she wants to be with him. I've experienced similar fears and so have many others with disabilities—why would someone choose us when there are plenty of healthy people to go around?

How has faith (or the church) made being chronically ill harder or easier?

When it comes to the church, I've found it has made being chronically ill both harder and easier. Some Christians believe that if you're sick, it's your fault for not having enough faith, or because of a past sin you haven't repented for. This attitude is extremely distressing and damaging—that I'm not acceptable, or a "true" Christian, until I'm healed. 

Here's a passage from my book that speaks more to this:

"The very humility Christ displayed, a trait we’re supposed to model ourselves, sometimes gets shunted aside in favour of considering ourselves “chosen ones” or divinely directed to tell others how to turn away from their sin. There is a movement in Christianity called prosperity theology (or “health and wealth” gospel) that is especially damaging to poor and suffering people, because it suggests if we’re not happy, healthy, and wealthy, we must not have enough faith. If we just prayed more, or read our Bible more, or went to church, we’d be as content as Groot, as healthy as Captain America, and as rich as Tony Stark.

“The other day, a friend sent a string of text messages out of the blue, saying she’d had the exact same health problems I was experiencing but she’d found the spiritual root of her unhealthiness and was now free of her symptoms. She was praying for healing and freedom like that for me, that I would find the root of whatever sin was causing my sickness. She texted me again the next day to see if her prayers had solved my issues.

“They hadn’t. Because God hadn’t pointed a finger at me to say, “You are cursed with pain until you, or people around you, pray harder to make up for when you ran that red light last week!” If that was the kind of being I thought God was—one who decided exactly what hardship I would go through and made it happen—I don’t think I would be a follower of Christ."

“However, other Christians believe that illness is part of being human in this world, and it doesn't mean God is punishing me for something. Those are the Christians that make living with chronic illness easier. They are also the ones who don't just say "I'll pray for you," but offer to bring a meal, or pick up medication, or come sit in the hospital waiting room, or play a video game with me to help distract me, or whatever it is I need. Sometimes all I need is a prayer, but other times it's more practical help that makes life easier. This is the Church as it should be—reminding me that I am loved, valued, and cared for.”

As for faith, when I was young every time I had episodes of intense pain I would pray "God, please make the pain go away" over and over again. And though God did not take my pain away, I still kept praying it.

I often asked "Why?" and didn't feel like He was there, but there must have been something comforting about having someone to call out to when I was afraid and alone in a bathroom stall.

I still don't understand why, if God loves me, he lets me suffer. Intellectually, I can reason it out and understand that suffering comes from a broken world, but when you're in intense pain, and you know God has the power to stop it but doesn't, it's difficult to wrap your mind around.

Faith is a struggle in this way. But in another, it's a comfort, because I believe God is suffering with me. He's not sitting there, watching, nodding passively because "this is what I deserve." He cares about what I am going through.

Another quote from the book: "I like the idea of a future world where our suffering in this life is not just unravelled, but part of what makes the new world good. It’s a restoration that builds on everything that has come before, instead of tearing down, using our brokenness for good instead of erasing it."

What do you wish Christians knew about chronic illness? 

I wish more Christians knew that suffering is not a problem to be solved. Sometimes I just need someone to be there for me and to say "that sucks" instead of quoting a Bible verse or trying to figure out what past sin might have caused my condition.

What do you wish clergy knew about it?

I think clergy (and people in general) often to respond in one of two unhelpful ways to people with chronic illnesses and disabilities: 

First, they may not believe the illness is as serious as the person says it is. This is especially common with invisible illnesses, and is a damaging attitude to people with conditions.

We already face disbelief from doctors, friends, acquaintances, and others, and the church is the place we are supposed to be accepted and cared for. Clergy often encourage people to volunteer, to participate in various areas of church, and, of course, to attend church.

Telling a sick person you miss them and encouraging them to come to church more often may be the opposite of helpful. It may just add guilt to their plate. Sometimes, it's difficult for a person with a chronic illness to just get out of bed in the morning, never mind shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and leave the house.

We can't always come to you to be a part of that community, so consider ways to involve us that don't require our physical presence. With COVID-19, there has been a huge movement to online services and community that may not have been thought possible before. But now we know they are possible. I'm hopeful these communities will be kept alive after the pandemic is over for people like me.

Second, they see people with disabilities as only there to be pitied and cared for. Examples of this type of attitude: doting over them without asking if they want help first, talking over someone's head like they aren't capable of speaking for themselves, stopping by to visit without asking, etc.

Yes, I often need extra consideration, but I don't want to be pitied. If that's the attitude I receive in a church community, I probably will not stay there long, because I want to be treated like a person and not as less than human. 

Can you give examples of when church made being chronically ill harder or better?

Past churches have made being chronically ill harder because health (mental and physical) simply wasn't discussed. My current church, The Hearth, is really open about health and mental illnesses. This is refreshing, because often these topics are swept under the rug in Christian communities.

At The Hearth, when you admit you are going through something difficult, the common response is "that sucks" and "me too" instead of advice, judgement, or silence. When I constantly miss services, people understand. This has made being chronically ill so much easier. The pressure and guilt I've felt in the past is not there.

With all the stories in the Bible about Jesus healing people, does that pose a particular challenge to people with chronic illness? 

It's challenging because I want healing like that for myself. But it's also nice to know that Jesus did not like seeing people suffer and had compassion. That suggests he cares about my suffering now.

How are you reconciling belief in a God of love with being in pain? 

I still struggle with this question because it is not philosophical for me, it is emotional. Chronic pain is frightening, and it hurts, and it's difficult, so why would someone who I'm supposed to think of as a loving parent let me experience it? No intellectual argument about free will and sin seems good enough.

I only know that Jesus experienced pain when he was on Earth, that he wanted his suffering to end, too, so I'm in good company. And I know pain doesn't have the final word. God can redeem it and good can come from it.

As I mentioned earlier, I think, when God redeems this world, that the suffering we've experienced won't just be unravelled, but part of what makes the new world good.

For more information about Super Sick, or the buy a copy, visit Mythos & Ink.