Living Theology inthe Metropolitan Chicago Synod
Volume 8, Number 3
Fall 2003
Reclaiming Lament
Lament in the Ministry:
Public, Pastoral, Personal
DonaldMarxhausen
Thee,thee and thee, but not me,” Dr. Kubler-Ross used to say about death and dying.It happens to everyone else but not to me. So it is with tragedy and lament inthe ministry. Things happen in other communities, but not here; things happento other pastors but not to me. And then it happens.
Most Americans are not practiced at lament. Wedon’t know what to do when faced with communal damage like an Oklahoma Citybombing or natural disaster. Most pastors are acquainted with grief in othersand grief as part of the natural cycle of life. We are “word givers” and“happening persons” and in control. And then it happens.
I waslate for an appointment with my family physician, a member of the congregationI was serving in Littleton, Colorado, on April 20, 1999.
I suggestedthat we find out what was happening at the school, as the doctor had a son inattendance. My son and daughter had both graduated from Columbine. He was adoctor; I was wearing clerics; I thought we could be of some use. When asked,one young lady said, “a person dressed like you is shooting people.”
As weapproached we found the principal, some coaches, and office personnel runningfrom the school. “Back, back,” they yelled. “The police want a widerperimeter.” Being German and not too bright I said, “I know a back way in.”There we saw a policeman, gun in hand, put a young man down in the spread-eagleposition. I suggested that we not go any further. The doctor’s feelings werefrozen. We went back to the car, called our church about a mile away, andlearned that his son had run there and was safe.
Thatafternoon several pastors from the community were present at the library wherechildren first gathered who could not make it home. Another pastor and I woundup at Leawood Elementary School where parents and their children were reunited.Later the school system had an army of counselors brought in to be withparents.
Somefamilies were not reunited until late in the afternoon, as the children werelocked in closets and classrooms in the high school while water sprinklers wentoff, bells rang and their imaginations went wild. The drama of Coach Sandersdying while looking at pictures of his children was played out. Studentsholding compresses against his bullet holes were forced to leave by the SWAT teamswho brought no paramedics with them. Those courageous teenagers later feltguilty that they had abandoned the popular coach to die.
APresbyterian pastor said, “Don, we have to go and be with the bodies.” “Why?” Iasked. The answer, “Because the parents would want us to be.” So we made ourway to Columbine High.
Wemet a huge policeman from my congregation who said that no one was going intothe school because there were bombs. He was angry that SWAT teams stayedoutside the school for four or five hours before going in. He had sons atColumbine. Why were they holding back? As it turned out, Dylan Klebold and EricHarris had killed themselves almost five hours before. Police departments didnot have a common radio frequency and coordination was difficult.
ThePresbyterian pastor said, “Don, we better go back to our churches. People willbe coming tonight.”
Howmany dead? Ten? Twenty? Thirty? How many wounded? The sheriff was not aprofessional and information was confusing, exaggerated and often wrong for thenext few days.
At mychurch all the pews were gone for refinishing, as we were at the end of a 1.7million dollar building program for a new sanctuary and narthex. The hallways,rooms and fellowship hall were filled with ten or twenty thousand items ofchildren’s clothing and furniture for our annual children’s clothing sale.Where do we go? What do we do? What am I to say?
Iknew we had to have the Eucharist available . . . bread for the journey. We hadto have something tangible, comforting, familiar. I recalled a book on my shelfwith Holocaust pray-ers and liturgies. I found one liturgy that was useful withminor changes, and asked my secretary to reproduce it quickly. Folding chairswere set up in the sanctuary.
I wassetting up the altar, thinking of hymns, and trying to figure out what to saywhen an interesting young man whom I had confirmed a couple of years beforecalled me over. The friend with him had purple spiked hair. “Pastor, I want totell you what happened here today. Day after day, week after week, month aftermonth you are picked on, then you finally go over the edge. I don’t condonewhat happened here today, but that is what happened.” And he walked away. Hewas about 80-85% right.
Idon’t remember what we sang. I don’t remember what I said. I served theEucharist, “the body of Christ for you.”
Aproject engineer in my congregation kept saying “Klebold” to me. He lived nextdoor to the Klebolds and saw police and reporters at the house. Finally Irecognized the name and said, “If they need me, have them call.” The Kleboldshad attended the church for about five or six months several years before, andwe saw them at a parishioner’s home each Christmas. Tom Klebold was raisedLutheran in Ohio and attended Wittenberg College. He is a geophysicist andgifted as an artist. Sue Klebold is Jewish, from a leading family in Ohio. Sheis gracious, warm and very caring.
The next day everyone was invited to Light of theWorld Catholic Church, where President Clinton later met with the victims’families. The priest and I were friends. The Presbyterian pastor and I wereasked to speak. Members of the county school board, the principal, and theoverwhelmed superintendent also spoke. Faculty, parents, students, reporters,and police filled the large church with others outside. I was last to speak. Isaid something like the following:
The weeks and months, maybeeven years ahead will be painful. Lawyers will keep this alive far beyond apoint of healing. There will be a search for a target to blame. That may nothappen. But I do know this, God raises up and God will raise up this community.That is a promise.
Amongthe many different kinds of T-shirts that appeared, on some was the message“God will raise us up.”
ClementPark, next to the high school, filled up with satellite trucks and reporters’tents. There were photos, mourners, and enough flowers to rival PrincessDiana’s funeral. Crisis junkies from all over the country showed up.Counselors, legitimate and not so legitimate, were present. Evangelicals preyedon mourning students, telling them to trust Jesus and they would feel better.The county sheriff issued bizarre and erroneous statements. It took a few daysbefore body counts of the dead were accurate.
Apolicewoman from my congregation had to crawl through bloody water to help findexpended shells. Bombs were discovered and destroyed. One large bomb, ifdetonated, would have killed hundreds of students hiding in a room above it.Fortunately the timer was defective. Lights in the school stayed on all nightfor months because it was a crime scene. A window with a bullet hole in it andblood running down was visible from the street for weeks.
On the Thursday two daysafter the shooting I conducted the funeral for a 19-year-old young woman whohad died of copper poisoning. Thepressure of scores of young people grieving for their friend, combined with theKlebold funeral on Saturday, added to my eventual numbness.
OnThursday, April 22, Tom Kle-bold called and asked for help. Would I do a funer-alfor his son? It was to be a private, secret affair, with a few trusted friends.The media circus had begun, and Tom, on the best of days, is a private person.
Almostseventeen years before I had been asked to do a funeral for a (non-member)thirty-year-old who died gay, alcoholic, drug addicted, stabbed and left in agutter in a city far away. I had thought the parents would be relieved at hisdeath. How wrong! The father’s grief was almost overwhelming. For that funeralI had used II Samuel 18:33, relating King David’s love for Absalom despite hisdividing the kingdom and causing many deaths. That would be my text for thisfuneral as well.
Isent my wife with another Lutheran pastor to the funeral on a circuitous route.I wanted them there as a reality check. I was becoming overloaded emotionally.I went with a Denver policeman in case I ran into reporters.
Uponarrival at the funeral home I met Tom Klebold and his other son Byron. We wereformal with each other, but he was grateful for my presence. In a room whereDylan’s body was in a coffin, I met his mother, Sue. She came into my arms and sobbed and shook. I held her, but couldfeel nothing, as I was numb with overload. Dylan lay in the casket surroundedwith Beanie Babies.
Afamily lawyer came. Long-time friends arrived; one couple was from my church.Tom’s sister and brother-in-law were the only other family members. As I walkedinto the incredibly tension-filled room, I knew that the service I had preparedwas not appropriate. I said, “Let’s just sit and talk for a while. Who wants tobegin?”
Onefamily jumped in and talked about how much they loved Dylan. Another said whatgreat parents the Klebolds were. The family from my church related how great itwas to have Dylan at their house and how he wrestled with their son. Nothingmade sense. Then Dylan’s father Tom said, “Who the hell gave a gun to my son?All we have in the house is a BB gun to shoot the woodpeckers. We are againstguns.” Susan said, “How could he be anti-Semitic? He is half Jewish as I am allJewish.” So it went for a half an hour or more. Finally it was time to doliturgy, read scripture, offer prayers and give a brief sermon about parents’love, which is as faithful as God’s love.
Onthe way out I asked the lawyer how should I respond to the media. He said,“Tell them what you saw here today. Tell them about these good people.”
Forthe next two days I did just that, and then I had to stop because being acelebrity becomes an ego trip at the expense of other things. There were Sundaysermons, meetings, Lutheran Social Services trying to be of help, the chaos ofthe building program, phone calls, hundreds of letters (Klebolds got over 4000letters of support, and many were sent via the church or my home). Peoplecalled or wrote whom I had not heard from since high school. There was tensionin the church, fear, students doubled up at another high school, chaos in thenews and of course the funerals. One Lutheran was seriously wounded and withina few months her mother committed suicide in a gun shop. Crisis teams came intothe community again.
Onestudent reportedly confessed her faith before she was shot. The stepfather ofanother student victim milked the situation for all it was worth. A couple ofmy student members had been next to students that were killed, but were notharmed themselves.
Thebest basketball player in the state was a member of my congregation; he hangedhimself a year later because of the trauma. We borrowed the Catholic church tohold an ecumenical funeral service for the whole community, and twenty-fivehundred attended.
Lettersfrom Rev. John Tietjen and former Bishop Chil-strom came loaded withinteresting information. Phone calls from rabbis, jail chaplains, and otherministers came to the house. The media tried like crazy to manipulate me to getto the Klebolds. I was used to deaths one at a time, not fifteen plus two morelater by suicide.
Thenew young governor felt that there needed to be a public ceremony of some sortso people could resume some normalcy. About 40,000 people gathered in a theaterparking lot across from the park and school. A rabbi made sensitive comments,but an Evangelical Free Church pastor and Franklin Graham made comments thatwere insensitive and hurtful to any who were not right-wing Christians. Aspresident of the Denver Area Interfaith Clergy Association I had to respondpublicly on behalf of non-Christian members. I was quoted in the newspapers assaying “we all got hit over the head with Jesus.” I received much support as wellas hate mail for that comment.
Justprior to all of this I had asked an associate pastor to resign. In anger andhurt she wrote a resignation letter accusing me of physical abuse. In themiddle of the chaos I planned for the dedication of the new sanctuary. June 6,1999 saw the Lutheran bishop of the Rocky Mountain Synod, an Episcopal priest,a Roman Catholic priest, a UCC pastor and a Presbyterian pastor alldistributing communion together. It was to be a table where Jesus was the head,not Luther.
Ourfamily physician and his family left the church for another congregation.Several other parishioners also started to make plans to exit. And the poorestdecision I made was to follow through on a sabbatical I had planned for twoyears and started the day after the new sanctuary was dedicated.
Bythe time I came back in the fall, quite a few families had left, some statingthey had to take sides with their neighbors. Forty-six families in thecongregation had children directly affected and wanted help for their trauma. Ihad left two well-seasoned pastors in charge during the sabbatical, but thatwas not enough. Upon my return, almost all wanted to be visited. In themeantime three women contracted breast cancer and two men were dying of cancer.
One could divide any room in the community over thematter of fifteen or thirteen crosses. Thirteen was the number of dead notcounting Klebold and Harris. A kind carpenter from Illinois planted fifteencrosses on a hill behind Columbine, but a victim’s father took two down. Laterwhen a church youth group planted fifteen trees he cut two of them down.
Iapproached my bishop and his assistant in the fall and said that the church wasno longer mine. They asked if I wanted to move. Yes, I felt, to another church.No, I felt, from our beautiful home and friends. At a Thanksgiving Eve ServiceI got a standing ovation from 450 people. Christmas was great. But by MaundyThursday 2000, while I spoke to 3000 people at the one-year anniversarygathering, several people were meeting in secret, plotting to ask for myresignation after Easter. The annual meeting in May became ugly with womensaying things like, “He is a good preacher, but a very bad man.”
I hadbeen “reality checking” with my text study group and a therapist eachweek. However, it was over. Lament hadmoved into my ministry. I had to grieve a congregation that for the most partliked me and I liked them. Having to sell my house, find another job, discarditems intrinsic to our children’s childhood, and move caused great personallament.
As has been the casefor many a pastor, the good people never figure it out until it is toolate. Those who have unresolved issuesand create unhealthy projections from them are far more active and efficient –and they manage to find each other for support. “Clergy Killers.” “Alligators.”“Christians are the only people who shoot their wounded.”
Having related briefly what happened, let me lookat lament in this context.
Public Lament
Thestreet in front of Columbine High school was a main thoroughfare and was sealedoff for a long time. People would say, “I want my street back” as a lament for“I want things to go back to normal.”
Verylittle is taught in seminary or Clinical Pastoral Education about publictrauma. We learn how to handle personal trauma, but only since the OklahomaCity bombing has the journey of public trauma been addressed. Numerous lawsuitsand the news media act as scab scratchers that prevent public wounds fromhealing. Some people fall apart immediately; others take several years to havebreakdowns. Viet Nam veterans found their trauma reawakened by their childrenbeing under gunfire.
Fundamentalistsused the time and especially the anniversary to try and convert others.
Personally,my stance was trying to be a non-anxious presence, although for several years Iwas full of information that I really did not want to know. But people wantfixing in trauma and if they are not fixed, someone has to be blamed. I offeredindividual and group ministry for families who had suffered trauma; three ofthe forty-six families responded. With a congregation of over a thousand it washard to reach everyone. Healthy people come out okay after being tossed around;unhealthy people want “it” to go away or look for someone to blame.
Whatdid help? Despite the differences between two wings of the Protestant church(Evangelicals and Mainliners) and the Roman Catholics who walked a healthymiddle between the two, the churches did for the most part react well. TheMormon community made over 1800 quilts for students. The merchants weregenerous. People flew students to different experiences for R&R. One youngman in my congregation was flown East to sit in professional baseball dugoutsand speak to hundreds of students. All this was part of the therapy. Thecommunity came together; counselors, funeral homes, police, and firemen wereall helpful.
The raw weariness of the community continued to beexploited by the media at every opportunity. Two of the families whose childrenwere murdered continued to want some form of revenge or a truth that did notexist. Others announced forgiveness. Sue Klebold wrote apologies to each of thefamilies and responded to the over 4000 letters of support. A Lutheran pastor,whose son had killed a woman and is in prison forever, called and offeredcomfort. Public lament was mixed with public and personal grace. It is gracethat sustains us until we find a new “normal.”
Professional Lament
Priorto the one-year anniversary my church council had asked that I not make anypublic comments during Holy Week, which was the week of the anniversary. Ireceived permission to do a presentation at the public service, but I was askednot to say anything to the media.
Severalweeks before the anniversary I had been interviewed by the Rocky Mountain Newson the meaning and theology of what happened. Among other things I spoke of aLutheran perspective on life. “Life is work. Love is suffering. Life is love.”However, the article was not printed until Maundy Thursday. My role as pastorand word-giver was challenged and up for grabs. Part of the congregation feltthe article was great; some others went ballistic. I was definitely no longerthe pastor of the congregation even though I had been there for ten years andsincerely loved most of the members.
One expects that if one is faithful, ethical, anddoing the best they can, one will be rewarded for such service.
Personal Lament
To befired, as it were; to watch the bishop walk away; to see fellow Lutheranpastors treat you like you have leprosy pales compared to the personal anguishof a family that has to pull up roots, take apart a house, and at age sixtyfear unemployment and take what exists in any form of a job. Hundreds ofthousands of people go through this each year, but when it is personal, itseems overwhelming.
One becomes used to community and hopes that thechurch one serves will be there for you. So often it is not. Clergy bashing andscapegoating arise in times of crisis and trauma. Someone has to carry away thetension. Since pastors cannot fight back, they often become the focus for suchdisplacement.
What heals in times of lament?
Firstof all, the lamenting – giving private and public expression to one’s sorrowand grief and anger and disappointment – is useful in itself.
Secondly,staying close to the Word and finding another community is helpful. For monthsI went to Mass each day and received the Eucharist from Catholic priests whowere friends. I would go early, read from my Lutheran devotional and focus onthe phrase that the priest says during the Lord’s Prayer, “…and deliver us fromall anxiety.”
Third,families come together during such times if they are healthy. Ours were helpfuland hopeful.
Fourth,friends are fantastic. Women from the church came and helped us pack. Otherstook us out to dinner. Clergy from other denominations were good to us. Apriest sent us a hundred dollars to go out to dinner. The interfaith clergygroup gave me an award in recognition of service.
Fifth,God raises up. I believe that one has to be open to new forms of service andopportunity. Inconvenience is a part of life.
Sixth, life changes, but love continues to exist.We die many times and we experience many forms of grief, but as St. Paul putit, “Love never fails.” We are on such a journey even now. Lament is notwithout hope.