Dear Friends,
Have you ever had the experience of telling someone something about yourself – something you understand as a simple fact – only for them to respond with something like, “Oh, don’t say that! You [fill in optimistic but unrealistic statement here].”
I don’t know that this was the first time it happened, but one of the first incidents like this that I recall was when, at some point in my late teens or early 20s, my grandmother asked me if I would always need to be on antidepressant medication. Now, I’ve taken antidepressants since I was about 14 years old. This has been a part of my reality for a long time (and nearly 20 years on, one of the only medical interventions that takes up zero space in my brain on a day-to-day basis). And so, I told her, that no, it was unlikely I would ever not need this kind of medication. And that, really, that was okay with me. This was not what she wanted to hear.
There are plenty of times people utter phrases along the lines of “Don’t say that!” with the best of intentions! They believe that you are being pessimistic, despondent, setting yourself up for a poor outcome. And, conversely, we hear their response as denying our reality. It’s a conversational trap – and if it happens too often or about too many things that are fundamental to our identities, it can damage our relationships. It should be no surprise, then, that after everything that has happened in Jesus’s life with the disciples, in everything that least up to this Sunday’s Gospel from Matthew 16, that when Peter seems to panic, declaring, “God forbid it, Lord!,” that Jesus has had enough.
“Get behind me, Satan!,” Jesus shouts. The only person who has ever tried to deny Jesus’s reality, the requirements of his presence among us, at least to this extent, was truly the devil during his time of temptation in the wilderness. By clinging to Jesus’s bodily presence among them, Peter becomes a stumbling block to the human part of Jesus that really does want to hear that he doesn’t need to be persecuted, suffer, and die. This whole thing is hard enough. Jesus doesn’t need wrongheaded reassurance.
Reality, Uncertainty, & Presence
I’m not going to lie: Jesus is downright difficult in this week’s Gospel. He doesn’t have words of reassurance for the disciples, but rather makes a series of concerning statements that sort of feel like threats.
“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?”
Excuse me, Jesus. Don’t say that! Of course Peter offered up the reassuring denial he did. Nothing about this interaction made him feel secure in this all-important relationship. And this anxiety and uncertainty rings especially true in this season of many of our lives, as we return to school and church programs and set off those alarms for many children, in terms of what security looks like. How can we respond in ways that hold those relationships, that acknowledge the emotions that create those feelings?
I was on the receiving end of one of those “return to routine” reactions just a few weeks ago. Having had July off from my main job, a child I’d spent the spring months cultivating relationship with had anxiously retreated from me again. Many of you who lead classrooms have seen this year after year, especially with younger children. We build the relationships, the relationship lapses because of vacations or other scheduling issues, and the fruits of all that effort seem to disappear. So what do we do?
Meredith Anne Miller, author of the recently released book Woven: Nurturing a Faith Your Kid Doesn’t Have to Heal From has one of my very favorite Instagram accounts full of gentle prompts for building secure, faith-filled relationships with our children, and while her work is specifically focused on home life, I think there’s a lot there for those of us meeting children in other contexts as well. We can affirm their anxiety and uncertainty while also offering them words of connection and belonging.
Sometimes I’m surprised what acts as a comforting anchor, and it may just be a seemingly inconsequential thing that you do in your classroom. When my anxiety increased in my teens, the simple hymn “Seek Ye First,” which I never remember being important to me, became a tool for self-soothing. I hummed it constantly, looping through the verses in any order my mind could manage. The Bible is, unsurprisingly, ideal for this, so it’s no surprise that I’m excited for Carey Wallace’s forthcoming book Psalms of Wonder (out in early October). The Psalms have words for every feeling we could possibly have, and this collection is actually organized by many of those moods. Maybe we need to be prepared to offer Songs of Comfort and not just Courage, of Protection and Love offered at home to support their journey to us. Sure, I could use a little more lament in here (people forget that children need to lament, too), but especially combined with illustrations from Khoa Le (the illustrator of Teresa Kim Pecinocsky’s Mother God), this book promises to be a staple in homes and classrooms.
Perhaps finally and most importantly, as we prepare ourselves for the season of anxious transitions (and this undoubtedly applies to many of you recent empty nesters, too - you might need some of these tools more than the preschoolers), may we lean on the gifts of time and accompaniment. Everything happens in its own time and we don’t need to try to change it.
When Jesus told Peter that he was going to suffer and die to rise again, this wasn’t supposed to frighten Peter, but to prepare him. Having revealed himself to the disciples in many ways through his actions, Jesus wanted to be clear in case anyone still misunderstood. His friends were walking him to the foot of the cross, accompanying him in his fear and suffering. But he was also accompanying them. Walking with them in their fear and resistance to who he was called to be.
How are you offering your presence in this time? Or whose presence is beside you as you navigate new challenges? Sometimes the truth is unpleasant, but we don’t have to face it alone.
Peace,
Bird