When you hear that your abusive former pastor is dead, the news will not bring you peace and it is unlikely to bring you joy.
I am unhappy to say this but it’s true nevertheless and so there it is. What was broken in life cannot be mended by death. Death has no power to heal, to restore, to resurrect. You cannot unbend your twisted life on another person’s casket. A gravestone is no anvil.
I could take you to the exact spot where I learned that my former pastor was dying. Out walking at a local park, halfway between the pitcher’s mound and home plate, with brick dust rising in slow clouds around my feet and August sun pressing down hot and hard. I flicked through my Facebook newsfeed and there it was: the man was about to die. His son asked for prayers as he made the long journey to the hospital bed in another state, not knowing what he’d find except confusion and pain. His father had remained unrepentant to the end.
I stopped and read the paragraph over and over and then I put my phone in my pocket and looked up at the trees and felt the sun and then looked down and shuffled my feet in the dust.
Four years had passed since my church fell apart and my former pastor was removed from his tarnished office. I’d done a lot of healing in those years. I’d sent a letter of forgiveness to the man and received an unapologetic voicemail in reply. So I set up boundaries to avoid more hurt. I married. I started a blog about spiritual abuse. Had a son. But I was wrong to think that my pastor’s death would bring me peace.
Another’s death will not bring you peace because only one man’s death can bring peace and he died already long, long ago. No other death has that currency or that power and God will not make an exception for the person you most hate or the person who most harmed you. Peace and joy come only through one death. And though your abusive pastor thought he was a type of Messiah he was not, and so his death cannot save you. To think it could only gives him undue power over you and repeats the lies that he taught.
Does that make sense?
I was saddened to learn this with brick dust rising in slow clouds around my sneakers. I had cherished a secret notion that when the man who had abused me for 25 years was dead it would feel like a party and a burden would be lifted and I would put on a dance anthem and buy an ice cream and then push a quarter century of trauma into the nearest 50-gallon trash can.
It was unlike that. Moreover, good people who’d gone through much worse had already told me it couldn’t be like that, but you know we all have to figure these things out for ourselves.
No, your abusive former pastor’s death cannot give you peace and joy. But here’s what it can do for you: it can make you sad with a sincere sadness that wishes no harm on its tormenter.
It can also make you grateful that you were the one wronged and not the wronger.
And it can bring life if you let it. If you have the courage to remember. If you have the courage to die a little bit in order to forgive. Because when you say, “I forgive you” and commit yourself to him who judges justly, you take into yourself a small piece of the death of the One who said “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
It’s crazy and it’s not safe. You have only to look at Jesus to see how much it can hurt.
But by partaking in that death, you also participate in a life that mocks the grave. That bares its unflinching flesh to an eternity without sting. That considers every trauma a travel stain on a journey that ends in heaven.
I’d like to say that I had this all worked out in the brick dust on that ball field. But I’m not that good and anyway, I like nursing my grudges as much as anyone. About all I came to that August afternoon was an awkward prayer that someday I’d see my former pastor in heaven and not in hell.
It’s not that much, I know. But then again, maybe it is.