Alice Whitman
was born 14 March 1837. She was the
first white child born in what would become Oregon. Her parents, Marcus and Narcissa Whitman, had
travelled across the continent to bring Christianity and medical care to the
area’s Indians. Like many other
missionaries of the day, they sometimes confused Christianity linked with
western culture but their commitment to God and their desire to bless the
Indians was unquestioned.
On Sunday, 23
June 1839, Alice drowned after going down to the Walla Walla River to fill her
cup with water. Her parents were reading and unaware she had left the
house. The little girl, who was beloved
by her parents and a delight to the local Indians, was just two years old.
Narcissa’s
first impulse was to believe God had taken Alice because she and Marcus had
loved the little girl too much and God would not allow any rivals for their
devotion. However, Narcissa would later conclude God had taken Alice so she
could devote herself more fully to teaching the Indians.
Across the
continent, in New York City, Phoebe Palmer would lose three children, two in
infancy and one as a toddler killed in a tragic fire. She would also conclude God had taken her
children because she loved them too much.
Why did these women come to this
conclusion? Did it reflect a strict
Calvinism that perceives God micromanaging our lives? In Narcissa’s case, was it easier to believe
Marcus and she loved Alice too much than to accept they might have been
careless in leaving her unattended while they read? Did either woman ever perceive an alternative
explanation for their loss, one suggesting we live in a world of chaotic events
without purpose or meaning?
Might Alice’s
death have been some kind of severe mercy?
A few years after the death of their daughter the Whitman’s would die in
what has been described as “the most shocking missionary massacre in
history.” Had Alice been living, she
might have died with her parents or been carried away a captive by the Indians,
like Cynthia Ann Parker a few years later in far-off Texas. Carried away to what some in her day would
have called a fate worse than death. If
so, why weren’t Narcissa’s other children extended that mercy?
Narcissa
Whitman’s ministry would come to an abrupt end; Phoebe Palmer would become the
most influential woman in 19th century American evangelicalism. Was her loss intended to free her for wider
service outside the narrow boundaries of her home?
When faced with
such tragedies, we want answers to our deepest questions. But sometimes we are obliged to accept no
answer as the answer to our quest to discover a rationale for what happens to
us.
That’s tough
and I won’t claim it’s easy to accept the situation. We yearn to understand why things
happen. Sometimes that yearning goes
unfulfilled. Sometimes we seize any
answer to escape having no answer.
New Orleans was
being punished for its wickedness. That
was one of the earliest explanations I heard for Katrina, the hurricane that
devastated a substantial area of the Gulf Coast. Those offering that explanation stumble when
confronted with pictures of churches destroyed by the storm, churches that had
faithfully served the gospel and their communities for generations.
Such
explanations for tragic events leave as many questions as answers.
Doubtless the
Old Testament portrays God bringing judgment upon wicked nations but those
explanations for the pestilence, famine, and war ravaging the nation were given
by prophets whose insights were divinely inspired. Few of us possess such insights. I know I don’t.
The danger of
attempting to declare the reasons for national tragedy are multiplied when we
consider the personal tragedies faced by those around us.
Job’s friends
looked at his condition and concluded there had to be “something” to explain
what was happening to one so famed for his piety. Of course, their explanation was hidden
sin. In this case the explanation was
entirely different. Job’s testing
experience reflected God’s confidence in him.
Job was not without sin nor, as it turned out, the most theologically
astute person around. But he was the
real deal. Job of Uz was no hypocrite.
Ultimately, God
did not let Job in on the backstory and, of course, had to let Job know some of
his thinking about suffering was as muddled as his friends’ thinking.
But isn’t our
thinking just as muddled when we assume some Divine machinations are behind
whatever happens to us?
I know the
question might prompt some to accuse me of denying God’s providence in our
lives. I certainly know God has acted on
my behalf even when I was unaware of it.
And I certainly don’t mean to claim there have been events taking place
in my life while God was looking the other way.
But neither do I mean God must have been directly involved in those
events.
To what extent
was God involved in my choosing to buy a Subaru rather than a Nissan after so
many years of being happy with my Pathfinder?
Any at all? Did he care? Would he have preferred I buy American? Whatever I have been driving, is it not
likely God has kept watch over my passengers and me? But is it not likely God has watched over me
both by direct intervention in specific instances and indirectly by “fearfully
and wonderfully” making me with an inclination to drive the speed limit?
That God’s
providence has been at work in my life I have no doubt. That God’s providence has been at work in
your life I am equally certain. That I
can find every event in my life or your life programmed by God I am not so
certain. I am sure nothing has taken God
by surprise; I am also sure God did not cause all the bead stuff in my
life.
I think this
view is more defensible than any view demanding God be the author of every
event in our lives—every event. Years
ago, I read an evangelical author who said the notion of God determining the
tie I wear in the morning (I said this was years ago) was akin to paganism.
We might
compare our lives to Huck Finn’s raft.
On that raft, Huck and Jim had freedom.
They could chew, cuss, fish, sleep away an afternoon, and do a number of
things the adults back in town would disapprove. But no matter what they did on the raft, the
river determined where they were going.
Indeed, we might argue Mark Twain made the Mississippi as much a
character in the novel as those boisterous boys.
In the same
way, we have freedom—God-given freedom—to direct our lives. In practice, this freedom is far broader than
what Huck and Jim had on the raft. But
our exercise of that freedom cannot thwart God’s plan for the ages. Stalin and Mao could rage against the church
but all their onslaughts could not overrule the promise that “the gates of hell
will not prevail against it.” We can
choose align ourselves with God’s plan or we can choose to oppose that plan;
both choices have eternal consequences.
As much as God might wish us to choose the former, I see no evidence of
his hijacking our freedom.
I once knew a
woman who had been taught to believe God ordered every event in her life. Some years before I met her she had been
assaulted while out jogging. Well after
this experience she was still expending emotional, intellectual, and spiritual
energy trying to discern what God could have possible been doing. How did such a personal violation fit into
his plans for her life? She never lost her
faith. But she never found an answer.
Might it not be
better if she had blamed her attacker for misusing his freedom rather than
imagining God to be the source of his heinous impulses?
On a larger
scale, seeing God behind every event may lead us to assume our successes must
reflect his endorsement.
In 1636,
Puritans in Massachusetts waged a war against the Pequot Indians, a war
designed to justify their seizure of Connecticut from settlers who had moved to
escape Boston’s authority. Even their
Indian allies, the Narragansetts, believed the attack on one Pequot village was
too violent. Most of its residents—men,
women, and children—had been burned alive.
Though acknowledging the attack made “a fearful sight,” Governor William
Bradford “…concluded ‘the victory seemed a sweet sacrifice’ which God ‘had
wrought so wonderfully for them.’”[1]
These same
Puritans regularly killed captive Indian children or sold them to slave holders
in the Caribbean. William Hubbard
(1621-1704), longtime pastor in Ipswich, Massachusetts, and an amateur
historian, believed their success in capturing these “young serpents of the
same brood” to be evidence of “Divine Favour to the English.”[2]
Anne
Hutchinson, whose crime remains difficult to define even after three and a half
centuries, was banished from Massachusetts in 1638. After her husband’s death in 1641, Anne settled
in what would become the Bronx. In 1643,
Indians seeking revenge on the Dutch attacked her home. Anne and most of her family were
massacred. Back in Boston, ministers
exulted, believing this was God’s judgment on a woman who had “stepped out of
[her] place” to defy them.[3]
By no means
were the Puritans the only Christians who have interpreted tragedies befalling
their enemies as God acting as their agent.
Surely the claim to see God at work must be made carefully. Perhaps, not
at all.
I can’t erase
the claims those Christians have made. I
can be careful in the claims I make.
As a pastor, I
often ministered to those who had experienced tragedy or loss. Sometimes I had to comfort those who were
victims of men and women who claimed to know more than they could possibly
know. Armed with such knowledge, they
confidently explained just what God was doing.
Repairing the damage done was a difficult challenge. But, at the same time, I had to resist the
temptation to offer my own explanation for what was happening in the life of
the puzzled sufferer.
I once visited
a young father in a hospital ER. He had
suffered a mild heart attack. “Why is God doing this to me,” were his first
words when I walked into the room. I
took a deep breath and said, “Bobby, I don’t know.” I was sorely tempted to say, “Bobby, you
weigh 350 pounds and you think White Castle is gourmet food.” Even when an answer seemed obvious I tried to
avoid offering it. Sometimes I failed.
As I’ve
wrestled with the issue of suffering and tragedy in the lives of others I’ve
become convinced easy answers give only temporary hope. I also know asking “Why?” is wired into our
make-up. I don’t blame anyone for
asking. I know it’s hard to accept no
answer as the answer. At the same time, I never want to call God’s goodness
into question by attributing a tragedy to his activity. AI always want to point the sufferer to God,
the God who cares, the God who can empower us to go on despite the pain.
Above all, I
want to remember that accepting no answer may reflect more faith than claiming
to have all the answers.
