Faith in the midst of grief
December 23, 2024 | Mayaguez, Puerto Rico | Efraín Velázquez for Adventist Review
“A table for how many?”
“Six.” — “No… five.”
As I muttered my answer, my voice trembled, seconds that had the crushing weight of hours. I could feel another arrow piercing my wife’s heart as she stood motionless in her thoughts at the restaurant’s entrance. Were we prepared for such a “trivial” question? No. It had only been a few weeks since our family had been unexpectedly and tragically reduced. This effort to change our children’s mood seemed to backfire as they looked suspended in time. The empty chair at the table reminded us that we were no longer a complete family of six. And sadly, we know the crescendo of our emotions will intensify as we behold the vacant chair during the approaching holidays.
Empty Chairs
Is this your first Christmas with an empty chair at the table? I do not know who you are missing this year; the vacant space is more than a number. Even the mute furniture screams at us: “Arrangements for six!” The deafening silence speaks volumes about the absence of a loved one who will not sit at the table.
Empty chairs haunt us as symbols of loss. Losses have troubled me as I spiritually assisted others through their valley of the shadow of death (Psalm 23:4). I have had to support others as their families’ tables were plundered by death. But this time, my table has been looted by an enemy who reduced the number of those who will sit with us for Christmas. This tragedy is so heart-wrenching that it makes me question my competence to minister to others in their darkest hours (Psalm 22:1).
During my early years of ministry, death shook my faith again and again. The worst moments were when I had to provide hope in the presence of a child’s coffin. Those cursed little boxes should have never existed. Parents should not bury their children. As I stood at the edge of children’s graves, I could feel my feet almost slipping—not my literal feet, but the bases of my faith. The powerful suction of questions broke the ground under my feet, and I felt myself being drawn into an abyss of unbelief. More times than I would like to admit, cynicism shook my convictions, and agonizing thoughts filled my mind.[i] I was left broken, and Dostoevsky’s conclusion pierced my ears: “Pain and suffering are always inevitable” (see Eccl. 3:20; 9:10).[ii]
Nevertheless, he also wrote, “To live without hope is to cease to live.”[iii]
Hope Amid Chaos
Is that enough? How can I have hope when my son died by suicide? How can I believe after I whispered in his ear, “Child, get up,” and he did not move?
As I was alone in the room with my motionless son and the miracle I longed for did not happen, a different miracle happened instead. I was filled with peace. I cannot explain how a broken and doubt-filled father can be full of hope before the body of his beloved son who has succumbed to depression. His peaceful face kept me from screaming to interrupt his slumber. I could be accused of “cognitive dissonance.” Am I dissonant? Perhaps.
Hope is not logical, explainable, or understandable, and certainly not researchable or statistically sound. It just is. Now more than ever, I lack enough faith to stop believing and hoping.
Those empty chairs that tormented me have become symbols of promise and hope. Pain can be God’s megaphone, as C.S. Lewis declared.[iv] I have accepted the biblical invitation to sit at the table and welcome in my mind and heart the one who knocks at the door (Rev. 3:20). Perhaps this is part of the mystery of the manger where “Life” was born amid the filth of a stable.
How many more chairs will be left empty this Christmas? We must remember that Christianity does not guarantee prosperity nor the absence of pain. The message of the child born in a manger was not that all would immediately be peaceful and merry. In Christianity, those who mourn are blessed (Matt. 5:4). Moreover, we are assured that we will have tribulation (John 16:13). We are reminded that there are “valleys of the shadow of death.” The shadow of a cross overcast the manger, but a Star shone from heaven, reassuring eternal Hope. Death is not a surprise—but the grave does not have the last word (1 Cor. 15:26, 54-57). Hope amid chaos, faith that sustains in the darkest moments—these things are beyond explanation or logic (Rom. 8:1-39).
Faith Despite Questions
What questions are you asking yourself this holiday season? I have exegeted, written, and published on questions and possible answers, but that does not suffice.[v] Burying one’s child takes you to another level. Do you feel tormented during these celebrations? There is Hope. It’s more than the stoicism of “antifragility” that some propose.[vi] In many ways, we have been strengthened in and through pain. The concept of resilience can only become a reality through a miracle. It seems unbelievable, but someone like me, who was so full of bitterness and doubt in the past, is filled with hope today.
I don’t mind being labeled “the Christian pastor whose son took his own life.” I can face the questions about my ability as a father. None of that matters because this Christmas season, I can have peace and also rejoice in the hope that that empty chair will remind me that his grave will be empty (1 Thess. 4:16). I don’t have all the answers, nor do I need them (Rev. 21:4).
I challenge you to keep an empty chair during these holidays. May your table always be open. No wonder Jesus spoke so many times about dining. “Table for how many?”—”7, 12, 15?” I don’t know. We may have to find more tables this Christmas! But when inviting others to fill the empty chairs at this time, always leave one more vacant.
“Table for how many?” I welcome you to my table! At our table of dialogue faith could be absent or fragile, yet, you will be welcome. We can be vulnerable at home. My other table will have rice and beans and sweet pastries, you are invited. We will always have more food—and more chairs. Come (Rev. 22:17, 20).
[i] Ruth A. Tucker asks “where is the line that divides religious belief from unbelief? I’m not sure. All of us in our faith fall somewhere on the vast, subjective spectrum that ranges from absolute certainty to unrestrained skepticism. Some profess a confident belief in God that is never questioned; others cling to a belief riddled with doubts, only a millimeter shy of unbelief.” Ruth A. Tucker, Walking Away from Faith: Unraveling the Mystery of Belief and Unbelief (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2022), Kindle locations 29-31. Cf. John Roth, “A Theodicy of Protest” in Encountering Evil, ed. Stephen Davis (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2001), 1-37.
[ii] Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment (New York: Liveright Publishing, 2018).
[iii] Fyodor Dostoevsky, The House of the Dead (London: Penguin Classics, 1986).
[iv] C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain (London: HarperOne, 2015). Cf. John Peckham, Theodicy of Love: Cosmic Conflict and the Problem of Evil (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2018).
[v] Efraín Velázquez, Buscadme y Viviréis: Lecciones de los profetas menores [Seek Me and Live] (Miami, FL: IADPA, 2013); Efraín Velázquez, De la Amargura a la Esperanza [From Bitterness to Hope] (Miami, FL: IADPA, 2022); Efraín Velázquez, “Even if . . .” in The End of Uncertainty: Returning from Exile, ed. Norel Iacob (Grantham, UK: Stanborough Press, 2021), 322-331; E. Velázquez and E. Báez, Malachi. SDAIBC (Nampa, ID: Pacific Press and Review & Herald, forthcoming).
[vi] Nassim Nicholas Taleb, Antifragile: Things that Gain from Disorder (New York: Random House, 2014).