I am closer to God than you are. Directly or indirectly, this is the ignorant idea some pastors base their entire theology upon and our culture essentially forces us to believe. Religious American culture leads us to believe that those who possess a career as a pastor are morally superior than those who are not. This, of course, is no groundbreaking issue; it has existed throughout the entirety of church history. For a hefty portion of the past two millennia, the pope actually had political authority. A man who, as my mother would say, still put his pants on one leg at a time.

We had an authoritarian pastor at the church I attended in middle/early high school. The same man who is responsible for my questioning of the Christian faith in the first place. He understood his career as a pastor as a “calling” for him to fulfill the work of the Lord. But he also believed he was farther along in the faith than anyone else in the church. His prayers carried more weight than those of his congregants. Why, was it the soft piano tune he asked the worship lady to play each week during his long-winded prayers?

The truth is, pastors are reinforced by the concept that they are closer to God than we are. Church culture breeds the idea that religious leaders have a closer connection to God, because they have been “called.” There is an ancient example of the dangers of this thinking. There are words in the New Testament that advocate against such beliefs; I will get to those later in the post. I would like to start with the mythological story of Icarus.

Icarus, the Bird with a Broken Wing

The ancient Greek myth starts with the imprisoned Daedalus and his son, Icarus. Daedalus builds wings for himself and his son so they could fly away from Crete, where they were imprisoned. When the time to escape comes, Daedalus hands Icarus his wings and gives him a warning: do not fly too close to the sun, as the wings are fashioned with beeswax. Icarus does not heed his father’s warning and flies too close to the sun, melting his wings and causing him to fall to his death.¹

The tale of Icarus is rich with symbolism. Obviously, the primary theme is the negative effects of hubris or excessive pride. Had Icarus used the wings responsibly, as he was instructed, he would not have died such a tragic death. But his false sense of pride got to him and made him ignorant. And thus, we now have the idiom, “don’t fly too close to the sun.”

When pastors receive their M.Div (or simply get hired on, with no educational training, as with my arrogant pastor), they are handed a certificate of responsibility. That is, to teach the Bible as it was written and to adopt the ministry of Christ, characterized by loving all people (not just their congregants). But suddenly the words of those bestowing the award become the warning of Daedalus and the pastor becomes Icarus.

Pastoral Icarus Syndrome is real. Pastoral egos become so conflated with ideas that they are morally superior, they are God’s chosen, and they are closer to God that they turn a blind eye to the suffering of their congregations. And eventually, these religious leaders fly too close to God that they burn up and fall from grace. Look at what happened to the fundamentalist stalwart Johnny Hunt.

Mark 12:38-40, a condemnation of authoritative religious leaders

Although the tale of Icarus is never mentioned in the Bible, it is entirely possible that some of the characters/writers of the Bible would know it. The most popular version of the Icarus story originated around 8CE, fifty years or so before Mark’s Gospel. Jesus issued a stark warning to those suffering from Pastoral Icarus Syndrome, “These men will be punished most severely” (Mark 12:40b NIV).

Mark 12:38-40 showcases Jesus’ disdain for prideful religious leaders. Read the full passage below:

As he taught them, he said, “Watch out for the kind of Torah-teachers who like to walk around in robes and be greeted deferentially in the marketplaces, who like to have the best seats in the synagogues and take the places of honor at banquets, who like to swallow up widows’ houses while making a show of davvening (prayer) at great length. Their punishment will be all the worse!” (Mark 12:38-40, CJB)

There is much to unpack in these short three verses. A helpful comparison would be Matthew’s account in chapter 23 of his Gospel. The chapter is a full discourse from Jesus speaking against the religious stalwarts of his day. Space, unfortunately, does not allow a full treatment of Matthew 23 and hardly enough to discuss Mark 12:38-40. I will try my best to address this verse concisely.

Jesus essentially lays out a list of grave actions that the religious leaders actively participate in. Many of these accurately pertain to contemporary pastors as well; wearing the finest of clothes, having the best seats (or “Pastor Parking ONLY”), taking places of honor in society, preying on the vulnerable, and making long-winded prayers in public. Most commentaries heavily emphasize Jesus’ criticism of the scribes who “swallow up the widows’ houses.” After some research and critical thought, I understand why.

In the biblical age, women were viewed as more vulnerable than men. Possibly the most vulnerable people of society were widows. The Old Testament, in addition to Judaic legal and prophetic traditions, emphasized the importance of respecting and protecting widows (e.g., Ex. 22:21-24; Deut. 24:17-22; Isa. 1:17; Jer. 7:6).² Therefore, Jesus is condemning the religious leaders of committing a horridly grave sin. But he does not stop there; he adds that they cover such actions up by making shows of their prayers.

Whether Jesus means the scribes literally or figuratively took advantage of widows, there is a certain underlying message in his statement. That is, it is almost defining of religious leaders to prey upon the most vulnerable members of society. Think about it. People have faith because they want to make sense of this thing called life. People want to believe in something greater than them; this is true of all of us. We all want to make sense of the suffering in this world and in our own lives. And oftentimes, in our weakest moments, that is when we turn to the church.

But what do we get? Told we need to tithe to receive salvation? That if we make any mistakes we will burn in a fiery place called hell? That God hates non-heterosexual people? That the person on the stage is closer to God than we are? Friends, being a pastor does not earn you God’s favor. It does not mean they were chosen to complete God’s work. Don’t get me wrong, there are some great pastors out there! But they are no closer to God than you are. They are not called to be above you, they are called to be your servants.

Conclusion

The religious leaders of Jesus’ day needed to eat some humble pie. The religious leaders of our age, and throughout history, need to as well. They are not saints. Jesus derided them for abusing their power and for preying on vulnerable people. This problem continues today. Look at the sexual abuse scandals in the Southern Baptist Convention. Look at Jimmy Swaggart, Johnny Hunt, and TB Joshua, among countless others. Church history is marred by the putrid stain of pastors and priests sexually abusing people who are looking for a solution to their pain and suffering; instead, they got more. And Jesus informed such sorry religious “leaders” that their punishment will be all the worse (Mark 12:40).

Icarus flew too close to the sun. He crashed. Religious leaders often fly too close to God. Some even become trapped in the delusion that they are God. But as sure as Icarus’ fate was sealed, so are the fates of the pathetic Christian leaders who have and continue to take advantage of their status, ignorantly viewing it as favor. The sun continues to shine brighter on such scandals. And church attendance, the holy grail of Christian leaders, continues to plummet.

Will the church wake up? Will pastors ever read the words of their own messiah? Or will they continue to be defined by Pastoral Icarus Syndrome?

1. “Icarus”. GreekMythology.com Website, 17 May. 2022, https://www.greekmythology.com/Myths/Mortals/Icarus/icarus.html.

2. Francis J. Moloney, The Gospel of Mark: A Commentary. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2012. 998.

Just another moment in your eyes
I’ll see you in another life
In Heaven!
Where we never say goodbye!
Now that it’s over
I just want to hold her
I’d give up all the world to see
That little piece of Heaven lookin’ back at me

Suffering does not have the final word

Today is a very special day. It is a day of remembering the person who not only gave me life, but who shaped me into the person I am today. My parent. My teacher. My spiritual support. My best friend. February will mark five years since her untimely passing, and while the pain of her loss never fades, I have come to accept that I will not see her again in this life. While I may not see her, her presence remains with me to this day. I wanted to write a post today in loving memory of my greatest supporter. Happy birthday, Mom.

Mom passed when I was eighteen. She had been diagnosed with stage four liver cancer the previous summer and given, at best, a few weeks to live. I had just become an adult, and thus, there are many stories of hers that I never heard. From what I do know, she had a tumultuous life. Her parents divorced at an early age. She had a physically abusive first husband before marrying my father, a drunk (not a term I use lightly) who neglected her very existence. She loved James, her last husband and my other “parent,” although he tried everything in his power to turn his children against her, for no apparent reason. Like me, she struggled with mental health disorders and substance abuse early in life. And she passed due to a deadly, progressive illness.

These are just some of the highlights I either heard or witnessed firsthand. She was certainly no saint, but she modeled the image of Christ more so than any person I have ever known. You would have never assumed she was the subject of so much travesty. She radiated the love of her savior daily, something very few churchgoers can do. She gave up her profession to homeschool her twelve children. She was actively involved in the community, and everyone who knew her can acknowledge that she touched their life in one way or another. She always wore the brightest smile and illuminated any room she entered with her caring and gentle spirit.

Lucy

Christmas was my mother’s favorite holiday and she truly exhibited the spirit of Christmas each year. When I was ten, she gave me what I still consider to be the greatest Christmas gift I have ever received. It was a copy of Skillet’s album, Awake. I had just discovered Skillet that year and they had quickly become my favorite band. I credit them for my love of rock and metal, and equally my interest in faith. Mom strictly enforced a Christian household and, as such, secular music (with few exceptions) was prohibited. When I learned that Christians could rock, it changed my world. She admired my interest and gave me the album late that Christmas night.

At the beginning of this post, I included lyrics to one of the most important songs in my life. Skillet’s song Lucy, the closing track on Awake, broke my heart the first time I heard it. It is a sad song, and while I did not fully understand its meaning at the time, it stuck with me. Accordingly, the song is about a young couple who were soon to become parents. However, out of fear and financial instability, the couple decided to terminate the pregnancy. Soon afterwards, the couple experienced extreme regret and guilt and were told to treat the procedure as a death in the family. They held a funeral service, purchased a headstone, and named the aborted child Lucy.¹

Little did I know until years later that I was almost a Lucy. My mother had given birth to nine children, she was forty-five when she was pregnant with me, and the doctor told her it was highly unlikely that I would be born without down syndrome. The doctors recommended abortion. However, my mother was one of the staunchest pro-lifers I have ever known, and determined that she would not go through with an abortion. To this day, while my political views may differ, on a personal level, I will always be pro-life for this reason.

But there is more to the story of the impact this song made for my mother and me. While I do not know the full story, I know that my mother struggled with a variety of mental health disorders and substance abuse in her teenage years. She was admitted to a notorious mental health clinic in central Georgia during the late sixties/early seventies. There are horror stories about this particular clinic. When we think of a 1950s American style insane asylum, the hospital my mother was at truly lives up to the stereotype. While she was there, she had one good doctor by the name of Jack, I believe. Jack allegedly wrote an account of his time at this hospital, which included meeting my mother. For purposes of anonymity, he refrained from using her real name. He called her Lucy.

After sharing Skillet’s song with my mother a few weeks after that Christmas, apparently she told one of my older siblings about how much the song touched her heart. I never heard the entire story about what happened in her time at Central State, but the untold story holds a special place in my heart. Having been admitted to a rehabilitation center in 2021 and a crisis unit only a few months ago, the story only becomes more special to me. While it is true that mental health and substance abuse disorders are largely genetic, I do not see this negatively. I see this as hope. I see that my loving mother survived tremendous suffering, and it never broke her. It shaped her into being the loving, caring mother everyone knew.

Of course, when my mother passed, the song took on yet another meaning for me. It was my anthem of hope. It was my reminder that though her body lost life, her spirit lives within me. As painful as it is to hear the song now, it is a bittersweet pain. The tears that fall each time I hear “Lucy” are not bad tears. They are tears of sadness, but they are even more tears of love. They are tears of reassurance that my mother lives on, and the end of her life on earth is not the end of my life with her. And each time I hear it, I am reminded of the strength my mother possessed.

She used her weaknesses to become strong. She rejected the status quo and lived as a true Jesus Freak. She did not sit idly in the church. She did not force dogma down the throats of others. She did not act superior to those who disagreed with her. She embraced the model of Christ in the Gospels: a person characterized by loving the outcasts and stepping on the toes of the self-righteous. She did not live a wonderful life, but she would never admit to this. She was grateful for her life, both the good and the bad. When she received the news that she had cancer, she boldly proclaimed that her savior had never let her down.

A reflection of hope

As the years have passed, I know that there are many areas in which my mother and I would not see eye-to-eye. My political views have become more progressive (though, I align myself dead center and quite simply despise politics). I do not attend church. I do not interpret the Bible as perfect or living. I almost completely dismiss Christianity as yet another organized religion. I still hold many “Christian” beliefs and place my faith in the God of Bible and his son, but I am not the churchgoing Christian I was five years ago. Despite these changes, I know that my mother would still love me the way she did when she walked this earth. And I know that one day, I will see her again.

When I reflect on my mother’s life and the few years I had with her, I am reminded of my destiny. I am reminded that in all things, I should exhibit nothing less than love. I must be bold in my beliefs, and not merely talk about them, but live them out. My mother redefined the churchgoing Christian, I believe. While she was adamant about attending church services, she understood that church is scripturally an activity done outside the walls of the church. It is about making an impact. It is about loving others, regardless of what they believe in or who they are. It is about striving to address the problem, rather than becoming part of the problem.

Since my mother’s diagnosis, now over five years ago, the problem of suffering has been at the heart of everything I believe and do. But what confounds me is the way my mother approached the problem. She did not use her illness, or the pain she experienced in her life, to lose faith. She embraced the pain and used it to further her faith. Her suffering did not discredit her beliefs. While the question of “Why, God?” undoubtedly plagued her mind, she maintained forward momentum towards glory. Even in her darkest days, she knew her calling to love others with every fiber of her being. And it radiated with every person she encountered.

Five long years without her. And while I cannot deny that I miss her each and every day, I know that her spirit lives within me. It lives within each of her children, and the countless lives she touched in 64 years. Those who knew her will never forget her. Her legacy lives on and will continue to do so. And I know that we will meet again someday.

Until that day, I love you mom. Happy birthday. I am signing off now to go celebrate and remember her with a bowl of pistachio ice cream.

1. Nate Carlson and John Cooper, “Music | The meaning behind the song ‘Lucy’ by Skillet,” November 22, 2010, Ramblings of the Village Idiot. Retrieved from https://www.natecarlson.com/2010/11/22/the-meaning-behind-the-song-lucy-by-skillet/.

Five years ago, my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 liver cancer. In the weeks leading up to the diagnosis, I was sure that I was about to experience my best days. I had just graduated high school, after dual-enrolling at my dream school and receiving my diploma and Associate of Arts. I was hired as a coach for the swim team I had been on for several years. I was doing excellent with my full-time job. I was accepted to the same school’s political science program (I was extremely passionate about politics at the time—gross!). I met a girl at my job who I was certain was “the one” for me. Things were going marvelous, and then my best friend, my mentor, my rock was given just a few weeks to live.

I will never forget the night I received the news. My mother called me to her room, closed the door, and explained the diagnosis to me. She recited Job 14:5, which speaks of God knowing the number of our days. She explained that she remained faithful to him and his will for her. She told me that she loved me and gave me a hug that I can still feel to this day. I did not know how to process this news. I remained calm, then went to my bedroom and stood still for a moment. Shortly thereafter, I collapsed on the floor, bawling my eyes out.

Depression entered me, and it has not yet decided to leave. The most obvious signs were the loss of weight and hair. I started drinking heavily. I lost the girl. My family started to fall apart. The only thing going well for me was my job at a grocery store. After the summer semester of studying political science, I quickly learned that I passionately despise American politics and wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. I was ready to drop out and pursue a career with my company, following the footsteps of many of my siblings. But my terminally ill mother would not let that happen.

I told her my plan to drop out of school. She did not want to hear it. She had homeschooled all twelve of her children, but I was the only one she taught from kindergarten to high school. She worked extremely hard to instill a passion for research and writing in me. And of course, I realized I could not let that go to waste.

As we all know, when we suffer, we learn to heavily rely on faith. Whether that is faith in God, in the people closest to us, or even just the faith in knowing that the darkness is only temporary. I had started attending a small Methodist church just months before mom was diagnosed. The church played a special place in my life and I eagerly became involved. In all honesty, I was a bit of a “Jesus Freak” at the time. My beliefs were of vital importance to me at the time, and religion was the other subject I always excelled at in school. After about a week of deep thought, I decided to pursue a degree in theology.

Central to this decision was the question I now deal with in every post on Living by the Logos: why do we suffer? How is it that a loving, merciful God could allow his obedient follower to suffer a terminal illness? How is it that the same God could allow an entire family to collapse at such devastation? How could he allow me to suffer when I was earnestly trying to follow the faith my mother possessed? How is it that he could create an entire species and subject them to endless suffering, from birth to death? Why does God allow suffering?

In this post, I have included a picture of a painting I started around the time I decided to study theology. Art and music have always played a tremendous role in my life. When my mom was sick, I found a new meaning in one of my favorite albums. The Christian rock band Red was and is one of my favorite groups. They released an album when I was going through a hard time in high school titled “of Beauty and Rage.” When mom was sick, I returned to this album and appreciated the deep insight conveyed on the record. There is beauty and rage in every aspect of life. There is good, there is evil. There is suffering, there is hope. There is hate, there is love.

This post is a bit of a mess. I am trying to explain the heart of who I am as a person, where I come from, and where I am headed in just a couple hundred words. There is so much more to expound upon, from this dark chapter in my life to the one I am seeking to close. As I have crawled from the pit of despair once more, I have found myself reflecting on the summer of 2018. At the time, I knew the road ahead was going to be dark and rocky. But I maintained hope that the good always overcomes the bad.

I mentioned in the previous post that I attempted suicide in April. It was not the first time. This time, it has been especially difficult to recover and find myself again. But take this as a word of hope in whatever you are going through right now: darkness is only temporary. You may only see the rage, but always seek to find the beauty in life. Whether that beauty is in God, in others, in nature, or anything else, always seek it out. It may not be apparent, but I can promise you that it is there.

It has been a great several weeks since I last posted. I have more than appreciated the support of those closest to me. I have seen a marvelous difference in the things I have struggled with. I have been able to appreciate my life. I have learned to appreciate the good times as well as the bad. I have been able to reconnect with old friends. I have learned to appreciate the past and embrace the future. Most importantly, I have been able to cling to the words that concluded my last post: there is hope. There is always hope.

I am still fighting my way back. That being said, my posts will likely remain infrequent for a bit longer. But I appreciate your support and the time that you have taken out of your day to read this blog and understand who I am. I hope to write to you soon. Until then, I will remain focused on the fact that my life is certainly a life worth living.

Hello dear friends,

I have been absent from this site for quite a while. I wish to use this newsletter to clarify some things for you and provide some updates.

I recently found myself in the woes of a serious mental health crisis. A number of factors contributed to this event: I tried coming off antidepressants well before I was ready, I was dealing with serious and unmerited stress at my job, finding myself unaware of what I believe and who I am, reexperiencing the grief of losing my mother and childhood trauma, recovering from a relapse in February after 19 months of sobriety, and struggling to maintain relationships with my loved ones due to my own insanity. I lost the job. I lost my closest friends (one to death) and a relationship with the only person who seemed to understand me. Most painful of them all, I lost myself.

On April 23^rd of this year, I attempted suicide. That is truly hard to admit. I have struggled with suicidal thoughts for over half my life, attempting on several occasions, yet this one was the most extreme and consequential. The last times I had attempted, now over two years ago, I felt a sense of relief and contentment to be alive afterward. This time, the thoughts, the plans, the ideas only continued to get worse. I finally made a call that potentially saved my life. I called 988.

I had always been hesitant about calling this number. I feared the police would come and lock me up. It was not so. I was connected with a professional counselor who dispatched a team to come to my home and perform a mental health assessment. I spent over a week in a crisis center. It was coming; I sought therapy after my attempt in April, but that was not enough. My therapist essentially forced me to call the number. Either I would, or she would have me involuntarily committed. Obviously, I took the first choice.

Writing has always been an excellent coping strategy of mine, yet recently I have found it rather burdensome. Especially to dedicate to writing on the problem of suffering and Christianity, which plays a traumatic role in my life alone. That being said, I do not know when or if I will return to posting regularly. Right now, my focus lies in repairing what I can of the damage I caused myself physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. It lies in repairing the bonds I have broken, the few that I can salvage. And it lies in ensuring that I do not repeat these mistakes again.

I am in therapy. I am on new medications that have worked better than the ones I was on previously. I have a new job. I have a desire to live and take things one day at a time. And most importantly, I have hope. Part of this recovery process requires me to confess my shortcomings to you, the readers who have supported my efforts. It has required me to be honest with the few friends and family remaining, after causing them extreme worry. Of course, it has required me to be honest with myself. That, my friends, is recovery. It’s a work in progress, but it is one I am wholeheartedly committed to.

There is a certain stigma about mental health, especially where I am in the southeastern US. But it is very real and very concerning. If you or someone you love is struggling, help is available. I was not aware of this help when I needed it most. The danger is real. As someone who struggles with a variety of mental health disorders, I can attest that it is no laughing matter… Despite what your pastor tells you.

Please continue to share Living by the Logos. It is my mission to provide hope to others who struggle. And I hope to return to it soon. But I cannot give hope if I do not have hope to give; the current mission is to rekindle such hope. I am confident that there is hope. There is always hope.

Your thoughts, concerns, and prayers are much appreciated during this time.

I hope to write to you soon,

Luke.