Why have hope for someone who died of an overdose?

A couple approached me after church on Sunday and shared with me that their son had died of a drug overdose. They reminded me that several months ago, I had helped their son find a sober-living home.

At that time, their son had just done a stint in rehab. He left rehab with no money or job. He needed to find a place to stay that would wait for rent while he found work.

They told me the sober-living home I helped them find was not a good fit. The son was Christian but he did not like the home’s charismatic approach to Christianity.

After a few months, the home discharged the son over differences in recovery philosophy or religious doctrine.

The discharge led to a relapse. The relapse ended in an overdose.

I felt awful knowing that the home I recommended was such a bad fit.

Surprisingly the couple was not angry with me, with the sober-living home, or with their son. In fact, they told me about a few of their cherished memories from their son’s childhood. They smiled and seemed at peace. They thanked me for what they called “a good five months” before the overdose.

I think the couple’s reaction is a good reminder that Christianity is unique in its ability to address adversity and apparent defeat.

The medical model of addiction treatment, on the other hand, is less robust and helpful. In my experience, those who hold to the medical model would view the son’s death as a failure of the system. And they would view the failure as an opportunity to learn and correct the system for the sake of future clients.

When I was director of mental health clinics, I saw many attempts to learn from failures. In one of the clinics I oversaw, a client completed suicide. The client was minor and we struggled to come to terms with the loss of such a young life. A committee was organized to review every aspect of the client’s care. Progress notes were scrutinized for evidence of negligence. Standard procedures were examined for gaps that could have led to the suicide. Staff involved in the care of the client were interviewed. The goal was to find out what could have been done differently—what could have prevented the tragic loss of life.

I applaud the efforts of the organization to treat human life with such reverence and care. And I would hope that if someone I knew completed suicide, those involved in his or her care would react with the same urgency.

Yet, I am reminded of the words of the writer of Ecclesiastes,

“Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body.”

When it comes to improving addiction and mental health treatment an appropriate paraphrase might be,

“Of making many programs, there is no end, and much quality improvement leads to helper burnout.

The medical model assumes that progress and advancement are always possible. We just need to invest the dollars and time into finding the answer. Thus, we spend millions of dollars on research, we establish websites, information clearinghouses, best practices, blue-ribbon programs, etc, etc, etc.

Steven Pinker has done a great job of communicating all the progress that has been made possible through a Western, Scientific worldview. With some impressive statistics, he points out that poverty and violent crime are down worldwide, and life expectancy is up. The progress is great. But progress can also be exhausting. The weight of maintaining that progress is squarely on our backs. And our backs are not designed to carry so much.

While many good programs—and improvements to existing programs—have resulted from the interminable quest to improve services, it is also true that rates of addiction, depression and anxiety have been rising for decades. And no amount of innovative programming seems to be able to reverse the trend.

Many who work in the field of recovery have worshiped at the altar of Quality Improvement, sacrificing days, weeks, and decades of their careers, burning candles late into the night, and joining committees and advocacy groups. Yet their idol—expressionless and mute—stares into the distance, unmoved by their pleading and fretting.

Christians, on the other hand, believe some things that are very shocking and counter-intuitive. If we hold claim to these ancient truths, we can do a better job— and avoid burnout. I also believe that these ancient truths are at the heart of why the couple at church were so resilient in the face of their son’s overdose.

As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world and of the ruler of the kingdom of the air, the spirit who is now at work in those who are disobedient. All of us also lived among them at one time, gratifying the cravings of our flesh and following its desires and thoughts. Like the rest, we were by nature deserving of wrath. But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do

Ephesians 2

A Christian’s starting point is death and transgression. This may sound morbid or fatalistic. But, it is honest. Anyone who has seriously contemplated human history—or their own family’s history for that matter—must come to the conclusion that humans have a streak of meanness and stupidity that can’t be cured with any amount of science, education, or quality improvement.

Yes. We are also capable of great kindness, compassion, and creativity. But the mean and stupid streak remains—and it doesn’t look like it is going away any time soon.

It is freeing and validating to simply admit the brokenness. Starting with that viewpoint relieves a lot of performance anxiety. When you can admit that our starting point is death, sin, and disobedience, you experience less dissonance with the world and people as they actually exist.

Of course, we also work for improvement in substance abuse outcomes and for the amelioration of suffering caused by substance abuse. Because human life is precious in God’s sight, we also try our very best to relieve suffering and promote flourishing. But we work with the knowledge that we are broken, disobedient creatures. We know that we follow the cravings of our flesh too often. We know that any amount of advancement is not from us.

Like salvation, advancement is a gift of God—so no one can boast.

At least one way we can better cope with the loss of a loved one addicted to drugs is to affirm the ancient truth of Original Sin. We are broken. We are dead in our sins. This is true not only for our drug-abusing loved ones but for us, too. We also gratify the cravings of our flesh. We follow the thoughts and desires of that mean and stupid streak inside all of us.

We don’t need to despair at the failure of our efforts to prevent suffering and death. Our ultimate hope isn’t in us— or the scientific method.

Even when the sober-living facility is a mismatch. Even when relapse pounces on our loved ones for the umpteenth time. Even when relapse takes a life. There is hope. Our hope is in the “incomparable riches” of his grace and love.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. [Romans 8:38-39]

The grace of God is not a slow, steady progression. It isn’t confined to the laws of nature. It isn’t observable through scientific inquiry. It is an “Amazing Grace.”

A professor of mine, Paul Ziemer, made a cogent point about this.

When we minister to someone whose loved one died in circumstances that made them wonder if the loved one went to heaven, it is best to admit that we might not know where that one will spend eternity. But we do know the One who dearly loves the sinner and wants all to go to heaven. So we point the anxious one to the gracious God who knows everything, rather than looking at the life of the person to try to determine if faith was there at death.

I love that last line. Who are we to look at the life of the loved one who died of a drug overdose and make a judgment about their faith—or God’s mercy? We lack God’s knowledge and his mercy. God has no upper limit. He is not conditional, knowable, or restricted. In fact, he is eternal. His ways are far above our ways. He knows us completely, yet he is incomprehensible to us. Everything about him is vast and unsearchable--including his mercy and love.

This ten-minute video of the queen of soul singing about that AMAZING grace is a performance worthy of its weighty and profound topic. It came on the heels of her own salvation from addiction and represents a flourishing of new life that was breathed into a wretched sinner, who like each of us, was dead in her trespasses.