Caught in the Web

By Kathy Luder

Mom’s voice rang up the stairs. “Kathy, come down and say hello to the pastor.” Pastor had come to borrow a lawn mower.

I had just finished reading my e-mail. My e-mail had brought devastating news, and I wasn’t quite ready to face the pastor. Mom called again: “Kathy, Pastor is here.” Down I went.

I stood just outside the kitchen, out of their line of sight, catching my breath. Mom was asking Pastor if he wanted cream or sugar, and he was chatting about how long his grass was. The e-mail from Rachel was burned into my brain. She was going to hell.

I had met Rachel, the daughter of a Lutheran pastor, at an arts camp two years ago. We became instant friends that week and shared a bond I’ve rarely known. Then the week ended, and she went back home to Texas, eight hundred miles from here. We e-mailed for a while and made some phone calls, but the bond wasn’t there like it had been in the moldy cabin in Traverse City. It just faded away. It wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t my fault. It just happened. But I missed the girl I knew at camp.

I hadn’t heard from her for over a year, and then my inbox rang. Rachel wrote to tell me that she’d gone Goth. She didn’t believe in God. She read the Satanist’s Bible and thought it made a lot of sense. She also said her parents were getting divorced.

I knew I had to ask someone what to do, but I didn’t want to just yet. I needed some time to think about it. I had to put on my game face and not let on that I felt like I might vomit. Mom came round the corner to send another volley up the stairs and almost knocked me over.

“Oh, there you are. Sorry. Pastor is here,” she said, turning back around to return to the kitchen.

“Yeah, I know,” I said and started to follow her.

She stopped, turned back around, and whispered, “Have you been crying?”

“No,” I said, looking away. “Don’t look at me like that. I‘m fine.”

“Kathy?” she said, putting her hands on my shoulders and turning me back to her.

I fell into her arms. I softly cried while the pastor’s spoon tinkled in his cup. If he knew something was up, he didn’t let on.

“Go on up to your room,” she whispered as she spun me back toward the stairs. “I’ll send him away and be right up.”

“No,” I said. “I want to talk to him.” Now she looked scared, but she shrugged and led me to the kitchen table where we all sat down.

And then I poured out the story. I cried a little more. I couldn’t help it. I was heartbroken and scared. They didn’t interrupt. Even when I got sidetracked and told stories of camp, they just sat and listened. My mom has never been so quiet.

Finally I said, “I let Rachel down. I should have stayed her friend. I should have witnessed to her. I didn’t even know any of this was going on. Now I don’t know what to say. And I don’t want to offend her or drive her away.”

Pastor took a sip of coffee and a deep breath. “This is not your fault. Rachel chose her own path. You didn’t suggest it. You didn’t help her find it.” He reached over and touched my hand. “You did not fail her.”

I nodded and smiled a little, but I was thinking that he says that to everybody. And sometimes, I was thinking, despite the forgiveness we have in Christ, it is our fault.

He went on, “Your guilt feels real, but it’s false. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

He must have read my mind. “I don’t know,’” I said. He was looking me in the eye, and I didn’t like it. I focused on a spider web with a fly caught in it just outside the window.

He wasn’t quitting. “You are heartbroken, and you’re afraid for your friend. But you didn’t do anything wrong. The false guilt feels real. Because when you think about what happened, you are full of regret and what ifs.”

I nodded and pulled my hand away. I couldn’t take my eyes off that fly. He was shaking the web, sending the signal to the spider, wherever he was, that dinner was ready.

The pastor leaned forward. I had to look at him. He said, “Kathy, I am absolutely sincere when I say you haven’t done anything wrong.”

He sat back in his chair. “You should embrace that at an intellectual level, even if you can’t quite convince your heart of it. You haven’t done anything wrong.” He waited. “I mean it.”

He just didn’t seem to get it. I said, “But...”

He interrupted. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” I snapped. “I didn’t DO anything. That is the problem.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I don’t think so. And besides that I have good news. Our Lord died for sins of omission and commission, for false guilt and for real guilt. He removes it all. He also removes shame.”

“That won’t help Rachel. She’ll still go to hell,” I said, my eyes locked on the drama outside the window.

“Perhaps. But it won’t be your fault. It will be her fault.” He took a sip of coffee. Mom stood up to get the pot. I was getting angrier. It seemed like he didn’t even care about Rachel. He just wanted everything to be okay. I wished that stupid spider would get snatched by a praying mantis.

In a low voice, the pastor said: “You are not the Messiah, Kathy. You can’t save Rachel. And you don’t have to. Jesus already did.”

And suddenly, I realized he was right. Jesus is the Messiah. I couldn’t save Rachel.

He went on, “When we make Confession, we admit before God what we have done and ask for forgiveness, and we have confidence in the Absolution. We have been taught and we believe that Jesus forgives our sins.”

I was nodding and had turned back to the pastor.

“But,” he went on, “False guilt is tougher. Since it is false, it doesn’t feel forgiven. We get caught up in these emotional storms of regret. We don’t know exactly what to confess. Without anything objective to confess, we have a more difficult time believing we are forgiven. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” I said. I was starting to feel some relief, but I still felt sad. “But what if Rachel goes to hell?”

“We don’t know what will happen to Rachel. But she is not here. You are. You haven’t done anything wrong. It might feel wrong or unfair, but you are forgiven. That’s the first thing.”

“I know I’m forgiven. And I’m glad; I’m grateful. Really. But that still leaves Rachel.” I could feel my throat beginning to tighten as I talked.

“I know,” he said. “The thing is, Satan worship is always an attention-getting device. It’s Rachel’s way of saying that the world is so broken, so wrong, that evil is good and good is evil. She wants, at some level, to shock you. But she is also crying out for help.”

I heard my voice crack. “So what do I do?”

The pastor reached over and touched my hand again. Very quietly, he said, “Help her. Tell her the truth.” He was giving me that goofy grin of his, and I could feel myself starting to smile.

He went on, “Don’t be afraid. Just be her friend. Tell her your fears for her, that you love her, that God still and always loves her and is eager to welcome her back. It doesn’t matter what she has done or does, what she says and or thinks or feels. Jesus loves her. He wants her.”

Most of the time, our pastor is a bit stiff. He is not very expressive. But I reached across the table and hugged him anyway. It was an awkward hug, since there was a table in the way and we were both sitting. He didn’t hug back, but I didn’t care. Sometimes he needs a hug whether he knows it or not. And just then I needed to give a hug. I sat back up to see pastor red in the face and mom wiping her eyes.

As we walked pastor to his pick-up, I said, “What if I say something wrong?”

Loading the lawnmower into the truck, he said, “She might even get mad. She might never talk to you again.”

“That’s what I am afraid of,” I said.

He closed the tailgate of his pick-up and opened his door. “She hasn’t talked to you for a year anyway, so what’s the loss?”

Mom laughed. I nodded. I didn’t think it was funny, but it was a good point.

He stood there with the door open and looked off into the distance. “No one in hell curses us for having told him the truth.”

He looked back to us. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but she is a highly emotional teenage girl. You can’t predict what she will do. She isn’t the first to play around with such things. What she needs is the truth. Telling her the truth will not drive her away from God.”

“Right,” said Mom. I knew that was right also.

He climbed into his truck. The window was down. With his hand on the key, looking me in the eye, he said, “She might run away, but she won’t be driven. And the only way she will be drawn to God is through the Word. Tell her the truth. Take the risk. Love her enough to risk losing the friendship.” He turned the key, and the engine roared to life.

He grinned at us. “Isn’t that the kind of selfless, Messianic friend you are?”

“I hope so,” I said, snorting. I hate that I snort. But I do. I can’t help it. I confess: I am a snorter.

He smiled and continued, “Don’t worry about it. God’s Word is the power, not your presentation. The Holy Spirit does and will accompany His Word. You can’t fail. This fear is like your false guilt. God has placed you into this situation. Take advantage of it but don’t fret about it. God knows more about Rachel than you do, and He has other people in place to help her as well. You’re not her only shot. Besides that, your sincerity and honesty will go a long way.”

He put the truck in gear. “I’ve got to get to my grass. I’ll pray for you.” He waved as he drove away.

Mom said, “I am going to get the mail. I’ll proof your e-mail if you want.”

I walked back to the house alone. Before going in, I tore down the spider web. The fly was gone.

Kathy Luder doesn’t like spiders or snakes, black lipstick or body-piercing, but you can e-mail her at KathyLuder@hotmail.com