You Won’t get better until you get bitter

A few years ago, when I was a pastor, I went to visit a relative of a parishioner at their house. When I arrived we exchanged pleasantries and he offered me coffee, which I gladly accepted.

Coffee has such a cultural importance, with everyone feeling strongly about their approach to drinking it, and it quickly became apparent that our approaches differed greatly. At the time, as the Beastie Boys once wrote, I liked my sugar with coffee and cream. I was startled when he brought in a French coffee press with no sweeteners in sight. He confirmed that he had none and so I did my best to enjoy the beverage. I have never had such a hard time maintaining a smile than when the bitterness hit my tongue. With every facial muscle I could control I did my best to conceal my distaste. After about an hour I left and was finally able to let my disgust come out. (Of course, I could have just declined the coffee, but I was way too much of a people pleaser at the time).

It is extremely difficult to feign happiness in the presence of bitterness. We all experience bitterness in our souls at times, and unlike with coffee, you can't sweeten it, lighten it, or even spit it out of your mouth. No, you have to feel it.

There's a common phrase passed around when one is dealing with difficult challenges and experiences. “Don't get bitter, get better.” In the long run, it's the right advice. Remaining in bitterness all of your life won't get you where you want to go. But simply trying to count your silver linings won't work either. Bitterness is a part of the process, and it must be acknowledged.

What does it mean to get better, after all? In our culture, where we are so uncomfortable with any sort of sadness and are used to being constantly entertained, it often means to be in a perpetual state of bliss, sugar coating that which cannot be sweetened.

The fact is, we have all experienced some painful and unjust things, and that needs to be acknowledge, if only within ourselves. Abuse, disease, oppression, they are all rotten things that must be seen for what they are.

Trauma experts tell is that what is often so painful and wounding about traumatic experiences is not that they happened, but what failed to happen afterwards. For many of us, there was no one to come alongside us and help us process the pain, assuring us that it was not our fault and that we have support. Instead, many times we held it in for years or even decades as it slowly ate away at our souls.

It's okay to be bitter for a while. It's okay to acknowledge that we were harmed by people we trusted, even if they were doing the best they could.

Several years ago I resigned from being a pastor. I didn't know all the reasons why I needed to do that at the time, just that it was the next step. As I started working through more of my trauma and wounds, I realized that so many of them came from life in the church.

I had to let myself acknowledge the depth of my pain. I had to let myself be bitter.

There was no use denying it, anyway. I was bitter. I was bitter about being sexually assaulted in a church, about watching my dad pastor dysfunctional congregations and being torn apart by them, and being taught that I was a terrible sinner and God was always angry with me.

When covid hit and everything shut down, it was a convenient excuse to stop going to church. But I needed a break. I needed to feel my pain so I could face it.

It's striking that when Jesus was hanging on the cross, he was given vinegar-a bitter drink to go with a bitter death. Because to get to the other side where there is resurrection and new life, you have to taste the bitterness to the fullest extent. You cannot bypass it.

I spent that time feeling the depths of my pain in order to heal it. It's ongoing, of course, but I have come a along way with the help of therapy, spiritual direction, and so many friends and loved ones.

I didn't realize how far I had come however, until the weekend that my father in law passed away. We spent the weekend with family and planned to go to church with my mother in law. I felt a little weird about it. I hadn't been in church much at all in several years . For the longest time, even the thought of going gave me a sick feeling.

But we went to support our family. I was struck by how much it didn't bother me. The tenseness and anxiety wasn't there anymore. It wasn't what I would choose to do on my own, but I could appreciate the support it offers to many. I could appreciate that, while it brought much bitterness over the years, it also gave me something I deeply needed when I was younger, and I'm thankful it still provides that to those who need it.

I am making peace with what I went through. Eventually, though, we have to swallow the most bitter pill of all, the pill that remains locked away if we  refuse to grow. It's the bitterness of acknowledging that, while we were harmed, it is our own defense mechanisms that keep us stuck now. The humbling and freeing truth is that ultimately it is up to us to take the step towards healing.

By God's grace I have been able to do that. I am better than I was, not because I refused to be bitter, but because I let the bitterness do its work. It now adds a subtle taste to my story, where sweetness complements it rather than drowning it out. Coincidentally, or maybe not so coincidentally, I've come to take my coffee the same way.