Nor was it
the case that they hadn’t tried everything, hadn’t gone to the best hospitals,
hadn’t gotten the finest doctors. But a decade before he took his life, Matthew
had gone sobbing to his father. “It’s pretty clear,” he had said, “I’m not
getting better and I’m never going to get better. So why shouldn’t I kill
myself? I know I’m going to heaven, Dad. So why not kill myself now?”
His father
was a minister; his answer reflected that.
“Sometimes
we don’t know why we’ve been given such great pain, Son. But there is a reason,
and we’ll find out in the end. But I am never, ever, as a father going to give
up looking for a solution to your problem….”
And it had
gone on for years. Matthew, their third child, had been a remarkable child;
since birth, he had been different. Shy, sensitive, he could sense in a moment
the person in the room who was hurting the most, and would make a beeline for
him or her. For the rest of the evening, he would stay by that person’s side,
laughing, joking, trying to cheer him or her up.
“He had an
amazing ability to help people, and he knew it,” his father said. “He once told
me, ‘the only person I can’t help is me….’”
Yes,
different; different almost from birth. The father had feared something was
wrong from the very beginning; indeed, almost from the day Matthew had been born,
his father had started to dread that his son would kill himself. There was that
sensitivity, the inability to shrug off pain, a softness that wasn’t like other
boys’. He played different, he acted different, he…well, was different.
And so they
had prayed, yes, but they also knew—they had to get help. It all came clear
after the first suicide attempt; then there was no choice. Matthew had
swallowed the Tylenol and had left the bottle on the bed when they found him.
It was, as the doctor said, the classic call for help.
Help that,
despite their best efforts, they could not give him. They tried—they lost count
of the number of psychiatrists, psychologists, family counselors, pastors,
prayer groups, professionals, friends…
It was numbing, after a while, and in itself depressing, as well.
“We had
pulled him off from the edge more than once,” said his mother. “And the night
before, Matthew and I were in his bedroom, and I was begging for him not to
kill himself. And he was crying and sobbing and rocking on his bed, and all I
could do was hold him, and beg him to go on, and tell him that it would get
better, and he just cried harder, and started pounding on the bed and shouting
that I didn’t understand. That it was never going to get better and that he was
in so much pain and he couldn’t go on—and it was so unfair of me to ask him to
take this pain, he couldn’t bear it. He was screaming in my face that no mother
would want her child in so much agony. And I was screaming back that I couldn’t
let him die, I just couldn’t, no mother could. And I couldn’t bear it, seeing
him in such pain and there was nothing, NOTHING I could do to help him. My son,
my son, in so much pain! And I remembered when he was a child—he’d fall and cry
and I’d pick him up and it would be OK. And I never imagined that there would
come a day or a night when I couldn’t help him.”
“At last,
he quieted down, and began to talk about going home. And something, I don’t
know, something didn’t feel right. He was too calm; too collected. He had gone too
quickly from utter despair to being, well, collected. We begged him to stay, we
pleaded with him to stay, but he was firm. And that’s when he said it. He
turned around, as he was leaving, and said, very slowly, very forcefully, ‘you
know, if you ever call the police on me, or call 911 to get me help, it’s an
instant suicide.’”
“I was
stunned—the look in his eye was awful. But it was his voice, how cool he was,
as if he had settled on something. Of course, neither of us could sleep, and we
kept calling and calling. I texted him—‘just send me one word, ONE word telling
me you’re OK.’ Then we drove to the house, about three in the morning. All the
lights were on. That’s when I knew—but we didn’t have a key. And what should I
do? Should I call 911? Was it a bluff? Would he really have the courage, or the
desperation or the despair to do it? So we were sobbing, Rick and I, and
holding each other in the driveway, and praying. And that’s when I knew. We
left, and then got the call from the police department. We went to the house,
and a cop came out, and we looked at him and he just nodded.”
All right,
Readers, why have I spent 891 words telling you this story? Because I read in The New York Times
last week that Rick Warren, the pastor of the mega-church Saddleback Church,
and an outspoken opponent of marriage equality, was going to start a mental
health outreach ministry in his church. Why? Because, with some poetic license,
the story of Matthew, above, is the story of Matthew
Warren, Rick and Kay’s son.
It happened
just over a year ago, and if I knew about it, I had forgotten it. But what’s
significant about the story—for me, at least—is that I immediately assumed
Matthew was gay (which of course was why I was banging that “sensitivity” drum
up there). So I turned to find a picture of him, since gaydar will—very occasionally—work with photos.
Here he is, and no, it didn’t work….
Well, it’s
a heart-breaking photo, this boy who seems to be telling us, ‘one day you will
know, you will see, you will understand this half-smile of mine…” And it’s sad,
as well, that even in death, Matthew’s photo, when I saved it just now, had
“rick-warren’s-son” as the default save option. Matthew was not Matthew, but
Rick Warren’s son.
Nor was I
the only gay man who had wondered about the question, since apparently Twitter and the social networks erupted. And I’m
sorry to report that a number of my gay brethren pounced on the death as
god-or-the-devil-sent stick with which to beat up Rick Warren. Here’s one example….
Was @rickwarren's son gay? Maybe conversion therapy,
condemnation and hatred towards gays was too much for matt...#ripmatt
That is by
no means the most egregious; here is one of the 70 comments made to the article
referenced above:
I wish I could
come up with the right set of sentences that would drive this pain (if Mr.
Warren actually feels such, being an experienced con man) deep, deep into Mr.
Warren such that he could no longer cling to his sick delusions of god service.
The only 'god'
Rick Warren serves is himself. He has poisoned the minds of millions.
He is NOT a
friend to democracy.
Religion
comforts...and cripples.
Or how
about this:
Rick
Warren's son has committed suicide // #IWOULDTOOIFIWASHIM #FUCKRICKWARREN #UGANDA #GAY #EXECUTIONS #LAKEFOREST
Guys? There
are some places we cannot go, and just as we abhor the Phelps family—which of course came out and said
the usual about Rick being an apostate and worshipping a false God and, anyway,
no matter what, God hates you-know-whom—we cannot, let me say it again, we
CANNOT do this to a suffering family.
That much I
knew. What didn’t I know?
The skinny
on Rick Warren’s celebrated AIDS program in Africa.
Drop by
tomorrow, and I’ll tell you all about it….
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