The secret of Uncle Joe

In a few months, I'll be 61 years old. I like this time in my life, perhaps more than any other time that has come before. Recently, I learned something that rattled my general sense of equanimity. Interested in family history, lately I've been investigating my maternal roots, ancestors I've never met but about whom bits and pieces have been shared over the years.

Mom, didn't I have an ancestor who built bridges?

No, not bridges. But you did have a great uncle who was once a notable and award-winning architect.

Oh, yes?

In investigating this great-uncle through the miracle of the Internet, it turns out that "Joseph" (his actual Christian name; his surname is being withheld) has a Wikipedia page. Having such a page is a measure of both fame and infamy. In the case of my long-ago relative, it is both.

Joseph was born in 1892 in Washington, D.C. I knew that a lot of my mother's family came from the nation's capital. He earned a degree in architecture at the age of 20 and later, when the U.S. entered World War I, he went off to fight. That conflict really messed him up, or at least this is family lore.

Back home in peacetime, Joseph put his skills to work, designing a now-prestigious Presbyterian Church, a hotel and an apartment building, among other projects. He was honored by the Washington Board of Trade and the Architects' Advisory Council.

Joseph and his wife lived in Tilden Gardens, the same luxury apartment community in which Harry Truman would later reside while a U.S. senator. Until the construction of the Watergate, Tilden Gardens was the largest apartment complex in the city.

One day, around his 40th birthday in 1932 -- three years before my mother was born -- my great-uncle Joseph came home and committed suicide. Shot himself in front of his wife. This seemingly prosperous professional tormented by wartime demons -- and perhaps other things lost in the vapors of time -- decided he couldn't live another day.

How come I didn't know this before, Mom?

I don't know. I guess you weren't in the room when we discussed it.

When I am troubled, my mind often wanders to the scriptures for guidance.

There are seven instances of suicide (from the Latin "to slay oneself") in the Bible. Six are in the Old Testament, with the deaths of Samson and King Saul the most prominent. In not a single narrative of the Hebrew Bible are words of condemnation used to describe the act. Saul's death by falling on his sword came at a time of deep distress and failure. Samson's death, by using a final burst of strength -- and the text says it is God-provided muscle -- kills everyone present, including himself, at a Philistine temple. From a certain perspective, you could call the death of this legendary strongman a God-assisted suicide. Samson is regularly remembered as a hero of Israel despite this final act of slaying himself.

The lone New Testament suicide, that of Judas Iscariot, the betrayer of Jesus apparently for 30 pieces of silver, is -- by contrast -- roundly condemned.

This unearthed family secret has caused me to engage in reflection. How does one bring up the subject of an ancestor's death by suicide, especially one whose life entirely preceded that of myself and my mother? Did I expect my mom to say as I went off to college, "Now, son, before you go, you need to know something about your great uncle."

My church work is effectively over -- and has been for several years now, since my retirement as a pastor. Had I known about Uncle Joseph before, my guess is my pastoral stance in cases of suicide, which unfortunately occurred more times than I care to count in my time in ministry, would have helped me see this self-slaying act through a different lens.

Life is messy and complicated. There are people all around us who are dealing with pressures we cannot imagine and about which we have no experience personally. We are called to exercise judgment in life but to avoid being judgmental. We are asked to be moral but to avoid becoming moralistic. It's a tightrope that must be walked.

I'll walk it more carefully now that I know about Uncle Joe.