God’s gifts in suffering (2) suffering reminds us that we are part of this fallen world

flickr: ulisse albiati

For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. (Rom 8:22-23)

Deep down, in some hidden part of me, I think I’m exempt. I’m convinced that life isn’t meant to be this hard. That God owes me healing. That he owes my son relief. That the fact that I pray, “Heal my son!”, and he wakes up sick, calls God’s goodness into question.

I am astonished! dismayed! horrified! that God hasn’t stepped in and taken this away.

It shows how little I believed God when he told me suffering would come (1 Pet 4:12-13). That this life would sometimes feel long and weary (Eccles 1:1-11 cf. Gal 6:9; 2 Thess 3:13; Heb 12:3, 5). That those who follow God will get sick and not always be healed and will one day die (Acts 9:37; 2 Cor 12:7-10; Phil 2:26-27; 2 Tim 4:20).

That suffering actually hurts (Heb 12:11). That life in this fallen world will make us groan and sigh and weep (Ps 6:6-7, 90:9; 2 Cor 5:2-4). That the pattern of the Christian life is suffering then glory (Rom 8:18; 1 Pet 5:1). I believed all this in theory, but suffering rubs my face in the truth.

It also shows how myopic my vision is, how loveless my perspective, how self-absorbed my heart. I know, at some theoretical level, that people are suffering agonisingly across the world. I’ve watched the news. I’ve read the stories. Seemingly, other people’s suffering fits with my faith just fine.

But when suffering touches me and mine, it’s a different story. Suffering is a blunt instrument battering faith on the head. My faith reels. And the suffering of others begin to sweep in on me, to mean something to me.

We are part of this fallen, frightening world (Rom 8:18-25). We belong to those around us. When I suffer, it drives me to feel this, to pray with tears, to love. I realise I’m part of this place, and this is good.

It’s good that Christians aren’t exempt from the suffering of those around us. It’s good that we share it. Otherwise, how can we reach out to those around us? How can I weep with those who weep, unless I know what it is to weep (Rom 12:15)? How can I help the weak, unless I know myself to be weak?


This post first appeared at The Briefing

God's gifts in suffering (1) Introduction

flickr: Sadness by SashaW

Suffering. You don't know it till it's grabbed you by the neck and held you down for weeks, months, even years.

It drives out every subterfuge and scours out every illusion. It chases you into every corner and steals every illusion of control. It empties you of every vanity and robs you of every trace of self-reliance.

If you're stubborn like me, this takes some time. Your brain chases its tail, trying to invent reasons, explanations, answers. Your faith wilts and staggers. You doubt, question, beg. You cling to your strength. You don't quite let yourself cry. You say, "Help me, God", but what you mean is "Do what I want. Get rid of this! Now!". And when he doesn't, doubt sweeps in, dark and hovering.

Then the day comes when you wake up and know you can't do it any more. There are no excuses left. There are no explanations. There are no illusions. There's just you and God and sorrow.

I wake at 5 o'clock. For the first time in months, I weep until my eyes are puffy and red. There have been tears before, but not like this. I whimper into the dark, "I can't do this any more. I just can't do this!" All of me has been reduced, like stock in a pan, to a single cry.

And in that moment, at the bottom of the well, I begin to feel it: solid ground.

In the weeks ahead, in one sense, nothing changes. My son, after three years of increasing illness, is still sick. He wakes, every day, to pain. We find out that he has a chronic condition, and there's some clarity and a sense of purpose. There's also ongoing grief.

In another sense, everything changes. God's goodness is no longer a theory I struggle to believe, an equation that doesn't quite add up, a sentence I can't parse. Instead, it becomes real, tangible, precious. He is there, so close I swear I could reach out and touch him. Something in me lightens and lifts its face to his light.

I look back over the long months and begin to see how this has changed me. All of the Bible's words about suffering, that for so long sounded like ill-tuned bells in my ears, heard with gritted teeth and small appreciation, suddenly ring with a true chime, and I wonder that I was deaf to them before.

Today's post is the first in a series. I want to share the ways God is using suffering to transform me. I want to take his promises and clothe them in flesh. I want to talk about truths I couldn't have talked about a year ago, truths that only now speak to me. This is my testimony, my act of thanksgiving. For God is good, even and especially when we suffer, even when we can't see it.

9 reasons you can face anything

God's infallible promises. I'd like to print these out and stick them over my sink, to remind me when I feel sad and weak.

1. I will meet all your needs according to my riches in glory in Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:19).
2. My power will be made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).
3. I will strengthen you and help you and hold you up with my righteous right hand (Isaiah 41:10).
4. I will never leave you nor forsake you (Hebrews 13:5).
5. I will not let any testing befall you for which I do not give you grace to bear (1 Corinthians 10:13).
6. I will take the sting away from your death with the blood of my son (1 Corinthians 15:55f).
7. I will raise you from the dead imperishable (1 Corinthians 15:52).
8. I will transform your lowly body to be like my glorious body, by the power that enables me even to subject all things to myself (Philippians 3:21).
9. I will do this without fail because I am absolutely sovereign over everything and therefore, I can do all things, and no purpose of mine can be thwarted (Job 42:2).

From Jonathon Parnell.