we were made for this

Christine Hoover:

Life is a difficult hike, isn't it? Sometimes the path is smooth and we're bouncing merrily along, but most of the time it's slippery and treacherous, and we wonder if it will all be worth it in the end.

We've heard of what's to come, and we're told the views will be glorious, but we haven't seen it for ourselves and it's difficult to imagine.

All we see are the things in front of us: the trees, the stumbling blocks, the gnats flying around our face. And we feel things too: the pain, the exertion, the complaints rising up in us. It's a matter of faith that the views are ahead and a matter of endurance, and no one can do the work for us.

We were made for this--for faith. We were made to hope that the end and the views are a reality and to anticipate what we'll find at the top.

So let's keep walking, keep pushing, keep believing. Because these light and momentary afflictions will give way to rest and warmth and joy. They will give way to Him. Where we once could only imagine and hope, we will see clearly.

And we will look back at the trail on which we've come and, with great satisfaction, know that it was worth it in the end.

Read the rest here.

God’s gifts in suffering (3) suffering tests and refines our faith

In this [living hope] you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that your faith--of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire--may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honour when Jesus Christ is revealed. (1 Peter 1:6-7)

I’m no Job. The words I used to sing so blithely, with such theoretical appreciation of their beauty, such bland conviction that I’d sing them whatever came – “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21)1 – don’t, apparently, spring to my lips when suffering comes. My lips are sealed, silent.

And that’s the first thing suffering teaches me about myself: my faith is weaker than I knew. I am riddled with doubt. I am shot through with unbelief. My trust in God is fragile.

When I was young, I thought of myself as strong. I would never lose my faith! I would never stumble! My obedience was sure, my faith certain. Life, at times, has felt like a successive stripping away of self-delusion. Tempt me, and I am prone to habitual sin. Test me, and I am prone to anger. Try me, and I am prone to unbelief.

Suffering brings me low, which is exactly where I need to be:

The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. (Psalm 51:17)

Suffering undoes me. It unravels the pride and self-reliance that were woven together with my faith. What’s left is alarmingly slender, so it’s just as well that it’s God, not me, who holds me here. Faith hangs by a thread; yet it holds, tested and true, stronger than spider silk, for the One to whom it clings is faithful. When I am weak, God proves to be strong; and, seeing this, my faith grows stronger.

Suffering refines my faith. It becomes more resilient, less dependent on circumstances. I come one step closer to believing in God as he really is, not as I want him to be. I long for heaven, and the ties that bind me to this earth are loosened.

It’s true: suffering both tests and refines my faith. I’ll write more about the second of these in the weeks to come.


1. The song being Matt Redman’s Blessed be the name of the Lord.

what I'm reading: Bonhoeffer on the sweetness of death

Bonhoeffer was executed at dawn on 9th April 1945 at Flossenbürg concentration camp, only two weeks before the camp was liberated by US soldiers. He was killed because of his role in the conspiracy to assassinate Hitler.

A few days before he died Bonhoeffer told his friend, "This is the end — for me the beginning of life." The camp doctor who watched the execution said, "I have hardly ever seen a man die so entirely submissive to the will of God."

How was Bonhoeffer able to die with such courage and hope? Here he writes about the sweetness (yes, the sweetness!) of death.

No one has yet believed in God and the kingdom of God, no one has yet heard about the realm of the resurrected and not been homesick from that hour, waiting and looking forward to being released from bodily existence...That life only really begins when it ends here on earth, that all that is here is only the prologue before the curtain goes up — that is for young and old alike to think about.

Why are we so afraid when we think about death? Death is only dreadful for those who live in dread and fear of it. Death is not wild and terrible, if only we can be still and hold fast to God’s Word. Death is not bitter if we have not become bitter ourselves. Death is grace, the greatest gift of grace that God gives to people who believe in him. Death is mild, death is sweet and gentle; it beckons to us with heavenly power if only we realize that it is the gateway to our homeland, the tabernacle of joy, the everlasting kingdom of peace.

How do we know that dying is so dreadful? Who knows whether in our human fear and anguish we are only shivering and shuddering at the most glorious, heavenly, blessed event in the world?

Death is hell and night and cold if it is not transformed by our faith. But that is just what is so marvelous, that we can transform death.

Eric Metaxas Bonhoeffer 531.

what I'm reading: the devil on suffering from The Briefing

I really enjoyed the article How to avoid persecution (according to Screwtape) in the last Briefing.

It's written (you guessed it!) as if by an older demon to younger demons on the topic of persecution and suffering.

This bit rang particularly true to me:

For the one who is experiencing it, suffering is a total reality - all-embracing, all-consuming. It threatens to obliterate everything but itself. The presence of pain and the possibility of relief dominate the sufferer's thoughts, emotions and actions. To offset this domination, the Enemy offers a consolation that is based on counterbalancing the long view against the short...

For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. (2 Cor 4:17-18)

The present is, well, so present, it is hard to think past it. And it is harder still to think of accepting real, immediate suffering for the sake of a hoped future happiness that can only be glimpsed by faith...Stop him from thinking of ultimate, eternal things. Get him thinking that his suffering is lasting. And whisper into his heart that the Enemy has betrayed him. Rob him of all hope.

When we're blinded by suffering, may God help us to listen to his word instead of Satan's whispered words, and to take the long view, not the short!

Tim Chester on hope

There is hope for change. That hope is not in counsellors or methods or rules. That hope is in a great and gracious Saviour who has broken the power of sin and placed his life-giving Spirit in our hearts. … Our gracious Saviour, who died for us ‘when we were God’s enemies’, invites us to ‘approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need’ (Romans 5:10; Hebrews 4:16).

Tim Chester You Can Change 191

the fires: how shall we respond?

Every morning I wake up and it's ok, until with a dull thud it comes back to me. Image after image of people who died in the fires. Rows of army tents with homeless people staying in them. Entire communities which have been wiped out.

My friend whose parents lost their house. A family known to me who died in their car. A school child who lost her parents and sister.

How can we respond to a tragedy like this? I've been thinking about this ever since I heard the news. How have you responded? Here's some of the ways I'm trying to respond:

• Grieve. One of the wonderful things about God's word is that it doesn't pretend disaster isn't disaster. It doesn't supply easy, bandaid answers, as Job's friends found out. It's right to grieve. It's right to lament. It's right to ask God "why?", if that's what's in our hearts. God is big enough for our pain and questions.
• Express compassion. If I know people who are grieving, I can grieve with them. I can walk with them through their grief. I can "mourn with those who mourn" (Rom 12:14). If nothing else, at least I can send a card, or say "I'm so sorry". But true compassion doesn't stop with words. It reaches out with practical help and generous giving (Jam 2:15-16). Meals, a place to stay, household items, the loan of a car, money: I know people helping in many different ways. How I give depends on what I have and my relationship to those in need.
• Rethink my priorities. When I woke up last Monday, I lay and thought about what it would be like to lose our home: not so much the bricks and mortar, but irreplaceable small treasures like photos, the children's artwork, precious objects handed down from my parents. One day all this will be taken from me as surely as it has from those who've lost their homes. Do I value these things too highly (Matt 6:19-21; Luke 12:13-21)? Our old TV is pretty awful, and we were going to buy a new one. That doesn't seem so important now.
• Teach my children. Our children have watched the news with us during the last few days, so they know what's been happening. We've talked with them about suffering and how to understand it. We've encouraged them to be generous with their pocket money. We've prayed with them. I was helped by Nicole's suggestions about how to talk with kids about disaster.
• Be prepared to speak (1 Pet 3:15-16). In Melbourne at the moment, every second conversation is about the fire. It's hard to know how to speak about Jesus in a situation like this, because it's not the time to present a theology of suffering. Perhaps I could speak of Christian friends whose hope for a home in heaven comforts them after losing their home. Perhaps, if my friend is asking "why?", I could acknowledge my own uncertainty, and how I've learned to trust God when I can't understand, because I've seen the immensity of his love in the death of his Son. I would love to hear your ideas about what to say.
• Take refuge in Christ. Tragedy is a terrible warning sign of the even more terrible judgement to come (Rev 8-11, Mark 13, Luke 13:1-5). In a bushfire, the only safe place is that which has already been burned by the flames. When God brings his just judgement again our rejection of him, the only safe place is Jesus, who took God's judgement on himself. May what's happened drive us and others to Christ.
• Pray. Our church has encouraged us to pray:

1. for comfort and support for those who have lost family and property
2. for the provision of housing and food and schooling to those in need
3. praise and strength for those who continue to fight the fires
4. thanks for the preservation of so many people who escaped
5. that God will bring good from this including improved procedures for future fires
6. and that all who escaped from the flames will recognise the need to also escape from judgement by reconciling with God in Christ

I thank God that his word gives us words of lament for times like this. That it gives us a heart and hands to reach out in compassion. That it gives us hope for a home which can't be destroyed (John 14:1-4) and hope for a day when God will wipe every tear from our eyes (Rev 21:4). I thank God that those who trust in Jesus know that, whatever and whoever else we lose, we cannot lose him.

resurrection

He came back.

After that brutal Friday, and that long, quiet Saturday, he came back.

And that one intake of breath in the tomb changes everything. It changes the very reason I drew breath today and the way I move about in this world because I believe he’s coming back again. The world has gone on for more than two millennia since Jesus’ feet tread the earth he made. What would they have said back then if someone had told them that some two thousand years later we’d still be waiting? They would’ve thought back to that long Saturday and said, ‘Two thousand years will seem like a breath to you when you finally lay your crown at his feet. We don’t even remember what we were doing on that Saturday, but let me tell you about Sunday morning. Now that was something.’

These many years of waiting will only be a sentence in the story. This long day will come to an end, and I believe it will end in glory, when we will shine like suns and stride the green hills with those we love and the One who loves. We will look with our new eyes and speak with our new tongues and turn to each other and say, ‘Do you remember the waiting? The long years, the bitter pain, the gnawing doubt, the relentless ache?’ And like Mary at the tomb, we will say: ‘I remember only the light, and the voice calling my name, and the overwhelming joy that the waiting was finally over.’

The stone will be rolled away for each of us. May we wait with faithful hearts.

—Andrew Peterson, CD liner notes for Resurrection Letters Volume II (Centricity Music: 2008)

HT Of First Importance

finding joy when the seasons of life don't end

Life is seasons. Part of wisdom is learning to live within the seasons God gives us. When we're young, we may picture our lives like this: childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, marriage, children, middle-age, empty nest, grandchildren, retirement, old age.

But what do we do when a season of life doesn't end? When singleness, childlessness, an unhappy relationship, chronic sickness, a disabled child's dependence, or a spouse's mental illness, go on and on? When we're stuck in one of the difficult seasons of life?

When young, blonde, sweet-as-they-come Sarah caught Bill's eye, she thought it was the beginning of happily ever after. Sarah revelled in her role as wife and homemaker. She enjoyed cooking and decorating. She loved hanging out, playing games, and laughing with her husband. And she looked forward to what she assumed would be the next season of her life: motherhood.

But the season of motherhood never came for Sarah. It was many years before she realised that it probably never would. Soon after they were married, Bill began suffering severe and debilitating fatigue, weakness, and headaches. After a while he could no longer work. Sarah - this woman who wanted nothing more than to be at home - became the sole breadwinner. Years of doctors, experimental treatments, and special diets availed nothing. Bill only got worse - so sick that he often was unable to leave the house. Finally, Bill and Sarah were forced to move from the church and friends they loved so that they could live in a location that offered a better quality of life for Bill. Gradually, Sarah realised that they would never have a family. This was not the life she had planned. It wasn't what she wanted. She felt stuck in a season that wouldn't end.

Like Sarah, none of us would choose "a time to weep," or "a time to mourn," or a time of sickness - a lifetime of sickness. This isn't what Sarah chose. But it's what God chose for Sarah. Here, inside this truth, Sarah found joy.

No, Bill didn't get better. She didn't become a mother. She still lived far away from dear friends. Yet she came to realise that this life - one she hadn't planned for herself - was the very life God had planned for her. God had designed this long, unexpected, unwelcome season so that Sarah could best glorify him. He had allowed this trial so that he could show his goodness and mercy to Sarah in totally unexpected ways. Sarah found joy when she came to rest in the truth that God orders our seasons.

If you were to meet Sarah, her joy would be immediately obvious. It's a deep joy, infused with peace. And it displays itself in a genuine care for others and continual expressions of gratefulness to God. To be around Sarah is to catch a glimpse of the love and goodness of Christ. Sarah isn't just surviving. She's truly thriving, growing, and rejoicing in the season God has ordained.

This quote made me profoundly grateful (for the first time!) for the passing seasons of life. Even for children who grow out of babyhood - something I usually regard with clinging nostalgia. How hard it would be to care for a perpetually dependent child! What a joy that children grow and change, and yes, even leave the nest.

In a world marred by sin and suffering, it's a blessing that seasons end. That life-long pain, a difficult marriage, or a struggle with besetting sin, are finite. In such a world, even death is not just a grief and a horror, but a safeguard and a release. God puts limits on human happiness, but also on human suffering. They are not forever.

Knowing that seasons pass helps us not to not to cling to happy times, as if youth, or marriage, or children, were the end of our existence. It helps us look beyond earthly joys to what is everlasting. To hold them lightly, and give them up to God when it is time.

Knowing that seasons pass helps us not to despair in dark times, when tears and tasks seem relentless and unceasing. It helps us remember that their end is ordained by God, and his timing is perfect. That "weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning" (Ps. 30:5). That all seasons end in unending joy for those who trust in Jesus.

God give us strength to serve him in all the seasons of our life, that we may be those who serve him with joy.

The quote is from Shopping for Time: How to Do it All and Not Be Overwhelmed by Carolyn Mahaney and daughters, pp.22-23. Names have been changed to suit an Australian audience.