Tag Archives: suffering

Thoughts on Joy and Sorrow

07 Sunday Aug 2016

Posted by in Faith, Process

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Sorrow
Like a shovel
Digging up the tender earth of my soul
Exposing that which lay hidden
Enlarging my heart

I wonder
Whether joy can create this kind of cavern
An inner space to be filled or emptied
Like a cave full of ocean
Ebbing and flowing
Could happiness ever so expand my heart
As this sorrow? 

I feel it growing
Deepening
Until my chest strains with the pressure
Ready to burst
Forming in me this new emptiness
Then receding, leaving new chambers
Ready to be filled 
With compassion perhaps
Or hope
Or even joy

 

I wrote this poem many years ago. Today, our guest preacher Scott Moore used the same analogy–sorrow as a shovel tilling the ground of our hearts–in his sermon on the Garden of Gethsemane. His point was the same as the one that came to my own soul those years ago: sorrow prepares a space for joy.

“For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right had of the throne of God.” (Hebrews 12:2)   Christ prayed in the garden that the scorn and shame of the cross would be taken away–yet having chosen this path from the foundation of the earth, he also prayed that the Father’s will would be done. He pleaded for another option, but he was resolute in rescuing those he had been born to save. Angels ministered to him, strengthening him for the task at hand–not to flee from suffering, but to enter more fully into it, pressing through to the joy set before him. He endured the suffering because it was the only way for the joy to be made complete.

We suffer. Truth-tellers do not try to soften this reality; the gospel has room for suffering. We live in a broken world, and are broken, sinning and sinned against. We may not always be able to agree on what is sinful, but virtually everyone knows in his or her soul that there is right and wrong, and we long for justice. We long for wrong to be made right, and for the sad things to become untrue.

When we suffer, we may find that we become more compassionate. We find ourselves better able to relate to others who suffer. We may experience God’s very specific comfort which ministers to a specific part of our hearts. We have a renewed perspective on what is important.  We see redemption, and it gives our suffering meaning.

But there is another truth that begins to hint at another role that our suffering plays: “This light, momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen, but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” (2 Corinthians 4:17-18) Pause for a moment. Consider eternity.

I know, I know. Whenever something gets too difficult, some well-meaning old aunt will offer platitudes about the life to come that make you want to tear your hair out. I get it.

But just consider for a moment: our lives, all of this time we spend worrying about this year’s problems, are just the tiniest fragment of the eternal span of our lives. All of the years combined are the shortest imaginable blip. And yet this is a highly significant time for those who are in Christ: it is the only time in eternity that we will suffer. It is the only time we have to trust God in the midst of heartache, to do the hard, deep work of identifying lies that we have believed and turn instead to the truth. This is the only time we have to pray, to bring our troubled hearts before the Lord, to know his goodness in the midst of our pain.

There is a story, and your story and my story are part of it. When the full story is revealed, it will take eternity for us to tell of the wonders, to share all of the details and chapters and characters. It will be beyond what any of us could imagine now. And somehow, in some way, our current suffering is preparing a weighty glory.

And here’s the thing: that weighty glory is breaking through. When we turn to Christ in the midst of our suffering, he draws us in to the quality of life which is the hallmark of eternity. After all, when Jesus prayed for us all before his death and resurrection, he defined eternal life not as a quantity of life, but as a quality of life: “And this is eternal life, that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent.” (John 17:3) That is something we can know now. And what makes this little chapter of our story different from the chapters to come is that right now, we can know Christ in the midst of suffering, and watch as he uses it to enlarge our hearts, as he redeems it, and as he fills those newly-made caverns with his joy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prayer. And Westmont. And my friend Kim.

14 Thursday Nov 2013

Posted by in Memories, Teaching

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The back door of my office led to a wooden bridge, and beyond the bridge was a sidewalk along a retaining wall, and beyond that golden hills and familiar purple mountains.  I would leave the door open, hearing the rustle of the wind in the tall eucalyptus trees, feeling the breeze, watching for visitors who were coming to see me or to speak with Pastor Tim.

I was hired on as an assistant to the pastor.  It was a blessing.  I had graduated from seminary with my degree in Church History that May, having enjoyed four years in Boston while being filled with the love of good books and writing and ministry and The Church with a Big C.  I drove my Ford Escort back to Santa Barbara and waited for the next step. First, there was a temp agency, and I edited the plant production manual of a gas processing plant.  Not exactly what I’d had in mind, but I was grateful for some work.  And I kept waiting, and praying, as summer began to turn to fall.

And then Pastor Tim looked at me and saw an assistant.  It was a great fit.  I sat at my post outside his office, working on events and writing Bible studies to go with his sermons and creating Power Point outlines and working on generally interesting things.

But the best part was the people.

I had Maggie and Eleanor in the office, and my best friend Sheila who came in to put the bulletin together and do graphic design projects on Thursdays.

And there was Kim.

Kim and her husband were professors at Westmont.  She was in computer science, and Ken was a physics professor famous for walking on fire and laying on beds of nails and intriguing students with other physics miracles.  Kim always seemed to be smiling, laughing, with her golden hair around her lovely face, mentoring students, having them over.  When she listened, she really listened. You could see it in her eyes. And Kim and Ken had committed themselves to listening and praying, particularly with their pastor.  They came, faithfully.  They prayed, faithfully.  They were friends even when ministry got hard and people were unhappy.   One or both together, they would come through that open back door and listen and pray.

The prayers of righteous brothers and sisters are effective…

I kept working with Tim for a semester or two even after I was hired on in my dream job at Westmont.  They had needed an instructor in Church History–a professor had gone on sabbatical.  I arrived for my interview with a complete syllabus of what I planned to teach, all of the books laid out, lectures suggested…and, in a move that can be attributed only to the grace of God, they hired me to teach one class.  I jumped into teaching in January of the new millennium, and I loved it.  I was young.  I only had a master’s degree, but I had a passionate love of the subject and I thrived on keeping two steps ahead of my students.  Using the same text I had studied in seminary, adding in my favorite primary sources, taking  my students on a tour of history and Christianity in two-hour lecture blocks–it was so much fun.

And Kim and Ken were there.  Especially Kim.

When you are a twenty-six year old instructor in your first semester in a new place and know that every single other person teaching has more education than you do, you feel intimidated.  You might even keep to yourself.  And yes, you might take a nap in your office after your 8-10 am lecture because you were up til 5 preparing the PowerPoint to go along with it.  But you might well be lured out of your office if your sweet friend is always willing to sit next to you at the faculty lunches and is always shining in her encouragement and humor and asking you about your classes and generally making you feel that you fit in just perfectly.

That’s how I remember Kim–one of those friends who sees you and knows you and draws you out, even in her quiet way.

My friend Kim is suffering right now.

She has been battling Stage IV ovarian cancer for almost two years.  And in the last two weeks, the doctors at home and the doctors in her treatment at Stanford have come to the same conclusion: there is nothing more they can do.

Barring a miracle of healing, Kim will be in the presence of her Savior not too long from now.  And even as I say that, I know the greater miracle is that she will indeed be in the presence of her Savior, a truth that has shone through her life with deep and penetrating clarity, especially in suffering.

It was five years ago this week that Kim and Ken lost their home and all of their possessions when the Tea Fire swept through Montecito while they were leading a group of Westmont students on Europe semester.  They handled that tragedy with grace, with hope, with steadfastness.  They fixed their eyes on Jesus, the Author and Perfecter of their faith, who for the joy set before him endured the Cross, scorning its shame.  And I know that Kim and Ken were part of the joy set before him.  His own faithful children, scorning the shame of their particular crosses, focused on the joy set before them because of his sacrifice.

Joy.  And steadfastness.  I will add these words to my mental picture of my friend Kim, and her dear husband.  And as I pray them through this time in their lives, I know from their example that my prayers will be answered, and the Lord will meet them, and he will draw near.

And I will see my friend again.