I. Sight and Knowledge
In our discussion on faith, we talked about the intellect as a faculty used in discerning spiritual truths. Plato likens this particular application of our intellect (which he calls knowledge) to another of our faculties, sight. He writes that the philosopher “will often turn their eyes upward and downward…they will first look at absolute justice and beauty and temperance, and again at the human copy; and will mingle and temper the various elements of life into the image of a man; and this they will conceive in according to that other image, which, when existing among men, Homer calls the form and likeness of God (The Republic, pg. 210).” This faculty of knowledge, or “vision” of the absolute, is what men apply both in acts of subjection to God as well as discernment of His movements. In other words, the same faculty of vision can be directed both at those objects on which the light shines as well as source itself - the one to perceive what God has made known of His movements (his emanations), the other to scrutinize His Absolute nature. As Plato writes, “…the sun is not sight, but the author of sight who is recognized by sight (The Republic, pg. 218).”
If this allegorical comparison of knowledge and sight can be taken as far and applied as directly as Plato seems to believe, what insight might it offer in regards to our ability to discern God’s movements? For one, in understanding our faculty of knowledge as a sensory organ only - that it only serves us in perceiving the light, not in producing it - then we understand also our proper position before God in the realm of revelation. We recognize that we are not the source of the light, but that the light shines upon that which it pleases; and our capacity to utilize any information that the light might make available goes only so far as the source’s willingness to make it known. To clarify this point, let’s return to the allegory:
“Why, you know…that the eyes, when a person directs them toward objects on which the light of day is no longer shining, but the moon and stars only, see dimly, and are nearly blind; they seem to have no clearness of vision in them…but when they are directed toward objects on which the sun shines, they see clearly and there is sight in them…And the soul is like the eye: when resting upon that on which truth and being shine, the soul perceives and understands, and is radiant with intelligence; but when turned toward the twilight of becoming and perishing, then she has opinion only, and goes blinking about, and is first of one opinion and then of another, and seems to have no intelligence.” (The Republic, pg. 219)
Does that last line not capture perfectly the prevailing condition of Christians today in their attempt to discern God’s movements? I asked at the end of one my previous posts something to the effect of, “Why are Christians continually missing it!?” Why do those who have received the very source of light itself seem like all others to be “sheep without a shepherd” (Matt. 9:36) or “blind leading the blind (Matt. 15:14)”? If this allegory is trustworthy, we might suspect that our position before God might have something to do with it. Perhaps we appear to be blind to God’s movements because we are not looking where the light is shining. Instead we stare off into the dark, straining our spiritual eyes in vain hope of gleaning knowledge where none can be had. We rightly call this experience futile, though I think we’ve missed the inherent lesson.
When believers experience futility in their pursuit of God’s will, I believe one potential answer is the misapplication of our senses. We assume a role which was never intended for us, and God has rightly made operation from this position futile. Consider God’s warning through the prophet, Isaiah:
“Who among you fears the Lord and obeys the word of his servant? Let him who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God. But now, all you who light fires and provide yourselves with flaming torches, go, walk in the light of your fires and of the torches you have set ablaze. This is what you shall receive from my hand: You will lie down in torment.” (Is. 50:10-11)
In this verse, God lays the options before us. He pleads with us to submit and to maintain our hope in God’s revelatory power to guide our paths and to grow our knowledge of Him, and yet concedes that there is another choice: “But now, all you who light fires and provide yourselves with flaming torches, go, walk in the light of your fires and of the torches you have set ablaze.” (see also John 11:1-44) It is the plea and reluctant concession that God has been making since the beginning of time…
Justin tells me that a dominant theme throughout the Pentateuch is the distinction between God’s knowledge of what is “good” (as emphasized throughout the creation story) and man’s personal judgment of what is good. This is exemplified in the following passage from Deuteronomy.
“See, I set before you today life and prosperity, death and destruction. For I command you today to love the Lord your God, to walk in His ways, and to keep His commands, decrees and laws; then you will live and increase, and the Lord your God will bless you in the land you are entering to possess. But if your heart turns away and you are not obedient, and if you are drawn away to bow down to other gods and worship them, I declare to you this day that you will certainly be destroyed. You will not live long in the land you are crossing the Jordan to enter and possess. This day I call heaven and earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to His voice, and hold fast to Him. For the Lord is your life, and He will give you many years in the land He swore to give to your fathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.” (Deut. 30:15-20)
John Sailhamer comments on this passage in his book, Pentateuch as Narrative: “The inference of God's commands in vv. 16-17 is that God alone knows what is good (tov) for man and that God alone knows what is not good (ra`) for him. To enjoy the ‘good’ man must trust God and obey him. If man disobeys, he will have to decide for himself what is good (tov) and what is not good (ra`). While to modern man such a prospect may seem desirable, to the author of Genesis it is the worst fate that could have befallen him. Only God knows what is good (tov) for man. Only God can know what is good.”
Though much of the effect of this comparison may have been lost to modernity, we’ve invested enough time reviving the concept that we should have no problem recognizing the implications (if it is less than obvious here, consult back to Isaiah 50:11). The above commentary calls attention to that often subtle shift between operation within God’s will and operation by man’s will, and places it back into its proper context - that context which was all too obvious to the author of Genesis (it is the “worst fate that could have befallen him”) but which seems almost favorable to us today. Are our principles that allow us to live largely independent of God not even considered by today’s standards advantageous to our condition? We rejoice in those proactive solutions and give our praise to those who discover them. The more tools we have at our disposal, the more little triangles floating around in our “Magic 8 ball” God, the better off we consider ourselves. But even though we might often find this to be the path of least resistance, living by the light of our own lamps is not God’s design for us, and consequently, can never achieve for us true fulfillment.
Though this first section of text claims for ourselves a large part of the responsibility for experiencing futility in our pursuit of God, I am not suggesting that this is the only explanation for it. Sometimes, as in the case we just discussed, God uses our experiences in relationship with Him to act as an iconoclast, replacing false beliefs concerning Him with realities of His nature; however, there are other times that we must hold on to our conviction of God’s nature despite our experiences with Him (see Matt. 15:22-28). I tend to believe that in such instances as this, God has taken the extra precaution of making His prior intentions known to us, most often by communicating those aspects of His nature which the particular trial might call into question explicit in His word. But then, after He has once prepared us for it, he allows the trials to come and we are tested.
II. Night of the Soul
“Jesus answered, ‘Are there not twelve hours of daylight? A man who walks by day will not stumble, for he sees by this world's light. It is when he walks by night that he stumbles, for he has no light.’” (John 11:9-10)
To be walking and suddenly find ourselves surrounded by darkness, in the literal sense, comes as no surprise to us. We properly understand this existence to be comprised of both night and day, periods of darkness as well as light. But needless to say, we are much more poorly-adapted to discerning the days and nights of the soul. Consequently, when we suddenly find ourselves surrounded by what appears to us endless spiritual darkness we become utterly disoriented, stumbling and “blinking about”, until it seems that the darkness has swallowed the very source of light itself. We begin to ponder things reminiscent of Lewis’ ponderings, “There are no lights in the windows. It might be an empty house. Was it ever inhabited? It seemed so once…” (A Grief Observed, pg. 6) This sentiment is echoed also by the psalmist: “Will the Lord reject forever? Will He never show His favor again? Has His unfailing love vanished forever? Has His promise failed for all time (Ps. 77:7-8)?”
The severity of such an experience can range from slightly troubling to nearly unbearable when it happens to coincide with a period of unique desperation for God’s presence. When the two situations do happen to coincide, I believe there is a great potential for spiritual and emotional wounds to develop if they are not ever understood in their proper context. And coming to such an understanding is no small task, as we are sure to find out. But first, let me touch on one more instance in which man might rightly bear the responsibility for experiencing such a feeling of God’s absence.
More than likely, the majority of our experiences with feelings of God’s absence are a result of our own misapplied reliance upon created things. Again, we have disrupted the delicate positioning of man before God, this time placing an idol in God’s position and investing in it the same depth of trust and expectation that is appropriate for Him alone. As Hebrews 12:26-29 indicates, when God leads us through a trial and our foundation is tested for what it is, the feeling comes to us like the world crumbling beneath our feet or, curiously, like abandonment.
“At that time His voice shook the earth, but now He has promised, ‘Once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heavens.’ The words ‘once more’ indicate the removing of what can be shaken - that is, created things - so that what cannot be shaken may remain. Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe, for our ‘God is a consuming fire.’”
The loss of our hopes and dreams and the pain of having our expectations fail us is hurtful in whatever form it comes (Prov. 13:12). The advantage to losing our hopes to such an experience as I have just described, however, is that the reality that replaces them is infinitely more faithful. We replace that which crumbles under pressure for something “unshakeable”. We trade a fantasy for a “sure hope” (Heb. 6:11). But what hope is left for us if, once having traded all the “fantasies” for the only reality, that reality comes also to fail us?
In the poem, Footprints, we are told of a man who, in a vision, walks along a beach with the Lord as images of his life are projected across the sky. For each scene of his life he sees two sets of footprints in the sand: one belonging to him and the other to the Lord. As those lowest and saddest moments of his life project across the sky, the man notices that there remains only one set of footprints in the sand where there were previously two. It unsettled him that God might have abandoned him during those moments in which he was most desperate for His presence, and proceeds to question the Lord about what He sees. The Lord is said to have responded, “My son, my precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.” (http://www.llerrah.com/footprints.htm).
It is a comforting notion that during all those most desperate times in our lives God does not allow us to walk alone, but rather carries us through them in His arms. It is comforting, I said, but is it true? In certain rare instance, perhaps it is (see Is. 63:9). But the thought that God might carry us through life’s trials seems awfully contradictory to the purpose He explicitly assigns to them in scripture: “Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the desert these forty years, to humble you and to test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands. He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna…to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord…Know then in your heart that as a man disciplines his son, so the Lord your God disciplines you.” (Deut. 8:2-3, 5)
God may have many reasons for leading us into trials - to discipline us, perhaps, or develop our character - but to lead us into a tribulation only to bear it Himself is to suggest that God might preserve us from the very thing He intended for our good (Heb. 12:5-6). The poem, Footprints, portrays a very comforting, but very narrow, view of suffering. It suggests frivolity in God’s work, lack of resolve to accomplish His purpose in us, and all around shortsightedness. These scriptures provide a more accurate portrait of God’s work in trials:
“God is mighty, but does not despise men; He is mighty, and firm in His purpose.” (Job 36:5)
“Though He brings grief, He will show compassion, so great is His unfailing love. For He does not willingly bring affliction or grief to the children of men.” (Lam. 3:32-33)
“Although the Lord gives you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, your teachers will be hidden no more; with your own eyes you will see them. Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” (Is. 30:20-21)
God certainly allows man to suffer, and certainly we can trust Him not to make light of our pain. Instead, He promises to let the trial complete its work in us (James 1:4; Phil. 1:6), that once we have suffered, we might rightly claim for ourselves an incomparable salvation (1 Peter 1:3-9; Rom. 8:18). It is in this context that man finds Jesus, “a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering” (Is. 53:3), to be a truly sufficient Savior. “In bringing many sons to glory, it was fitting that God, for whom and through whom everything exists, should make the author of their salvation perfect through suffering. Both the one who makes men holy and those who are made holy are of the same family. So Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers.” (Heb. 2:10-11)
This, then, is the Biblical stance on suffering and no other may be admitted. It is real, it is hard, and it is worth it. So, with these eyes I want to look determinedly upon that experience that in its more dilute form we simply call a “night”, but when served pure is nearly unbearable. I’m going to present this latter class of experiences in the more familiar context of the problem of pain, because for me, the two are inseparable. As C.S. Lewis reminds us in his book on the subject, “…pain would be no problem unless, side by side with our daily experience of this painful world, we had received what we think a good assurance that ultimate reality is righteous and loving.” (The Problem of Pain, pg. 14)
[Other recommended readings include Plato’s Republic, Books 5-7; Peter Kreeft, Heaven: Our Heart‘s Deepest Longing; Is. 54; Is. 57:10-11, 16-19; Is. 50; Jer. 31:15-22; Lam. 3; Is. 45; Ps. 143; Ps. 13; Ps. 73; Ps. 77; Ps. 25:4-5; Ps. 30:5; Ps. 27:13-14; Job 19:25-27; John 11:1-44]
In our discussion on faith, we talked about the intellect as a faculty used in discerning spiritual truths. Plato likens this particular application of our intellect (which he calls knowledge) to another of our faculties, sight. He writes that the philosopher “will often turn their eyes upward and downward…they will first look at absolute justice and beauty and temperance, and again at the human copy; and will mingle and temper the various elements of life into the image of a man; and this they will conceive in according to that other image, which, when existing among men, Homer calls the form and likeness of God (The Republic, pg. 210).” This faculty of knowledge, or “vision” of the absolute, is what men apply both in acts of subjection to God as well as discernment of His movements. In other words, the same faculty of vision can be directed both at those objects on which the light shines as well as source itself - the one to perceive what God has made known of His movements (his emanations), the other to scrutinize His Absolute nature. As Plato writes, “…the sun is not sight, but the author of sight who is recognized by sight (The Republic, pg. 218).”
If this allegorical comparison of knowledge and sight can be taken as far and applied as directly as Plato seems to believe, what insight might it offer in regards to our ability to discern God’s movements? For one, in understanding our faculty of knowledge as a sensory organ only - that it only serves us in perceiving the light, not in producing it - then we understand also our proper position before God in the realm of revelation. We recognize that we are not the source of the light, but that the light shines upon that which it pleases; and our capacity to utilize any information that the light might make available goes only so far as the source’s willingness to make it known. To clarify this point, let’s return to the allegory:
“Why, you know…that the eyes, when a person directs them toward objects on which the light of day is no longer shining, but the moon and stars only, see dimly, and are nearly blind; they seem to have no clearness of vision in them…but when they are directed toward objects on which the sun shines, they see clearly and there is sight in them…And the soul is like the eye: when resting upon that on which truth and being shine, the soul perceives and understands, and is radiant with intelligence; but when turned toward the twilight of becoming and perishing, then she has opinion only, and goes blinking about, and is first of one opinion and then of another, and seems to have no intelligence.” (The Republic, pg. 219)
Does that last line not capture perfectly the prevailing condition of Christians today in their attempt to discern God’s movements? I asked at the end of one my previous posts something to the effect of, “Why are Christians continually missing it!?” Why do those who have received the very source of light itself seem like all others to be “sheep without a shepherd” (Matt. 9:36) or “blind leading the blind (Matt. 15:14)”? If this allegory is trustworthy, we might suspect that our position before God might have something to do with it. Perhaps we appear to be blind to God’s movements because we are not looking where the light is shining. Instead we stare off into the dark, straining our spiritual eyes in vain hope of gleaning knowledge where none can be had. We rightly call this experience futile, though I think we’ve missed the inherent lesson.
When believers experience futility in their pursuit of God’s will, I believe one potential answer is the misapplication of our senses. We assume a role which was never intended for us, and God has rightly made operation from this position futile. Consider God’s warning through the prophet, Isaiah:
“Who among you fears the Lord and obeys the word of his servant? Let him who walks in the dark, who has no light, trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God. But now, all you who light fires and provide yourselves with flaming torches, go, walk in the light of your fires and of the torches you have set ablaze. This is what you shall receive from my hand: You will lie down in torment.” (Is. 50:10-11)
In this verse, God lays the options before us. He pleads with us to submit and to maintain our hope in God’s revelatory power to guide our paths and to grow our knowledge of Him, and yet concedes that there is another choice: “But now, all you who light fires and provide yourselves with flaming torches, go, walk in the light of your fires and of the torches you have set ablaze.” (see also John 11:1-44) It is the plea and reluctant concession that God has been making since the beginning of time…
Justin tells me that a dominant theme throughout the Pentateuch is the distinction between God’s knowledge of what is “good” (as emphasized throughout the creation story) and man’s personal judgment of what is good. This is exemplified in the following passage from Deuteronomy.
“See, I set before you today life and prosperity, death and destruction. For I command you today to love the Lord your God, to walk in His ways, and to keep His commands, decrees and laws; then you will live and increase, and the Lord your God will bless you in the land you are entering to possess. But if your heart turns away and you are not obedient, and if you are drawn away to bow down to other gods and worship them, I declare to you this day that you will certainly be destroyed. You will not live long in the land you are crossing the Jordan to enter and possess. This day I call heaven and earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to His voice, and hold fast to Him. For the Lord is your life, and He will give you many years in the land He swore to give to your fathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.” (Deut. 30:15-20)
John Sailhamer comments on this passage in his book, Pentateuch as Narrative: “The inference of God's commands in vv. 16-17 is that God alone knows what is good (tov) for man and that God alone knows what is not good (ra`) for him. To enjoy the ‘good’ man must trust God and obey him. If man disobeys, he will have to decide for himself what is good (tov) and what is not good (ra`). While to modern man such a prospect may seem desirable, to the author of Genesis it is the worst fate that could have befallen him. Only God knows what is good (tov) for man. Only God can know what is good.”
Though much of the effect of this comparison may have been lost to modernity, we’ve invested enough time reviving the concept that we should have no problem recognizing the implications (if it is less than obvious here, consult back to Isaiah 50:11). The above commentary calls attention to that often subtle shift between operation within God’s will and operation by man’s will, and places it back into its proper context - that context which was all too obvious to the author of Genesis (it is the “worst fate that could have befallen him”) but which seems almost favorable to us today. Are our principles that allow us to live largely independent of God not even considered by today’s standards advantageous to our condition? We rejoice in those proactive solutions and give our praise to those who discover them. The more tools we have at our disposal, the more little triangles floating around in our “Magic 8 ball” God, the better off we consider ourselves. But even though we might often find this to be the path of least resistance, living by the light of our own lamps is not God’s design for us, and consequently, can never achieve for us true fulfillment.
Though this first section of text claims for ourselves a large part of the responsibility for experiencing futility in our pursuit of God, I am not suggesting that this is the only explanation for it. Sometimes, as in the case we just discussed, God uses our experiences in relationship with Him to act as an iconoclast, replacing false beliefs concerning Him with realities of His nature; however, there are other times that we must hold on to our conviction of God’s nature despite our experiences with Him (see Matt. 15:22-28). I tend to believe that in such instances as this, God has taken the extra precaution of making His prior intentions known to us, most often by communicating those aspects of His nature which the particular trial might call into question explicit in His word. But then, after He has once prepared us for it, he allows the trials to come and we are tested.
II. Night of the Soul
“Jesus answered, ‘Are there not twelve hours of daylight? A man who walks by day will not stumble, for he sees by this world's light. It is when he walks by night that he stumbles, for he has no light.’” (John 11:9-10)
To be walking and suddenly find ourselves surrounded by darkness, in the literal sense, comes as no surprise to us. We properly understand this existence to be comprised of both night and day, periods of darkness as well as light. But needless to say, we are much more poorly-adapted to discerning the days and nights of the soul. Consequently, when we suddenly find ourselves surrounded by what appears to us endless spiritual darkness we become utterly disoriented, stumbling and “blinking about”, until it seems that the darkness has swallowed the very source of light itself. We begin to ponder things reminiscent of Lewis’ ponderings, “There are no lights in the windows. It might be an empty house. Was it ever inhabited? It seemed so once…” (A Grief Observed, pg. 6) This sentiment is echoed also by the psalmist: “Will the Lord reject forever? Will He never show His favor again? Has His unfailing love vanished forever? Has His promise failed for all time (Ps. 77:7-8)?”
The severity of such an experience can range from slightly troubling to nearly unbearable when it happens to coincide with a period of unique desperation for God’s presence. When the two situations do happen to coincide, I believe there is a great potential for spiritual and emotional wounds to develop if they are not ever understood in their proper context. And coming to such an understanding is no small task, as we are sure to find out. But first, let me touch on one more instance in which man might rightly bear the responsibility for experiencing such a feeling of God’s absence.
More than likely, the majority of our experiences with feelings of God’s absence are a result of our own misapplied reliance upon created things. Again, we have disrupted the delicate positioning of man before God, this time placing an idol in God’s position and investing in it the same depth of trust and expectation that is appropriate for Him alone. As Hebrews 12:26-29 indicates, when God leads us through a trial and our foundation is tested for what it is, the feeling comes to us like the world crumbling beneath our feet or, curiously, like abandonment.
“At that time His voice shook the earth, but now He has promised, ‘Once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heavens.’ The words ‘once more’ indicate the removing of what can be shaken - that is, created things - so that what cannot be shaken may remain. Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe, for our ‘God is a consuming fire.’”
The loss of our hopes and dreams and the pain of having our expectations fail us is hurtful in whatever form it comes (Prov. 13:12). The advantage to losing our hopes to such an experience as I have just described, however, is that the reality that replaces them is infinitely more faithful. We replace that which crumbles under pressure for something “unshakeable”. We trade a fantasy for a “sure hope” (Heb. 6:11). But what hope is left for us if, once having traded all the “fantasies” for the only reality, that reality comes also to fail us?
In the poem, Footprints, we are told of a man who, in a vision, walks along a beach with the Lord as images of his life are projected across the sky. For each scene of his life he sees two sets of footprints in the sand: one belonging to him and the other to the Lord. As those lowest and saddest moments of his life project across the sky, the man notices that there remains only one set of footprints in the sand where there were previously two. It unsettled him that God might have abandoned him during those moments in which he was most desperate for His presence, and proceeds to question the Lord about what He sees. The Lord is said to have responded, “My son, my precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.” (http://www.llerrah.com/footprints.htm).
It is a comforting notion that during all those most desperate times in our lives God does not allow us to walk alone, but rather carries us through them in His arms. It is comforting, I said, but is it true? In certain rare instance, perhaps it is (see Is. 63:9). But the thought that God might carry us through life’s trials seems awfully contradictory to the purpose He explicitly assigns to them in scripture: “Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the desert these forty years, to humble you and to test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands. He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna…to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord…Know then in your heart that as a man disciplines his son, so the Lord your God disciplines you.” (Deut. 8:2-3, 5)
God may have many reasons for leading us into trials - to discipline us, perhaps, or develop our character - but to lead us into a tribulation only to bear it Himself is to suggest that God might preserve us from the very thing He intended for our good (Heb. 12:5-6). The poem, Footprints, portrays a very comforting, but very narrow, view of suffering. It suggests frivolity in God’s work, lack of resolve to accomplish His purpose in us, and all around shortsightedness. These scriptures provide a more accurate portrait of God’s work in trials:
“God is mighty, but does not despise men; He is mighty, and firm in His purpose.” (Job 36:5)
“Though He brings grief, He will show compassion, so great is His unfailing love. For He does not willingly bring affliction or grief to the children of men.” (Lam. 3:32-33)
“Although the Lord gives you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, your teachers will be hidden no more; with your own eyes you will see them. Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” (Is. 30:20-21)
God certainly allows man to suffer, and certainly we can trust Him not to make light of our pain. Instead, He promises to let the trial complete its work in us (James 1:4; Phil. 1:6), that once we have suffered, we might rightly claim for ourselves an incomparable salvation (1 Peter 1:3-9; Rom. 8:18). It is in this context that man finds Jesus, “a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering” (Is. 53:3), to be a truly sufficient Savior. “In bringing many sons to glory, it was fitting that God, for whom and through whom everything exists, should make the author of their salvation perfect through suffering. Both the one who makes men holy and those who are made holy are of the same family. So Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers.” (Heb. 2:10-11)
This, then, is the Biblical stance on suffering and no other may be admitted. It is real, it is hard, and it is worth it. So, with these eyes I want to look determinedly upon that experience that in its more dilute form we simply call a “night”, but when served pure is nearly unbearable. I’m going to present this latter class of experiences in the more familiar context of the problem of pain, because for me, the two are inseparable. As C.S. Lewis reminds us in his book on the subject, “…pain would be no problem unless, side by side with our daily experience of this painful world, we had received what we think a good assurance that ultimate reality is righteous and loving.” (The Problem of Pain, pg. 14)
[Other recommended readings include Plato’s Republic, Books 5-7; Peter Kreeft, Heaven: Our Heart‘s Deepest Longing; Is. 54; Is. 57:10-11, 16-19; Is. 50; Jer. 31:15-22; Lam. 3; Is. 45; Ps. 143; Ps. 13; Ps. 73; Ps. 77; Ps. 25:4-5; Ps. 30:5; Ps. 27:13-14; Job 19:25-27; John 11:1-44]
No comments:
Post a Comment