Fading Away

The fade

I’ve been a Christian for a long time. I’ve participated in hundreds of Bible study sessions, I’ve listened to thousands of sermons, and I’ve read dozens of books on living the Christian life. I’ve even written about lessons learned through my own painful experiences. Like all good evangelicals, I just keep getting better and better.

But then I reflect back on something amazing God did for me a year or two ago and realize that the impact has faded. I get discouraged or feel like a hypocrite when I know that I haven’t really retained the powerful lessons God has sent my way.

One day, I open my Bible to the Psalms. In my darkest times in the past, this book brought me hope and strength. The writers sometimes wrestle with serious questions about who God is and what He’s doing. They bring their frustrations, their hopelessness, their rebellious thoughts directly to Him, freely and openly.

Their words have given me the courage to do the same. To voice my anger and anguish and despair, knowing God will respond with love and patience. (See “Scriptures That Soothe My Soul.”) He didn’t punish those authors for their weaknesses—instead, He included their writings in His Holy Word.

David’s experience

But this time around, the Psalms are comforting me in a different way. I’m wondering how I can have an incredible encounter with God’s love, then let that sense of His presence and His power fade over time.

As I read David’s words, I realize that I do it because we all do it. Even David did it.

Most of his psalms reflect his confidence in God and declare his praise for who God is and what He’s done. David had a deep intimacy with Him and a gift for expressing profound truths. He wrote some of the most familiar and memorable psalms, including numbers 8, 23, and 139. But at other times his human emotions seem to overwhelm his trust in God.

Psalm 6:3: My soul is in anguish. How long, O Lord, how long?

Psalm 13:1-2: How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and every day have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me?

Psalm 22:1-2: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, and am not silent.

Psalm 55:2 and 5: My thoughts trouble me and I am distraught. . . . My heart is in anguish within me; the terrors of death assail me. Fear and trembling have beset me; horror has overwhelmed me.

Psalm 69:3: I am worn out calling for help; my throat is parched. My eyes fail, looking for my God.

Psalm 143:4: My spirit grows faint within me; my heart within me is dismayed.

This doesn’t sound like the same David who fearlessly faced Goliath when all the seasoned soldiers of Israel were trembling before that giant. It sounds like a baby believer who hasn’t yet had those life-changing experiences of triumphing over fear and evil.

But it’s not. These are the cries of one who knows God intimately, who’s confident that he’s been chosen by God to lead His people, who’s had incredible experiences of God’s deliverance from trouble. One who has a far greater awareness than I’ll ever have of God’s presence and His leading.

It brings me comfort to recognize that the fading over time of powerful experiences is normal—even for someone who knows God as David did. It’s not hypocrisy, it’s not backsliding, it’s not sin. It’s the natural ups and downs of fallen people of faith. And maybe there’s a good reason for it.

If those memories remained as vivid today as when the events occurred, would I ever step out in faith again? Maybe. Maybe it would inspire me to trust Him more. But it's just as likely that I would be content to rest on what He’s already done, never growing, never learning anything new. Jesus taught us to pray for our daily bread.

David’s example

There’s something else reassuring in the Psalms quoted above. Every one of those passages appears in the first part of its chapter. The David who faced Goliath, and who wrote many other poems celebrating how God has delivered him, doesn’t stop after pouring out his troubles. He doesn’t wallow in his hopelessness. He moves on to remember who God is and develops renewed confidence in His power to save him once again.

Many modern psychologies stress the need to face and vent our deepest emotions. Based on Freud’s teachings, the suppression of feelings and desires is seen as harmful. David’s examples tell me that God knows that we need to honestly voice our hurts, our disappointments, even our anger. But too often popular psychology seems to assume that releasing whatever’s bothering us is enough. Once the emotions are out in the open, there’s no need to look for ways to change and grow.

David’s psalms paint a different picture, though. After the expression comes the reflection. His eyes turn away from himself, seeking a better solution to life’s troubles than simply pouring out his heart whenever he feels like it. He looks to God, remembering His revealed character and His past actions. There he finds the best resource for increased maturity and strength.

This process will lead to spiritual growth, but it won’t be a straight line moving steadily upward. Because we’re fallen people, the line will droop in places, the doubts and fears will come again and again. Hope will flee and discouragement will set in.

It happened to David, a man after God’s own heart. A man who, as a youth, faced a fearsome enemy with confidence and won a great victory. It will happen to me. But that’s okay. God will lift me up again and again, as He lifted David up. God’s arms never grow weary and His love never grows cold.

 

 

Good Boy

Charlie’s love for people

I’ve got the best dog in the world. Better than any other dog I’ve ever owned. Better than your dog. Better than all the other dogs on the planet.

The proof? What’s a dog’s natural number one priority? Food. Put a dish of kibble on the floor, and a normal dog will tune out everything around him. He’ll go face down in that dish and stay there until it’s licked clean. No human being on earth can draw him away from his greatest love: food.

Some dogs will even risk their lives for a treat. I was in a vet’s office several years ago when a woman walked in with a grizzled old beagle. The dog was there to get some stitches removed from her chest. She had tried to steal a tasty morsel from a hound half her age and three times her size. Food is everything to most dogs (especially the beagles that I’ve known).

But not my dog. Not Charlie. Yes, he enjoys eating. He gets mildly excited a few minutes before dinner (as opposed to the hour or more of a beagle’s restless anticipation time). As dumb as he is, it didn’t take him long to learn to recognize the signals that indicate that I’m going to feed him soon. He’ll never starve to death for lack of interest.

But unlike most dogs, his number one priority, his greatest love, isn’t food. It’s people.

One day I brought Judy home with me at Charlie’s feeding time. The first thing I did after we came in the door was to get Charlie’s dinner ready for him. Filled the dish, set it on the floor. Judy was surprised when Charlie ignored his kibble and continued befriending her. His joy was obvious in his wagging tail, his perked-up ears, his eager attention. This was just normal behavior for Charlie, but Judy was amazed and impressed. She’d never met a dog who preferred people over food.

My love for people

So how do I compare to Charlie? Do I love human beings above all other material things on this planet, as he does?

No. Unlike Charlie, I don’t always communicate joy in spending time with someone. Sometimes my thoughts and eyes wander. Sometimes my shoulders slump. Sometimes I find myself stifling a yawn. I seem to love the things that bring me comfort more than I love those around me. Sometimes I resent talking on the phone or visiting someone in need when my to-do list is weighing me down. If Charlie was human, he wouldn’t do that.

When I’m out shopping, I don’t always take the time to ask the cashier how her day is going and listen to her response. Sometimes I expect her to give me all the attention. Isn’t that what she gets paid for—making the customer happy? Other times I wish she’d just hurry up and finish the job so I can get home as soon as possible. If Charlie was human, he wouldn’t do that.

The most important part of our spiritual lives is our relationship with God. The most important part of our physical lives is our relationships with other people. Charlie provides an illustration of that. Jesus gives us an even better one. But do I live as if it’s true?

And it’s not just those I already know or those whose names are on my schedule for the day. Charlie has no choice about who walks in our front door. He makes no plans for himself. As far as he can tell, the selection of guests is totally random. He simply enjoys whoever comes his way. Do I do the same with the “random” people God places in my life?

Charlie doesn’t care what a visitor believes about politics or religion or even dogs. He just lets them know that he loves them. How much do I allow my personal opinions to limit my love for others? It isn’t easy to have a meaningful conversation with someone if we can’t agree on important issues.

Maybe I should follow Charlie’s example more often and let the other person lead the way. Charlie makes it clear that he wants to be with you, but he humbly accepts his place if you tell him to back off. I need to be honest about my faith and my beliefs, but is it my place to continue expressing them when the other person is clearly ready to move on? Or should I humbly back off and simply listen? Which choice springs from love and which one springs from self?

Charlie’s limits

I have to admit that Charlie isn’t perfect, though. He does get in trouble on rare occasions (see “Bad Boy”), and he can be annoying when he detects an interesting new scent on my clothes and wants to spend the next three hours sniffing it.

And I wonder whether Charlie would sacrifice for others as much as we humans are capable of doing. I know he would risk his life to defend me against any violent attack. Most adults would do the same for those they love. It’s an instinctual, spur-of-the-moment behavior.

But if, for some reason, Charlie went without food for three or four days, would he still give all his attention to a new friend when that next meal finally appeared? I’m not so sure that he would. On the other hand, some people live lives of continual, long-term sacrifice. Many, like Mother Teresa, consciously and willingly deny their own needs in order to minister to others for days and weeks and months and years. I’m not sure Charlie could do that.

In spite of his shortcomings, visitors who come to my house, especially at dog-feeding time, always express amazement at Charlie’s love for people. I pray that those who know me would see that same kind of love in me.