Freedom to Move On

The loss

The text comes in as I’m getting up in the morning. Mom has breathed her last breath. She’s gone.

(I’m okay with getting the message by group text. There are many family members to notify. We knew it was coming any minute. It’s a little early in the day for a phone call, especially for those in the times zones west of me.)

No tears fall. I’ve cried them all already. The day she was diagnosed with “dementia, most likely Alzheimer’s.” As I watched her brain wasting away and her personality disintegrating. Each time she took another drastic step downward. Sitting in my rental car after saying goodbye at her bedside for the last time, before returning home a week ago.

I’ve been grieving for her for a while. 

The relief

At this point, the sense of relief is greater than the sense of loss. I’ve never been in this position before. Not sure what to expect.

The last several years have been busy and stressful for me and my siblings. Bad news about Mom’s falls and emergency room visits. Decisions to be made regarding her living situation and medical needs. Increasing difficulty in her ability to communicate. More frequent trips to see her. More frequent phone calls.

But the worst stress, the greatest trauma, was knowing that one I loved was hurting so much. Witnessing her struggles with pain and physical limitations and cognitive issues and depression and fears and obsessive thinking. She was too aware of her own losses. Yet hesitant, like many in her generation, about taking any medication that would make her feel better emotionally. Part of me just wanted her to move on to a better life, to be freed from all her troubles.

That phase has passed now. Mom is at peace. We’ll be making all those decisions that have to be made after someone dies, but that won’t be nearly as stressful as helplessly watching the continuing decline of a loved one in her nineties.

I’m ready to move on, too. To catch up on all the things I haven’t gotten done because of the extra time I’ve spent helping meet Mom’s needs. Because of the emotional energy being drained by seeing her suffering.

I don’t resent losing that time and energy. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. I’d do it for ten more years if she had that long.

But there’s a welcome sense of freedom from the responsibility and stress. Now I can move on.

The grief

Until my body reminds me that I’m mourning. I’ve experienced a significant loss. Yes, there’s great relief. But there’s also the sorrow of missing her, which will come out one way or another.

Right now it comes out, not in intense emotions, but in physical and mental fatigue. A song pops into my head. “Slow Down,” by Chuck Girard (1974). It’s an invitation to slow down, be still, and wait on the Spirit of the Lord. (Thank You, Father, for bringing this song to mind just when I need it. I haven’t thought about it for many years.)

This is a biblical concept that our busy American culture doesn’t often consider. The Israelites are told to be still in Exodus 14:14, when they’re trapped between Pharaoh’s army and the Red Sea. In Nehemiah 8:11, the Levites calm the people as they’re grieving over their sins, encouraging them to be still as they respond to the reading of the Book of the Law of Moses. While prophesying about the coming Messiah, Zechariah 2:13 calls all mankind to be still before the Lord.

Psalm 37:7 combines the ideas of being still and waiting on the Lord. Waiting on the Lord is encouraged in many of the other Psalms and in the prophets.

Every day I feel like I get more behind on all the things I want or need to do. But there it is, right there in the Bible—slow down, be still, wait. I need to hear this at this time in my life when I’m so eager to move ahead. At this time when my body is screaming at me to slow down.

The challenge

But I don’t want to slow down! I want to plunge forward, to check more and more items off of my to-do list.

Why?

As I’ve said, it’s partly because I want to catch up on the things that I’ve put on a back burner while Mom’s been wasting away. That’s the most obvious reason. And it seems fully justified.

But I think it goes deeper than that. If I slow down I’ll feel the grief. I’ve been grieving for so long, I just want it to be over with. I don’t want to deal with it anymore. I’d rather be fixing things.

I’m a problem solver. I can see all kinds of problems with my house. The dust bunnies under the bed and the grunge on the windows and the minor upgrades and repairs that I’ve been postponing. I see problems with weeds and overgrown plants in my yard. Problems with my mismatched and aging wardrobe.

Now that I have more time, I can fix all those things. Fixing things feels better than being still.

But I need to be still so that I can move ahead. Just like physical healing, emotional healing won’t happen if I’m too busy and active.

Slow down now. Have the strength to do more later. I’ve faced this lesson so many times (including here and here and here), but it’s still hard to rein in my impulse to push on. I guess I’m a slow learner.

The biggest reason for slowing down, though, comes at the end of the song. “Know that He is God.” An echo of Psalm 46:10.

My desire to solve problems, do things, be done with the grieving, to move on, is partly my desire to be my own god. To take charge of the situation. To do the things I want to do, in my way and in my timing. To see my will being done.

When I slow down, I have to listen, contemplate, and consider, not just act. Listen to what the Bible says. Listen to wise pastors and teachers. Listen to the Holy Spirit within me. Contemplate His will, His direction, as it’s revealed in His Word, through other Christians, and in my own heart. Consider the fact that many of my to-do’s are trivial in God’s eyes.

I need to slow down so that I’ll stop trying to be God.

 

 

 

A Note on Commenting

I’m puzzled. Are my readers trying to post comments, but for some reason they’re not getting through? When I check my stats each week, I see several clicks on my comment policy page, but I haven’t received any comments in a long time.

I also know that only a very small fraction of readers submit comments. A blog can have hundreds of thousands of subscribers and only receive a few dozen comments on an individual post. So there might not be any problem at all.

If you’ve tried, unsuccessfully, to submit a comment at any time, please email me here: anomaly2134@gmail.com, so I can document the extent of the problem.

I decided to try (once again) to track down anything that might be preventing comments from getting to my email box. The only suggestion I found that I could follow through on was to use a popup window for comments. I changed my setting to do that.

If you try commenting and it doesn’t work, please email me at anomaly2134@gmail.com. I will be happy to post your comment from there.

If you have experience with this problem on blogger.com, please let me know of any solutions that you’ve found helpful.

Please pray for wisdom for me in approaching this potential problem.

Thank you for reading my posts, for your patience, for your prayers, and for any other help you can give me.

Ann

Thinking of Others

Thinking evil

“In your hearts do not think evil of each other” (Zechariah 7:10).

But it’s so easy to do that!

There was this friend (Frank) of a friend of mine. My friend, who’d known Frank for several years, approached me at one time to ask if Frank could stay in my guest room temporarily.

In his late thirties, Frank was the victim of an unjust lawsuit. Most of his income went to his lawyer. But he was a hard worker and a good guy. He could no longer afford to rent an apartment and was planning on living in his car until things turned around again. I said okay.

It wasn’t just the lawsuit, though. It was the middle of the COVID pandemic. Frank’s income had dropped even lower because he couldn’t work as many hours as he had in the past.

And then one day Frank came home in a much nicer car. I was stunned. Angry. Hurt. Had the lawsuit been settled in his favor? Was he keeping that from me in order to take advantage of my hospitality? Was he simply using me?

I didn’t know how to approach the subject with him. He worked so many hours, I didn’t see him often. Even though he was living in my house, we hardly knew each other. Should I say something to him? Should I ask my friend what was going on?

I prayed, and did nothing. I didn’t want to make a false accusation.

And I was glad that I’d waited. Later, I overheard him talking on his phone in his room. He was explaining to an advisor that he’d accidentally missed a few payments on his car. It was supposed to be on autopay, but something went wrong. It had been towed away to be repossessed. He was borrowing one from a friend just to get to and from work.

He was polite and attentive during the phone call. No anger. No whining. He repeated the steps he needed to take to get it back. He was taking responsibility. Doing the right thing. Demonstrating that my friend’s evaluation of him was accurate.

Soon his car was in my driveway again. I never said a word.

I thought I was pretty good at not thinking evil of others, as Zechariah advises. A year or two ago a family member who’s not a Christian commented on my tendency to think the best of others, which he obviously didn’t agree with. I hope I was able to draw him a little nearer to God and to salvation in my response.

But there I was, assuming the worst about Frank. And it was all a lie.

The full verse in Zechariah says, “Do not oppress the widow or the fatherless, the alien or the poor. In your hearts do not think evil of each other.” I’ve never tied those two ideas together before. But now I realize that thinking evil of Frank was a form of oppressing the poor.

How often do we do that? Most of us don’t actively oppress the widow or fatherless or alien or poor. But what about our hearts?

Do we think evil in our hearts of those who are struggling? Do we judge them for the bad decisions that they’ve made? For their appearance? For their dependence on government assistance? For their inability or unwillingness to hold down a job?

We might vigorously deny that we oppress them in any way, but Zechariah and Jesus both make it clear that the thoughts of our hearts are just as important as the words that come out of our mouths or the actions that we take.

Thinking the best of others

In the case of Frank, I was clearly wrong. Should I always try to think the best of others, though? Is that naivety? Am I setting myself up to be used and hurt?

Years ago I knew a couple who took in a man who had shown up at their church asking for a place to stay. He said he was a Christian who was in town to look for a job. They invited him into their home. All seemed to go well. He lived with them for a couple of weeks and then left.

A few days later, the police knocked on their door, asking about their recent guest. He’d been arrested for armed robbery. He was later convicted, having used a knife from my friends’ kitchen in attacking his victim. He’d done the same thing in other cities.

God protected my friends while they were unknowingly harboring a dangerous criminal.

But it doesn’t always work that way. Other Christians have been killed by those they trustingly tried to help. “Everywhere the kindest people go, the most calculating ones follow” (from WORLD magazine Opinions). How do I reconcile this with the verse from Zechariah?

In Matthew 10:16, Jesus says, “I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.” I’ve always been drawn to the second half of that verse.

In your innocence, think the best of others. But be prepared. There are wolves out there. In your shrewdness, keep your eyes open. Expect some people to try to take advantage of you. Watch for signs that they can’t be trusted. But don’t jump to the conclusion that everyone you see is a wolf, intent on devouring you.

First Corinthians 13:7 says that love always trusts, always hopes. If we love someone, we’ll trust them and hope for the best for them. And we’re supposed to love everyone. But if we do that, won’t we just get hurt?

Yes, we’ll get hurt. Guaranteed. God doesn’t put us in this world and save us so that we can be safe. As Jesus continues teaching His disciples in Matthew 10, He tells them they’ll be flogged, arrested, betrayed, and hated. Hurt.

Yet love always trusts and always hopes. Why and how can we do that?

We can do it because the Lord loved us when we were untrustworthy and hopeless. We can do it because the Holy Spirit within us enables us.

We can do it because it works. I’m not going to cite any specific studies here, but over many years, I’ve learned from many sources that the way we treat others has the power to change them.

If I treat someone as if I trust her, she’ll become more trustworthy. If I treat someone with respect, she’ll become more respectable. If I treat a student as if she could learn the material, she’ll be more likely to learn it. If I believe the best about someone, and treat her in ways that reflect that belief, I’ll be a factor in bringing out the best in her.

(This is a general principle. In the case of someone like the armed robber, his heart had become so hard, it probably didn’t matter how anyone else treated him. But most of the people we know haven’t yet reached that stage. We can still have a positive impact.)

We all want other people to change. They’re never quite good enough for us. No matter how much we love someone, there’s always something about him that irritates us.

I addressed this issue many years ago in a support group that I was leading. And I gave them the key to changing others. There’s a catch, though. She won’t necessarily change in the ways you think she should. But it will bring out the best in her.

The best way to change another person is to love him just the way he is.

God loves us just the way we are. He doesn’t tell us we have to change before He’ll love us. He doesn’t stop loving us when we turn against Him.

That love has the power to change us for the better. If we follow His example, we can have an impact for good on the people around us.

And when we treat them as if we trust them and have high hopes for them, we’ll change, too. We’ll be less likely to think evil of each other in our hearts.

 

 

 

A Perfect Father

Our attitude

Parents might just be the most difficult people to forgive.

We can usually forgive children when they mess up. That’s what children do.

Most of us forgive the simple, everyday offenses that others commit against us. We couldn’t have meaningful relationships if we didn’t.

Some go even further and forgive the bigger hurts inflicted by coworkers, friends, siblings, and spouses.

But parents? Parents can be so hard to forgive.

How many adult children are still walking around with unhealed resentment toward their moms and dads long after the damage has been done? Long after they’ve reached an age where they should be mature enough to work through their pain and let it go.

Growing up

We have an intense longing for perfect parents. Part of this seems to be inborn, but we also quickly learn to expect our parents to always understand us and always meet all of our needs.

Right from the start they feed us when we’re hungry, comfort us when we’re upset, and change our diapers when they’re messy. The natural conclusion: These people take such good care of me, they must be perfect.

As time goes by, we become disillusioned. We’re understandably hurt and disappointed when they fail us. Which they always do.

And yet they expect us to obey them, as most of us do most of the time prior to adolescence. A perfect foundation for internal conflict. Which we later blame on them.

The Ten Commandments don’t tell moms and dads to raise their children well, but they do say to honor our parents. Parents have a natural tendency to want to raise their children well. We all have a natural tendency to remember their failures.

The blame game

In the twentieth century, “blame the parents for everything” psychology became common and powerful. I remember reading an article in the 1970s. (I’m pretty sure it was in Reader’s Digest.) It concerned a condition that hadn’t been talked about much up until then: autism. The behaviors associated with the condition had been blamed on poor parenting. But new research showed that they actually had a biological basis.

Around the same time, in my first job working with special needs children, I was told that kids with Down syndrome are naturally sweet and easy-going and loving. Therefore, if they misbehave consistently, it’s because their parents have been lax in their discipline.

Just recently, though, I was informed that the condition itself is associated with a tendency toward stubbornness. They do have a sweet, loving temperament that responds well to kindness. But they often present real behavioral challenges that can’t be due to their environment alone.

I look back in horror to a time when parents (especially moms) were blamed way beyond what they deserved for their children’s troubles. How did they live with the guilt being heaped on them?

Psychologists seem to have backed away from the insistence that every single issue stems from poor parenting, but it’s still easy to blame our own moms and dads for our troubles.

Freya India, a young author in the United Kingdom, describes a new twist on the blame game. Because most of them are not mental health care professionals, parents are now looked down on as incapable of being “helpful” to their children. Members of Gen Z (those born from about 1997 to 2012) are being encouraged to back away from their parents, who are obviously incompetent and usually harmful, and let therapists take on the roles—and the emotional connection—that used to belong to Mom and Dad. 

Instead of being counseled to understand their parents, take responsibility for building better relationships with them, and forgive them for the mistakes they’re bound to make by simply being human, these young people are now advised to transfer the relationship to their therapists.

Forgiving

I hope I’ve forgiven my parents for their very real sins against me and my siblings. (Just to be clear—my childhood was mostly good, mostly happy. Overall, I think my parents did a good job. They definitely had their faults, though.)

As a Christian, I have all the tools I need to forgive my parents.

(I’m not going to discuss here why we should forgive, but a good book that deals in-depth with cancel culture’s blindness to the precious value of forgiveness is Timothy Keller’s Forgive: Why Should I and How Can I?. The following thoughts aren’t taken directly from that book, which I read after I’d written the original draft of this article, but of course some of them will overlap, since we’re both writing from a Christian perspective.) 

I can forgive those who harm me because God forgave me. The enormity of my sins against Him far outweighs any debt anyone could ever owe me.

Every time I flaunt His commands, I’m replacing the sublime God with a measly little idol, blaspheming the name of the loving creator of the universe, defiling His image before the watching world, and giving the devil a foothold in my heart and mind. If a holy God can forgive me for all that, surely I can forgive those who sin against me.

I can see my parents as God sees them—as my fellow fallen human beings. They’re not any more perfect than I am. They need grace as much as I do. Of course they made mistakes. We all do.

When I was a support group leader at my church many years ago, I was taught that one way to forgive Mom or Dad is to grieve that which we long for but never had and never will have. We needed something from them that we didn’t receive.* They weren’t perfect.

I like that idea. It confirms that real harm has been done, but it leads us to recognize our own mistake in expecting perfection from imperfect people. And it provides a process for working through the issue. We can never heal from any emotional pain as long as we maintain a victim mentality instead of doing whatever we’re capable of doing to repair the damage to our souls.

As a Christian, I have a deeper appreciation for the value of suffering. God can use it to draw us closer to Him and to bless others, if we turn to Him in our need and grow in His likeness as we heal.

I heard a story many years ago from a young woman. (I think it was on a Christian radio station.) She had been raised by “perfect” parents. In her perception, they did everything right.

Then she left home, and she was totally lost. She had no idea how to cope with a world that didn’t love her unconditionally and meet her every need, as her parents had.

Children become better people when their parents do their job well. Paradoxically, though, they also become better people when their moms and dads mess up. We learn and grow because we’re forced to deal with parents who do the wrong thing sometimes. (Of course, this doesn’t excuse any form of intentional mistreatment.)

God as our Father

And then God goes and reveals Himself to us as our Heavenly Father. How does that affect our relationship with Him?

For those who’ve been abused or abandoned by their dads, thinking of God as a Father can lead to rebellion against Him and make it incredibly difficult to trust Him.

All of our dads disappointed us in one way or another. It can be easy to carry over that disappointment and lack of trust to a Father God, often without realizing what we’re doing.

At times, we might blame Him for hurting us. We can struggle with finding a way to forgive Him.

Some people—even Christians—will need months or years to work through the harm done by their earthly fathers. As a body of believers, we need to recognize that and do what we can to contribute to their healing.

At the same time, we all long to have a perfect father. To know his unconditional love. To be able to return to him when we’ve rebelled, knowing that he’ll welcome us back again. To know that he understands our sorrow and anger and fears and failures. And still loves us.

We all have that powerful desire. Only God can fulfill it.


*The handout from that group credits “Robert Bly, in the video ‘A Gathering of Men,’” for this insight.

 

 

 

A Great King

An ideal king

Psalm 72. I’ve heard that it’s a prayer for King Solomon, a description of the perfect king, and a prophecy of the Messiah’s kingship.

In verse 2, the ideal king is righteous and just. Americans still value justice and righteousness in our political leaders today, although we no longer agree on what those concepts mean.

He brings abundant prosperity (v. 7). Definitely something we expect from our rulers now.

Verses 9 through 11 describe his power. Other nations bow before him, bring him gifts, and serve him. His enemies “lick the dust.” Many Americans shy away from a display of strength like that, but a leader can’t lead without some form of power.

What catches my eye as I read Psalm 72 this time around is the reason he has this power. Verses 12 and 13 say, “For he will deliver the needy who cry out, the afflicted who have no one to help. He will take pity on the weak and the needy and save the needy from death. He will rescue them from oppression and violence, for precious is their blood in his sight.”

The king’s righteousness and justice and power and the nation’s prosperity are directly tied to his heart. His compassion for the most helpless among us, as demonstrated by his actions.

The seventeenth verse declares that “all nations will be blessed through him.” Even the ones he’s conquered won’t be oppressed, but blessed.

God’s ideal king isn’t the one who defeats other countries and rules them with an iron hand. He isn’t the one who builds the strongest economy (although that can be a factor in helping the needy). He isn’t the one who grants his people the greatest freedom to pursue their own desires.

The greatest king, in God’s eyes, is the one who sees the suffering of an individual even when no one else is paying any attention to them. He uses his power, not to increase his own wealth and happiness and reputation, but to rescue the most helpless from oppression and violence. He values them highly. That’s when and why he prospers.

This was a radical idea at the time when it was written. It’s still a radical idea in many parts of the world. And even in America.

Although different groups disagree on the best means of helping the helpless, most Americans believe that part of governing is making sure that everyone’s needs are being met. But government assistance isn’t the compassionate, individual attention described in this psalm. It’s the identification of groups that are in need and the application of impersonal rules and requirements in providing for that need. Something important is missing here.

The radical part of this psalm is that the king will personally deliver the afflicted one who has no one to help—not even government programs. He will personally save the needy one from death. Not because he buys into a political philosophy or wants to increase his own popularity, but because their very blood is precious in his sight.

Two kingly examples

In 1 Kings chapter 3, two prostitutes—among the lowest of the low—brought their case before the powerful King Solomon himself. The women lived in a house together. They each had a baby. One of those babies died in the night. Both mothers laid claim to the living child.

Solomon didn’t dismiss them as unworthy of his attention. He didn’t assign the case to a lesser representative or to the court system. He didn’t tell them how to sign up for a government program. He didn’t lecture them on how they were defying God’s laws by selling their bodies, or condemn them to death for breaking those laws (as he could have done). He treated their case with compassion.

Solomon’s solution: Cut the living infant in half and give one half to each woman.

That might very well have been considered justice by most of the people living in that part of the world at that time. The woman whose baby had died accepted the decision. That seems so cold and heartless to me. But in that time and place, it might have sounded reasonable and fair, even to her. They were prostitutes. Neither one deserved to have a living child.

But that wasn’t King Solomon’s purpose. The blood of that baby was precious in his sight. He intentionally declared his decree in order to determine which woman was the mother of that helpless child.

This case is an example of Solomon’s great wisdom. But it also provides a view of the type of king that the Lord wants to see ruling over His people. A king with a heart like God’s.

In Luke 8:42-48, a woman slipped in behind Jesus in the middle of a crowd and touched the edge of His cloak, believing that she’d be healed. She was.

Jesus immediately stopped and looked around, asking who had touched Him. The disciples dismissed His question, assuming someone in the pressing crowd had accidentally bumped up against Him. But He persisted and the woman came forward, trembling in fear. He spoke to her, calling her “daughter,” reassuring her, and telling her to go in peace.

Jesus made it a point to reach out to her personally. He didn’t want a system where people touch the edge of His clothing while His back is turned and go on their way without interacting with Him. He didn’t want anyone to be afraid to approach Him to His face to present their requests. The needy, the afflicted, the weak, the oppressed, and the victims of violence are precious in His sight. He is the King who perfectly exemplifies God’s description in Psalm 72.

The purpose of the psalm

This psalm isn’t saying that the only way a king can help his subjects is by giving his personal attention to each individual. There’s room in God’s design for systems and programs.

In the Old Testament, the Lord Himself put in place the system of having the reapers leave behind whatever fruit or grain they missed on their first pass through a field, so that “the poor and the alien” could collect it for their own use (Leviticus 19:9-10). In the New Testament, the apostles set up a program for feeding needy widows (Acts 6:1-6).

Instead, the psalm reveals the heart of the ideal ruler. One that reflects the heart of God, the greatest Ruler and King.

 

 

 

Fearful and Troubled

Israel’s fear

Joshua 8:1: “Then the Lord said to Joshua, ‘Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.’”

Of course Joshua and his fellow Israelites are afraid! Of course they’re discouraged! Look what just happened to them.

In chapter 6, they were cruising along, miraculously crossing the Jordan River on dry ground and destroying the walls of Jericho simply by marching around the city, blowing trumpets, and shouting. God was with them. They could see His hand at work. After forty years of wandering in the wilderness, He was beginning to fulfill His promise to give them a land of their own. What could be more exciting?

Following the easy victory at Jericho, they headed out for the second battle in this new territory, fighting the city of Ai. They were so passionate. So confident of God’s presence and their own strength that they limited the number of warriors they sent into the battle.

“But they were routed by the men of Ai.”

They never had a chance.

“At this the hearts of the people melted and became like water.”

Even Joshua was shaken. He questioned whether they should have crossed the Jordan. He feared that the Canaanites would hear about it and “wipe out our name from the earth.” They were understandably afraid of their enemies.

The Lord revealed to them that the cause of their disaster was sin. One single man out of the entire population had defied God’s direct order. Because of one man’s disobedience, approximately thirty-six men were killed in the battle with Ai, all of the Israelites were put to shame, and the man and his children were executed.

Who wouldn’t be afraid of God after witnessing His judgment? Who wouldn’t be discouraged as they looked at their own sinful hearts and realized that they could be next?

And yet He comes to Joshua and clearly says, “Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” Under these circumstances, I have to think that this isn’t a command (in the sense of demanding instant repentance and obedience) so much as a word of encouragement.

Could anyone honestly command someone not to be afraid after he’s just faced terrifying actions from both men and God? Could anyone expect that person to respond to that command by straightening his spine and banishing all his fears without another drop of anxiety seeping in? Surely God knows us better than that.

The disciples’ troubled hearts

It reminds me of Jesus saying to His disciples in John 14:1, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” What had happened in the days and hours before He spoke these words?

Jesus had predicted His death by crucifixion and told them about the frightening time of judgment to come (Matthew 24, 26:1-2). Impending danger from both man and God.

In John 13, He prophesied that He’d be betrayed by one of them. That He’d be going away and they wouldn’t be able to go with Him. That Peter would disown Him three times before the rooster crowed in the morning.

Who wouldn’t be troubled? Yes, He’d also provided some comforting words and actions (like washing their feet to express the depth of His love for them), but if the disciples were like me, the scary stuff would make a deeper impression than the comforting stuff.

And yet He says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.”As if they could really do that. As in Joshua, I can’t see this as a command. It sounds more like an attempt to strengthen His friends in preparation for the most difficult challenge of their lives. To turn their focus from their fears to His promises and His character so that they would, in time, be able to overcome their troubled hearts.

God knows

When God tells me not to be afraid, I often feel like my fear is fully justified. Terrible, frightening things are happening. Doesn’t He understand that? How can He expect me to just let go of my fears and move ahead as if nothing was wrong?

But, as with the Israelites in Joshua’s day and the disciples shortly before Jesus’ arrest and crucifixion, the Lord often comes to me (through His Word, through worshipping at church, through other people, through His Holy Spirit) not to sternly rebuke me for my fears, but to strengthen me by comforting and encouraging me.

What does He base this on? Surely He can’t expect me to just pretend all’s right with the world and the threats don’t really exist.

In both the Old and New Testament passages, God based it on the fact that He knew what was coming. His hearers didn’t. Neither do I.

He knew that the Israelites would defeat their enemy the next time around. He knew that Jesus would be resurrected from the dead on the third day.

After the Lord encourages Joshua not to be afraid or discouraged, He says that He’s given Ai into their hands. Past tense. He provides them with the strategy for doing it (using the whole army, not just a few thousand, and setting an ambush). Israel experiences a decisive victory.

The events that occur after Jesus’ conversation with His disciples are even more spectacular than the victory over Ai. He’s betrayed by Judas (one of the chosen twelve) and arrested in front of an angry mob. His disciples scatter in fear.

He faces multiple trials, beating, mocking, a crown of thorns, and the death penalty. Isaiah says His appearance was “disfigured beyond that of any man and his form marred beyond human likeness” (Isaiah 52:14).

He’s taken to Golgotha, where He’s brutally crucified along with two criminals. He cries out to His God, who’s forsaken Him. He dies. His body is laid in a tomb. How much worse could it get? How could any of His followers not be shocked and terrified?

But then, just as God knew would happen, just as Jesus had told them would happen, the whole reason the Son could say to them, “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” the most unexpected and amazing thing happens. Jesus rises from the dead.

It was too unbelievable for the disciples to understand Him when Jesus predicted it beforehand (e.g. Matthew 16:21-23). It was too unbelievable for even His closest followers to accept someone else’s word for it (Mark 16:9-12, Luke 24:9-27, John 20:24-25). It’s the greatest, most spectacular, most unbelievable event in the history of the world.

And God knew it was coming. That’s why Jesus could reassure His disciples that they didn’t need to be troubled. Nearly every time He told them about His coming death, He also promised them that He would rise from the dead.

My hope

When I’m fearful and troubled, when life hurts, when scary things are happening, I have the same reassurance that Israel and the disciples had. God knows my future.

It might involve additional suffering. The scary circumstances won’t necessarily just miraculously go away (although they sometimes do). Jesus’ followers went through an intensely painful time before experiencing the unexpected, overflowing joy of the resurrection.

As the years passed, many of them were imprisoned and tortured and killed because of their faith in Him. He doesn’t promise me a life of ease.

But God knows my future. He knows that my future, in this life, includes intimate fellowship with Him and with other believers, joy and wonder at the works of His hands, and the fruit of the Spirit growing inside me.

He knows that my future, in the next life, includes the overwhelming, unimaginable joy and love and peace and glory of being with Him. It includes being completely separated from sin and all its painful consequences. Forever and ever.

Jesus has defeated death. I think He can probably see me through even the most frightening and troubling days ahead.

I don’t always find it easy to trust Him to do that. But I can look at the many examples in His Word and imagine His voice saying, “Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged,” and, “Do not let your heart be troubled.” I can know that He knows my future, just as surely as He knew Israel’s and the disciples’ futures. I can learn to trust Him a little bit more.