Praising and Cursing

Thankfulness and bitterness

Jeremiah 20:13-14: “Sing to the Lord! Give praise to the Lord! ... Cursed be the day I was born!”

In just two verses, Jeremiah expresses the extremes of thankfulness and bitterness. Unlike the psalmists, he pours out the thankfulness first, then the bitterness.

Isn’t that backwards? Aren’t we supposed to work our way up from pain and doubt to singing and praise? Are we allowed to follow Jeremiah’s example?

Yes! That’s one of the reasons I’m so thankful to the God of the Bible.

He knows who we are. He knows how quickly we can plummet from praising Him to wanting to die. So He gives us the examples and the encouragement in His Word to express ourselves honestly (even when it means venting anger and self-pity) and to keep coming back to Him no matter how low we’ve fallen.

The Christian life is never a smooth and easy road from repentance and conversion to Christlikeness and glory, always walking in perfect faith, with no setbacks and no stumbling. We shouldn’t expect it to be. We shouldn’t expect it in ourselves or in other believers.

And yet, Christians seem to feel a certain pressure to believe that we can defeat our fears and doubts effortlessly, trust God completely in all circumstances, and shun sin every time. Doesn’t God promise us that He’ll enable us to do all that right from the start (1 Corinthians 10:13, 2 Corinthians 5:17, Ephesians 4:22-24)? And if we do slip up, all we have to do is repent and it will never happen again.

When I was participating in a small discussion group at a church several years ago, the pastor leading us defined repentance as a total 180-degree turn-around. Period. Permanent. Anything less isn’t true repentance.

I understand that that’s the literal meaning of the word. I know that God expects and enables me to continue becoming more like Jesus. But I look at real life and wonder if anyone has ever truly repented, if that pastor’s definition is accurate.

How often do my thoughts and behavior turn around completely, never to turn back again? How often does my genuine sorrow and regret for having fallen short of my Lord’s high standards result in never again disappointing Him in that same way? How often does my turning away from doubting His love and provision result in never again facing that same doubt? Not very often. We’re all slow learners.

Jesus seems to take the opposite view from that pastor when He says in Luke 17:3-4, “If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him. If he sins against you seven times in a day, and seven times comes back to you and says, ‘I repent,’ forgive him.” Sounds like Jesus expects us to keep repeating our sins, even after truly repenting.

Reality

One of the strengths of Alcoholics Anonymous is the recognition that an alcoholic in recovery usually returns to his old habit at least one more time. Do they kick him out of the group at that point? Do they tell him that he never really repented of his drinking in the first place, since he’s doing it again?

No! They help him get back on his feet. After additional falls, and with the group’s support, he can eventually stop drinking. He can look back and tell you the number of years that he’s been sober. Initially, he could only give you the number of days he’d made it through before starting over at square one again.

The Bible is real. In Jeremiah chapter 20 we have a prophet, chosen and trusted by God to preach His word to the people, saying in one breath, “Praise the Lord!” and in the very next breath, “Cursed be the day I was born!” That’s an example I can follow.

Not because I want to. Not because I don’t really care about pleasing God. But because I’m human.

Jeremiah’s example

Verses 1 through 6 of this chapter describe how Pashhur the priest, “the chief officer in the temple of the Lord,” has Jeremiah beaten and placed in the stocks for the prophecies that he’d declared. As soon as he’s released, Jeremiah pronounces a scathing rebuke against Pashhur and a dire prophecy about Judah.

At this point, I’m filled with admiration. This guy’s got guts. He’s speaking God’s truth to one of the most powerful religious leaders in the country when he’s just been released from a painful and humiliating punishment for his earlier offensive prophecies. Don’t think I could do that.

This is a great man of God. I want to be just like him.

Until I read the next section (vs. 7-10). Depending on the translation, Jeremiah starts out by accusing God of deceiving, persuading, enticing, fooling, tricking, or forcing him to do what he’s been doing. The general sense is that God isn’t playing fair and Jeremiah feels used. How could the same man who stood up so bravely for his Lord suddenly turn on Him and question His very character?

Jeremiah then complains about the life God has called him to. Because his message is one of violence and destruction, he’s ridiculed, mocked, insulted, and reproached. Including by his friends. And yet he can’t help proclaiming that message.

Verses 11-13 express his faith and hope and thankfulness. He knows that the Lord is with him and that justice will prevail in the end. He asks the Almighty God to avenge him for his undeserved suffering. He praises Him in his gratitude. Back to the good-guy, this-is-what-a-prophet-should-be personality.

Until he steps off the cliff and curses the day he was born. He continues along that line for the next four verses. The passage ends on a negative and depressing note.

What are we to think of this waffling prophet? His great courage in facing Pashhur. His bitter complaint as he questions God’s trustworthiness. His praise for the Lord’s faithfulness. His height of brief but intense thankfulness. His plunge into despair.

Should we try to be like him? Yes, when he’s at his best. But I’m not sure that that’s the right question to ask. I should be asking, “Am I like him?” Honestly, I’m more like him when he’s doubting and grumbling than when he’s speaking boldly to the one who has so much power over him.

But even in his complaining, Jeremiah sets a good example for me. He addresses his words to God as a sort of prayer. He doesn’t go to the people around him, badmouthing Pashhur and telling others how the Lord has disappointed him. He works through his confusion and bitterness and weariness in God’s presence. And those moments of strength and conviction follow. Even if they don’t last.

So I’m thankful for this book of Jeremiah. It’s a hard read. There’s so little in it that’s uplifting. Unlike the book of Isaiah, there are few promises of a glorious future. But there’s the example of a great prophet expressing exuberant thankfulness, only to fall into despair in the very next verse. I can relate to that.

And I’m thankful that at this time of year, nearly every year, I can honestly celebrate a day of Thanksgiving without immediately following that thought with cursing the day I was born.

 

  

Light in the Darkness

Expectations

Let your light shine!

There’s a dark world out there. But if you’re really a good Christian, then you’re always filled with a cozy warm glow. You’re doing all you can every day, every minute to pump up the brightness. You’re making sure it’s always flowing out of you to where it’s needed so badly.

That’s how I usually take this admonition. And I don’t take it well.

Then one Sunday morning we’re singing in church and the words jump out at me: Let your light shine*! But this time I get a new mental image.

What if I’m dim and dreary inside? Can I shine a bit of light even when I’m hurting? Will my attempts to crank it up turn it into a cold artificial glare?

Can God shine His light through me when it seems like there’s nothing but darkness within me? The darkness of a painful loss. The darkness of financial fears. The darkness of loneliness or depression or guilt.

Can God still use me, when I’m in this condition, to brighten other people’s lives without denying my own darkness?

In the same service, the pastor comments on our responsibility to praise God even when we don’t feel like it. I’ve always been intrigued by the phrase “a sacrifice of praise” (Hebrews 13:15), which Pastor mentions here.

How can praising Him involve sacrificing? Sacrificing hurts. I usually associate praise with feeling good. Isn’t that why we sing happy songs?Aren’t those the only ones that truly praise Him? (That seems to be the subtle implication in many of our worship services.)

But maybe that sacrifice of praise occurs when we’re suffering and we don’t seem capable of praising Him in that moment. Or when we’d really rather be doing something else. Or when we’re actively rebelling against Him. To resist our impulses and follow His will (not just lip service, but genuine praise) would be a sacrifice. Maybe it’s an example of intentionally letting His light shine in spite of our own darkness.

An illustration

A few years ago, I was in one of those bleak places. One Saturday night I got bad news concerning a family member. It hurt so much, I seriously considered skipping church in the morning. I didn’t think I could make it through the service without weeping, and I hate to cry in public.

I couldn’t share my burden with anyone, because it concerned a confidential situation. I wouldn’t be able to explain my tears if they came. But it hurt so much, I knew I needed to be there, in my community, in worship with my sisters and brothers in Christ.

As I was leaving my house on Sunday, in an attempt to turn around my obsessive thinking about my own problems, I prayed, “Lord, let me be a blessing to others.” I didn’t think of it this way at the time, but I was basically saying, “Let Your light shine through me in spite of this darkness inside.”

It wasn’t until I was almost ready to head home that I realized that God had answered that prayer without my even trying to make it happen. He allowed me to be honest with Him about the suffering I was enduring. No denial. No fake smile. No pretending it didn’t hurt. But He also used me to minister to others.

During the service, Pastor interviewed a couple about a difficult experience that they’d been going through for the last several years. They didn’t minimize the pain and confusion. They’d had a tough time understanding what God was doing and why.

But He was there for them in ways they hadn’t anticipated. They could see (and so could I) how much they’d grown in their relationship with Him because of their circumstances. The service was a time of celebrating God’s goodness and wisdom.

(One of the fascinating things about the morning was that during the nearly ten years that I’d been at this church, Pastor had never replaced the sermon with a conversation with someone from the congregation. He hasn’t done it since then, either. The timing of this unique presentation was perfect in light of my prayer and my need.)

I’d met this couple at another church that I’d attended. I’d listened sympathetically to the wife’s stories about thwarted hopes. I’d shared the burden of her sorrows. But our paths hadn’t crossed very often since then. After the service, I made it a point to find her in the crowd and let her know how much I appreciated their testimony.

Her response: “I’m so glad you were here. I was hoping you would be.”

Without even planning it, without knowing that she and her husband would play a large part in the service, without having any idea that she was thinking about me, my presence had been a blessing to her. Out of my darkness, I’d shone a bit of light into her life.

Later, I talked to two or three people in my Sunday school class. I didn’t want to. I wanted to just sit like a lump and listen to the teacher’s message, hoping it would help me somehow. I had too much pain inside to intentionally reach out to others. But they reached out to me.

And I found myself speaking words that brought them a little deeper comfort and understanding. Being a blessing to them. Shining a light from my darkness into theirs.

The blessing

By the end of the morning, it hit me. God had gone way beyond what I’d expected in answering my prayer. (And I didn’t even cry!)

It doesn’t always work this way, and that’s okay. I don’t want to be pressured, every time I’m really down, to shine my light all over the world. I don’t think God wants me to feel that kind of pressure, either. Sometimes I need to be the one receiving an illuminating and refreshing and purifying light from others.

But when it does happen, when God shines His light through me even when I’m feeling so dark inside, it’s not just a blessing to those around me. I am richly blessed, too.

*Sorry I can’t give a reference here. We were singing a medley of songs, so the title wasn’t given in the bulletin. When I tried looking it up on the internet a few weeks later, I found several different songs with this phrase, but none of them sounded like the one I was looking for.

 

Joy and Sorrow at Christmas

Different views of Christmas

Words to a Christmas carol, as I remember them from my childhood:

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat.
Please put a penny in the old man's hat.
If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do.
If you haven’t got a ha’penny, then God bless you!

My impression of our expectations of the Christmas season today: Get excited! Be happy! Put up flashy decorations. Enjoy the great American pleasure of shopping. Eat holiday foods. Drink holiday drinks. Party. Escape from the hardships of life.

But then I look at the thoughts in the old carol. First joyful anticipation—looking forward to the birth of Christ and a fat goose to feast on. Next a poor old man. A prayer (expressing hope and compassion) for God’s blessing if you’re so broke you can’t even give away half a penny. All enfolded in an upbeat melody. Real joy in the presence of real suffering. A joy that opens the heart to give to those in need.

Which of these two images is more consistent with the first Christmas?

The up side

There were many happy moments surrounding Jesus’ birth. When Mary visited Elizabeth during both of their pregnancies, they praised God and celebrated together. (Luke 1:39-56)

An angel of the Lord appeared to lowly shepherds, bringing good news of great joy. A great company of the heavenly host suddenly joined them, praising God. (Luke 2:8-20)

Wise men from the east followed a bright star to Bethlehem to worship Jesus and present Him with precious gifts. (Matthew 2:1-12)

It’s good and right for us to celebrate His birth with joy and thanksgiving. God living among us in the flesh was the greatest gift the world had ever been given. The very idea that He would live a human life, with its roughness and dirt and hungers, leaves me in awe of His undeserved love and compassion. How can I help smiling and laughing and feasting and giving generously?

But what about those who are experiencing sorrow and pain at this time of year? Are they supposed to just ignore the aching, plaster on a fake smile, and join the celebrations? Should they feel guilty if they’re unable to pump up the enthusiasm that the season seems to demand?

The down side

There was another side to the months surrounding the first Christmas. A solemn side. A dark side. A painful side.

Mary and Joseph faced the unjust judgment of all their friends and neighbors when she became pregnant before they were married (Luke 1:26-38). They were required by a decree of Caesar to make a difficult journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem shortly before Jesus was born. When they arrived in that overcrowded little town, the only lodging they could find was in a stable. That’s where she had her baby. (Luke 2:1-7)

I have a tendency to romanticize their lives at this point. Look how they loved each other, if they were willing to go through so much together. Look how strong their faith was, as they obeyed God every time an angel gave them new instructions.

It seems almost blasphemous to think that they might have questioned God or complained or even just felt weary and discouraged. And yet they were human. And young. They didn’t fully understand what God was doing through them (Luke 2:33). They probably weren’t the perfect pair that I’ve always imagined.

When the Magi came, King Herod was so alarmed by their statement that they were seeking the king of the Jews, that he ordered all the baby boys in and around Bethlehem to be killed. Mothers were helpless as their precious children were murdered. Joseph and his little family fled to Egypt for safety. Another uncomfortable journey. (Matthew 2:1-18)

We could easily make Christmas a time of mourning and sorrow if we chose to look only at the dark side of the times. That obviously wouldn’t be appropriate.

But I think it would be okay to grieve even as we rejoice. To recognize that, as long as Satan is active on this earth, he will attack most viciously when God is pouring out His greatest blessings. And as long as we live on a planet broken by the Fall, pain will always hover around even our most joyful days.

Being both up and down

In spite of my caricature above, in some ways we Americans do experience both joy and sorrow at this Christmas season. We’re more aware of the needs around us now than at any other time of the year.

People give more generously. Organizations provide holiday meals. Children with impoverished or imprisoned parents receive special gifts. We recognize certain kinds of suffering and our obligation to help reduce it.

But do we allow those who are hurting in other ways to feel their pain? Or do we subtly pressure them to get with the program and rejoice?

A Christian friend shared a recent experience with me. Her husband’s health is declining. When she went to an event at church (alone, as her husband was too sick to attend), her heart was heavy with the sorrow of watching him suffer and of knowing that their marriage of more than fifty years was coming to an end. Her pain was intensified as she noticed other women in similar positions laughing and joking.

Her conclusion as she was telling me the story was that she’d had a bad attitude. She should’ve been able to put her grief aside, as those other women were apparently doing, and rejoice in our Savior.

Why can’t we do both? Both grieve and rejoice. Feel the very real pain, as many of the writers of the Bible did. (Especially the prophets and psalmists.) Even Jesus wept. Even when He knew that great rejoicing was only a moment away. (John 11:1-44)

This is the Christian life. It hurts. We suffer. We can’t and shouldn’t downplay that suffering. But the rejoicing is so much fuller than the sorrow. Jesus was born and walked among us. He died to give us eternal life. He rose from the dead. There is now no condemnation for those who follow Him. Nothing can separate us from the love of God. (Romans 8:1, 38-39)

But the pain still lingers. We can get through it because, as one who lived life in the flesh, Jesus is with us in that pain.

Just like in the Christmas carol. We can enjoy the feast without ignoring the sorrow. An old man stands on a street corner begging. Others are so poor they can’t help him out. But Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, we have the privilege of praying to a compassionate God to bless the needy, and the overall melody is upbeat.

 

 

I Love This Church

The church at its best

Sitting in Sunday school one morning. A pleasant surprise. First a confession from a leader named Bob. Then the spontaneous response.

Bob’s been through a lot in the last year. The sudden death of a young mother within his extended family. Painful and scary health issues for him and his wife and their adult children.

In addition, he and a few of his cousins have decided to take a road trip to visit some places with special connections to their childhood. They all agreed that it would be best if Bob would organize it. He’s excited about the trip, but putting it together is a big job, and he feels kind of lost as he tries to figure out the details regarding where and when and how.

Today, as expected, he opens the class with greetings and announcements. Then, unexpectedly, the confession. He’s struggling with all the stresses in his life right now. He’s feeling small and and weak and overwhelmed. With drooping shoulders and a weary expression on his face, he asks for our prayers.

Next the spontaneous response. Sylvia stands up, pulls an empty chair out from a table, and tells Bob to sit down. A group gathers around him and places their hands on his head and shoulders. They take several minutes to pray out loud for him. After the final “Amen!,” I turn to the friend next to me with a hint of tears in my eyes and say, “I love this church!”

We’re not a charismatic church or class. Some hands are raised during the worship service, and once every few years we lay hands on someone to pray for them, but most of us express our love and gratitude and dedication to God more calmly and quietly.

Personal prayer requests tend to be limited to concerns about health issues, jobs, or travel safety. The externals, not the internals. When I’m praying at home, I have to remind myself to extend my intercession to include the spiritual side as well as the physical.

This morning we’ve broken through a barrier that prevents us from sharing more deeply. A leader in the class has admitted his weakness by asking for prayer for his emotional and spiritual needs. He had the courage to make himself vulnerable to accusations from the evangelically correct: If he was really a good Christian, he should be strong enough to handle all this. If he was really a good Christian, he should trust God better.

And we didn’t respond in judgment. We didn’t rush to assure Bob that God is in control, so he should just accept the situation and be happy. Our hearts were open to his pain. We valued his spontaneous confession. We surrounded him with love and understanding and prayers.

This is the church at its best.

The foundation

How did we get here?

Church leadership has a lot to do with it. Our head pastor sets an example. He’s real. Human. We know that he faces the same struggles as we do.

Recently, a friend and I were talking about the strengths in our church. Without going into the specific details, she told me that several years ago she had asked Pastor for guidance regarding a problem within her family. Over time it became clear that his advice was pretty bad.

She went back to him feeling disappointed and a bit angry. He freely admitted that he was wrong and humbly apologized. No attempt to justify himself or to place the blame on her.

During the time that I’ve been going to this church, I’ve seen Pastor grow spiritually and in his ability to communicate more compassionately. I don’t know that I could say that about any other pastor in any other church that I’ve belonged to.

The age of my Sunday school classmates might have something to do with it, too. I’m in my mid-sixties. More than half of the class is older than me.

Several have lost spouses and adult children. Many have chronic health problems. A few are experiencing financial difficulties. Some grieve over children who are abusing drugs or alcohol or who’ve strayed from the Truth. At least one has had to face the trial of seeing her son sent to prison on drug-related charges after years of attempts to get him through rehab successfully.

Suffering tends to either drive people apart or draw them together. We tend to respond to it in one of three ways: by denying the pain, by doing the opposite and constantly griping about it, or by working through our sorrow with the support of those around us.

In my experience in the past, many church members who were hurting either left or felt pressured to pretend in order to continue attending. I don’t know if there’s been a shift among evangelicals in general or if my church is an exception to the rule, but more people here seem to remain through the tough times as they draw together and reach out for support.

Maybe we can be trusted with our leader’s vulnerability because we’ve been in his shoes and we’re willing to admit it.

Room to grow

As good as it is, my church has its shortcomings, too. Some of the teaching is shallower than I’d like it to be, but it’s better than other churches that I’ve been in. In spite of our concern for each other, as demonstrated this morning, it can be difficult to build deep relationships.

One of the biggies that grieves me is the lack of children in the Worship Center. They call the service “big church.” As if it’s only for big people. As if they don’t belong there. They worship in their own groups with others their own age.

What will happen down the road when they graduate out of those groups and their only choice of where and when to worship at church is in the main sanctuary, with people who are all older than they are? Will they be mature enough to appreciate worship that doesn’t focus on the needs and preferences of a narrow range of ages? Or will they simply walk away?

So my church isn’t perfect. But I love it anyway. I pray that we would continue to follow God faithfully and to grow in Him. And that He would protect us from the attacks of Satan as we do that.

 

 

Final Lessons From Charlie

Saying goodbye to the best dog in the world

I saw the signs. I knew it wouldn’t be long. But I kept thinking, “As long as he’s happy. . .” I was wrong.

Of course he acted happy. That’s what dogs do. It’s an instinct that they can’t resist. When they were in the wild, they had to hide their weaknesses and put on a show of strength. Otherwise they’d be attacked by predators.

Pretend to be happy. Pretend everything’s okay. Even when the pain is almost unbearable.

Poor Charlie.

Maybe I just wasn’t ready to let go of the best dog in the world. The one who trusted me more than I trust God. The one who, unlike any other dog that I'd ever known, loved people more than he loved food.

So I let him suffer for too long.

I knew he had an uncontrollable, inoperable growth. But even as it continued to expand, it didn’t seem to bother him. He didn’t seem to know that it was there.

In the last few weeks, though, Charlie had begun showing signs that something had changed: Eating a little less eagerly. Occasionally acting restless. Straying from his usual routines. Failing to come to me in the evening, when he knew he could get some extra attention. At other times, appearing more needy, seeking more strokes. Lying out in the sun more often. He’d learned from his achy joints that heat could reduce pain.

I should have recognized what was happening.

It wasn’t until late one afternoon, when I took a closer look at his growth, that I could see clear indications of how very much it was hurting him. Poor Charlie.

My heart broke. Partly because I knew the time had come when I’d have to say goodbye. But even more because I’d allowed this dog that I loved so much to suffer needlessly.

It was too late to contact the doctor that day. And I needed to process my next steps, to be certain that there was only one way to relieve his pain.

The next morning I called the vet’s office as soon as it opened and made one last appointment for Charlie. I sat by his side as he fell asleep and as the overdose of anesthetic was administered. I said my last farewell with tears in my eyes.

How do they do it? How do dogs put on such a good show of being strong and happy even when they’re in agony? Don’t they realize that it only makes their suffering worse?

Hiding our pain

And yet we humans often do the same thing. Pretend to be happy. Pretend everything’s okay. Even when the pain is almost unbearable.

Not so much with physical achiness. In that case, we rush to the medicine cabinet or to the doctor. But we do it with emotional suffering.

“Don't cry out loud. Just keep it inside, learn how to hide your feelings.” (From “Don’t Cry Out Loud.” Lyrics by Carole Bayer Sager, 1976.)

“I am a rock. I am an island. And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.” (From “I Am a Rock,” by Paul Simon, 1965.)

“In order to shield my pride, I’ve tried to cover this hurt with a show of gladness.” (From “The Tears of a Clown.” Lyrics by Smokey Robinson, 1967.)

Songs from my youth voicing our human tendency to hide our pain and weakness. To imagine that remaining aloof from others and maintaining our pride will feel better than taking the risk of being hurt. Why don’t we realize that it only makes our suffering worse?

We’re not dogs. We’re not compelled by instinct to pretend that we’re strong, that all is well. Yes, there are predators out there who will try to take advantage of us in our weakness. But there are also sources of comfort and strength. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matthew 5:4, italics added). “God . . . comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others” (2 Corinthians 1:3-4 NLT, italics added).

Unlike dogs, we’ve learned as a species that we grow stronger emotionally and spiritually by facing our pain, revealing it to trusted friends, and allowing them to minister to us in our time of need. Why is it so hard to do that?

Seeing others’ pain

One reason I didn’t understand how much Charlie was hurting was because I didn’t try to look closely enough to see for myself how bad it had gotten. I was willing to take him at face value.

How often do we as Christians treat our fellow sufferers the same way? How often do we simply accept the show they put on instead of trying to peer beneath the surface? How much anguish could we address and relieve if we just took the time to look at the signs and reach out to them?

As with Charlie, the signs are usually there. A lack of appetite. Increased restlessness. Changes in routines or habits. Withdrawing from others. Acting more needy. Self-medicating.

Are we willing to see them?

Once I realized what was happening to Charlie, my next steps were obvious and straightforward. That doesn’t tend to be the case with human beings. Our emotional struggles are more complicated than a dog’s physical pain. Trying to be there for someone who’s hurting inside can get messy.

But if it’s done with prayer and compassion, desiring what’s best for the sufferer, being in tune to their needs and to the Holy Spirit’s leading rather than forcing our own agenda on them—and apologizing and learning from our mistakes when we fail—God can use us to help relieve their pain.

This isn’t optional. It’s what Jesus did when He walked this earth. It’s part of our calling as His followers. Part of His plan to heal those who are hurting.