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.

 

 

Medical Care

 Hope or no hope

About twenty years ago Alan, a middle-aged brother in Christ, was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer. From what I saw and heard, it appeared to be a time of great hope in the field of oncology. New treatments were being developed and approved. People were living longer with conditions that would have been deemed fatal just a few years earlier.

Alan’s oncologist told him that forty percent of patients responded well to the new chemotherapy regimens. That didn’t sound like a very high number to me, but it was certainly better than the old zero percent five-year survival rate.

Alan was determined to do all he could to beat the dreaded disease. Chemotherapy extended his life by three years. Without the new treatments, he would have died within six months. He was thankful for that additional time.

A few years ago Henry, an acquaintance from church who had recently retired, was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer. I don’t know if it was the same kind as Alan’s, but it couldn’t have been any worse.

Time had passed. The fever of hope that had prevailed during Alan’s chemo days had cooled off. I’m not sure exactly what happened. Maybe that forty percent who initially responded so well died within five years after all, like Alan did.

Henry was told right from the start that his cancer was terminal. Treatment has extended his life about a year beyond his original prognosis, but he’s now on hospice.

The impact

Whose shoes would you rather be in, Alan’s or Henry’s? I had enough contact with Alan and his family during his treatment to see the impact that the sense of hope, the idea that he could maybe beat his cancer, gave them all. They lived each day looking forward to the possibilities of the future.

They weren’t in denial. They’d been advised by his oncologist to be realistic (he might die) but hopeful (he might live). As far as I could tell, they were applying that philosophy.

Alan didn't have an easy time of it during his last three years. He hit many bumps in the road. But I’ve heard that cancer patients who have a positive attitude respond better to treatment and live longer. Did Alan’s hope contribute to the length and quality of his life? It appeared to. Is Henry’s lack of long-term hope shortening his life and diminishing its quality? I don’t know.

Fleming Rutledge, writes in Advent: The Once and Future Coming of Jesus Christ, “A prisoner who knows he will be freed is a very different person from one who knows he will never get out. . . . If you know that your chemotherapy really might heal you, you can tolerate it a lot better than if it is just a last, desperate measure.”

Best practices?

I’m glad I’m not an oncologist. I’m not sure how I’d handle my stage IV patients. I know I’d want to be honest. That’s God’s will for us as His followers. But would I be tempted to offer hope even where there was none in order to give my patients a better life? Would I be capable of using that dreaded word “terminal,” knowing what the psychological impact could be?

From what I’ve heard, in the old old days doctors didn’t tell a patient that she was dying. The family would be informed, but not the victim. It was considered more humane. I wouldn’t want to go back to those times because of the deceit involved, but I wonder if there was a certain amount of wisdom behind that philosophy. A gentleness. A compassion.

Of course, a Christian facing a terminal diagnosis knows that death isn’t the end of the journey. He has hope even in the face of a fatal disease.

My heart, my gut wants to vote for the option of giving patients something to cling to. To campaign for doctors to be more like Alan’s than Henry’s. I want to see cancer sufferers being offered a chance to be upbeat, to live happier lives, to contribute to their own well-being.

I’ve known people who’ve miraculously survived a terminal diagnosis. Is it really right or best to tell someone that they have no future at all? Despite the statistics, do we really know who will live and who will die?

The spiritual impact

The other side of the coin: As a Christian, I can see the potential spiritual benefits of telling a person that he won’t survive an illness. We live in a death-denying culture. Few of us are willing or able to face our mortality head-on. A life-insurance ad on TV presents a spoof on this attitude. The narrator addresses those whose loved ones are going to die, because the viewer knows that that will never happen to him.

But when that terminal diagnosis comes, it’s a little harder to play pretend. Maybe some of those patients will turn their thinking toward eternity. Toward God. Toward heaven and hell. Maybe some of those souls will be saved before it’s too late.

My heart cries out to give cancer patients a little ray of hope, as Alan’s oncologist did. But my head realizes that the current practice is probably for the best.

What triggered all this internal wrestling? The shock and awkwardness of facing Henry’s wife as she told me what his doctor had said at the time of his initial diagnosis. I didn’t know how to respond.

I don’t know if it’s a specifically American thing or a general human thing, but most of us want to be able to offer words of hope and encouragement to someone facing difficult news: Look on the bright side. It might not be as bad as you think. Everything will be okay.

We have a hard time simply weeping with those who weep. Sharing their pain instead of trying to fix it.

I pray for the doctors who are dealing with these life-and-death situations every day. For their expertise. For the courage to speak difficult words to their patients. For compassion and mercy and wisdom. In the end, those attributes might be more important than whether or not they actually use the word “terminal.”

 

 

(This article was edited by the author on February 10, 2026.) 

 

 

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.

 

Heaven

 Extreme views of grieving

“Just forget about it and move on.” How often do I hear that? Sometimes in movies, sometimes in real life. Sometimes from those who see no purpose in this universe, and therefore no point in even thinking about the past. Sometimes from Christians who believe that we should feel no pain, and therefore teach that continuing to hurt from a recent loss shows a lack of faith. I don’t mean those who have a healthy sense of moving on when the time is right, but the ones who have no better strategy for coping with the distress than to deny that it exists and press forward as if it never happened.

Or the opposite. Not very common in my experience, but I’m sure some people struggle with it. I must keep his memory alive. He meant so much to me. I can’t let anyone forget who he was and what he did. Setting up a shrine. Refusing to move a single item from its proper place in the bedroom he once inhabited. Stuck.

There’s got to be an appropriate balance somewhere between these two extremes. We can’t just forget someone who had a great impact on our lives. God gave us that relationship for a purpose. We shared our love and joy with each other. Those are biblical attributes that shouldn’t be downplayed or forgotten. But how much is too much? When does healthy remembering become idolizing? When and how do we move on?

Extreme views of heaven

Then the Holy Spirit brings to mind another unanswered question. What will heaven be like? What will we do? What will we think about? What will we care about?

Hollywood often portrays heaven as a place where the residents spend most of their time looking down at the earth, watching what’s happening, and intervening when things don’t go quite right. Everyone in heaven seems to be absorbed in and obsessed with earthly events. Kind of like those who enshrine a loved one who’s passed on. Clinging to a previous life.

Even some Christians that I know talk about their deceased loved ones as looking down on them, delighting in their successes and guiding them into wiser decisions. As if there’s nothing better to do in the unveiled presence of the almighty, creative, all-wise God who perfectly embodies the fruit of the Spirit. What on earth could possibly distract them from such a Being?

But when I try to avoid one extreme, it’s easy for me to go to the opposite one and imagine that when I get to heaven I’ll forget all about this life. As if it never happened. Like the people who tell us to move on as if a loved one had never existed. When describing the new heavens and new earth, Isaiah says, “The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind” (verse 65:17).

I don’t like this scenario. It doesn’t feel right. I know my life here is only a brief instant compared to eternity, but it’s a meaningful instant. There is purpose and depth to it. Will it really all be wiped out when I die, as if it had never happened? On one level, it makes sense, considering whose presence we will dwell in for eternity. But I don’t want it to be true.

I once had a friend who said that when he died, he hoped to sit down for coffee with God and ask Him all the questions that frustrated him so much in this life. Why did You allow Hitler to murder so many of Your chosen people? Why do little children suffer? Where were You when I felt like my prayers were bouncing off the ceiling? My friend was a thinker. His greatest struggles with his faith related to questions that he couldn’t answer, problems that he couldn’t solve. He assumed he would get those answers in the next life. He now knows for sure. I don’t.

The balance

But maybe my thoughts on how to deal with loss can reassure me about the question of heaven. From cover to cover, God’s Word encourages us to remember both those who have gone before us and the historical events that define our faith. I used to get kind of bored with the Old Testament’s obsession with the exodus. How many times do we need to hear about that story? Can’t we just get over it and move on? But God obviously thinks the reminding, the remembering are important.

Maybe there will be the same sort of remembering in heaven. Not the minor details like who was the best looking or who starred in the latest blockbuster or who won the last election. But maybe we’ll remember the important things. The things that remind us of who we are in God’s eyes, of who He is, and of how His faithfulness and mercy have always been there for us. The things that bring Him glory and honor and praise. And maybe, as a result, we’ll find the kinds of answers that my friend was hoping for.

Looking at it this way helps me feel more comfortable with the whole concept of heaven. I can’t buy into the idea that earthly events will capture our attention more than God’s presence. But I’d resent a God who would frustrate my desire for a deeper understanding of this life, an understanding that I’ll never have on this side of heaven. Would the loving, gracious God of the Bible consider my questions too trivial to be worthy of His attention? Would He ask me to just forget about them once my life on this planet is over?

Maybe He’s given us the issue of  how to deal with loss as an analogy of our future life with Him. Maybe it’s an illustration of a greater truth. Maybe my need to find a balance between forgetting and obsessing reflects the balance we’ll experience in the next life. That would be heavenly.

In Spirit and in Truth

The importance of truth

Reading through 1 Corinthians 14. Suddenly the overall theme jumps out at me.

I’m a detail person. I usually see every individual tree, rarely the entire forest. For people like me, it doesn’t help that the NIV labels this chapter “Gifts of Prophecy and Tongues.” That might be the content, but it’s not the theme. The main point is the importance of engaging the mind in worship. A significant idea in these days of increasingly valuing the emotional and experiential at the expense of the understanding.

Key verse: “So what shall I do? I will pray with my spirit, but I will also pray with my mind; I will sing with my spirit, but I will also sing with my mind” (vs. 15). (Okay, I admit it. As one who laments the loss of depth in the lyrics of so many contemporary songs, I just had to underline the second half of that verse in my Bible. Years ago.)

Throughout the chapter, Paul is stressing the greater importance of the gifts that lead to a deeper understanding of God’s Word. He in no way denigrates the more “emotional” gifts, as opposed to the more “intellectual” gifts. They’re both gifts of the Holy Spirit. (Yes, I need to hear that.) But he continues to emphasize the superiority of the latter gifts in building up the Body of Christ.

Verses 4 and 5: “He who speaks in a tongue edifies himself, but he who prophesies edifies the church. I would like every one of you to speak in tongues, but I would rather have you prophesy. He who prophesies is greater than one who speaks in tongues, unless he interprets, so that the church may be edified.”

Speaking in tongues at that time would be equivalent to the more experiential aspects of worship today. It’s a deep, rich communion with God, a worshiping in spirit. It’s not to be dismissed as an inappropriate emotional expression that has no place in our solemn worship services. (Again, I need to hear and remember this.) We are not to discourage those who seek a more spiritual/emotional/experiential means of expression.

But it is more important to teach (prophesy), to stress the “truth” aspect of worshipping “in spirit and in truth” (John 4:24). Without the truth as a solid foundation, we will always do as we please, we will always go where we desire, we will always stray from God’s design. That’s the way fallen man always operates.

The importance of balance

I find it fascinating that God placed the famous chapter on love right before this chapter on worshiping in truth. He could have put them in completely different books. He could have used two different human authors to write them. He could have put one in the Old Testament and one in the New. But this is how He helps people like me to find a better balance. He placed them side by side.

Not that chapter 13 is all about emotions. Biblical love is not just a gooshy feeling inside that tends to come and go, as our culture understands love. Christian love includes our feelings. The emotional side of love cannot be denied, as I’ve heard some Christians teach. But biblical love is so much greater than other kinds of love. It always results in long-term commitment. It always leads to action in the treatment of others, as described in this passage. Not a legalistic “I must act as though I have patience with her even though she’s wrong.” But an ability to respond to others with a heartfelt patience that naturally springs from the emotion of godly love.

And, of course, that chapter 13 love should flow into chapter 14 worship. Even though Paul stresses the superiority of worshiping in truth, “If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing” (13:2).

Worship and suffering

So why do I keep writing here about worship? (See my earlier posts Changing Churches and Sing Unto the Lord a New Song.) What place do these articles have in a blog whose theme is suffering?

The way that we worship reflects the God that we worship. Here’s the message I’ve picked up on in worship services where the greatest emphasis is on the emotional side: God wants and expects everyone to feel good, regardless of what’s happening in their lives. If you’re not smiling, you’re demonstrating a lack of faith. You’re not worshipping, and you’re not pleasing Him. There’s no need to work through your internal issues and struggles. He will instantaneously remove them all as you wave your hands and psych yourself up.

The result? Those who are suffering will live in denial of their pain as they continue to worship this God. Or they’ll walk away from Him after they fail over and over again to work up enough faith to heal the ache inside.

On the other hand, this is the message relayed in services I’ve been in where the truth was stressed at the expense of the spirit: God expects His followers to apply rules for overcoming their hurts without allowing them to pour out their hearts to Him. Get right with Him and everything will be okay. Read your Bible. Pray. Confess and forsake your sins. Go to church. Fellowship with other believers. If that doesn’t work, then do it a little more.

The same result will occur when suffering strikes. Either denial of the pain or walking away from a God who doesn’t seem to care.

But if we worship God in spirit and in truth, the emotional side of our worship will be based on the truth of who God is and what He wants for us. Not a psychological high that ignores the hurts of this world. Not an instant removal of all suffering if we just believe hard enough and smile big enough.

Instead, an understanding of the God of the Bible, who cares deeply for His people and yet uses pain and suffering to grow our faith and to bless the lives that we touch. Our hope and joy will be anchored on the solid ground of His character, as revealed throughout His Word, not just a weekly pumping up that fades away soon after we leave the worship center.

And the intellectual side of our worship will be enriched by the experience of the Holy Spirit moving us to greater joy and hope and compassion, and leading us to greater expressions of heartfelt praise.

The psalmists, whose writings have been used in worship for centuries, freely voice all their needs to God. But they base their expectations and their words on what they know of His character from Israel’s long history of witnessing His actions in their lives. Truth is more important than emotion, but both have a prominent place in God’s Word and in our worship.

Poor Little Rich People

Prosperity leads to suffering

    Came across yet another Christian pundit scratching his head and trying to explain what went wrong with America. How could a culture so grounded in biblical values do such a u-turn to become one of the most secular communities ever, promoting entertainment and sexual freedom above all else?

    What happened? Where did Christianity fail? As with other pundits, he tries to pinpoint the key decisions and events that took us down the wrong path. If only church leaders had said and done just the right thing at just the right time, all this could have been prevented. If we had only trained up our youth in just the right way, they would all have remained faithful to God.

    Got news for you, guys: This is normal. This is how human beings respond to prosperity. It happens every time. There is no prevention, no cure. Affluence leads to arrogance and the illusion of self-sufficiency and to more time and opportunity to indulge in our lusts. We then abandon God’s ways for what we think will be the much more pleasurable ways of man.

    Jesus said, “I tell you the truth, it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God” (Matthew 19:23-24, emphases added). This concept isn’t just true of individuals; it’s true of nations. Wealthy countries rarely follow God.

    In addition to Jesus’ teaching, we have the Old Testament record. The Israelites went through multiple cycles of being obedient to God, becoming affluent, rebelling against Him, losing their abundance as a result of His judgment, and returning to obedience. In ancient Greece and Rome, prosperity led to abandoning the values that gave them their strength in favor of pleasure and corruption, which triggered the collapse of their cultures. Money also tends to become concentrated in the hands of the few, who neglect or oppress the majority as their greed and pride blind their eyes to other people’s needs. In the end, great riches produce suffering, not utopia.

Obedience leads to prosperity

    Why don’t we as Westerners recognize this fact? Somewhere back in our history, we bought into the ideas that humans are smart enough to solve all the problems in the world and that material abundance is the highest goal, providing the greatest good for the greatest number of people. We dove wholeheartedly into the project of creating paradise on earth.

    Science was our biggest hope. New discoveries and inventions would cure all our diseases and provide all the physical goods every human being could ever need. I think it was C. S. Lewis who observed that one of the obstacles to preaching the gospel in the early twentieth century was the belief that modern medicine would soon conquer death. Why worry about the next life if this one was going to last forever?

    Even today, most Americans think that more money means a happier, more fulfilling life. Never mind the endless stories of those who have it all and yet feel empty. The alcoholism, the drug addiction, the suicides among the wealthiest. The lack of long-term, meaningful relationships.

     In Proverbs 30:8, Agur prays, “Give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread.” Americans recognize the obvious—poverty leads to suffering. But we’ve missed the boat in thinking that riches will solve all our problems. Both lead to worse conditions than we experience when we have just enough.

    Making things more complicated, following God faithfully often leads to greater affluence. Under the Old Covenant, this link was made explicit, as many of the promises in that agreement involved material blessings (for example, Deuteronomy 28:2-13). God clearly said, “Obey Me, and I will give you a good life on this earth.”

    He also set up the world so that those who submit to His values will be more likely to succeed. Lying and cheating and stealing might have their temporary advantages, but people who frequently resort to these tactics earn a reputation for not being trustworthy. When others don’t trust you, it’s harder to get ahead.

    Some young people would point out that many actors and musicians succeed because they flaunt God’s standards for sexual purity and sobriety in their lives and their roles and their lyrics. They think anyone can follow this same path and get the same results. But these celebrities are an extremely small percentage of the overall population, who happen to be incredibly talented. They’re the rare exceptions, not the rule.

    In addition, a biblical lifestyle contributes to better physical and emotional health, increasing earnings and reducing expenses. Those who are committed to loving God with all their heart, soul, mind, and strength (Mark 12:30) will avoid drunkenness, addictive drugs, smoking, overeating, sexual immorality, and taking foolish risks just for the thrill of it. They will build strong, loving relationships with each other and support each other through the tough times. They’ll learn to trust God more and more, instead of stressing out over the cares of this world.

Slowing the decline

    Western wealth is a direct result of our Christian heritage. But self-centered materialism is a result of that wealth. And meaningless lives are a result of that materialism. Just as Israel’s initial faithfulness to God ultimately led to their abandoning Him.

    The decline may be inevitable, but maybe we’re being too critical and too negative. Maybe the behavior of previous leaders and previous generations delayed the process in ways that we don’t recognize. One example: My generation assumed that marijuana would be legalized in this country by the end of the 1970s. Forty years later, it’s just beginning to happen, state by state. Was the unavoidable postponed by the behind-the-scenes prayers and actions of Christians? Can my prayers and actions today have a greater impact than those pessimistic pundits seem to expect?

Responding

Suffering

    “I have nothing to be thankful for.” Those were the words in the letter to the editor of our local newspaper sometime in November, 2001, expressing the writer’s sense of loss following the terrorist attacks of September 11.

    My initial response was one of judgment. How could anyone claim to have absolutely nothing to be thankful for? Did she have even one friend? Probably. Did she have enough education and intelligence to read and write? Obviously. Was there any food at all in her kitchen? I imagined so, or she most likely would have been trying to make ends meet rather than reading the newspaper and writing to the editor. I mentally lifted my nose in the air, peered down on her condescendingly, and gave her a lecture on how blessed she is to live in a land of such abundance.

    Later (I don’t remember how much later, but definitely too long), my heart began to break for her. Here was a woman who was hurting so badly that she couldn’t even appreciate the little pleasures and joys that come to all of us. Maybe her letter was a cry for help. Did anyone answer that cry? Had her normal shock and grief turned into ongoing depression?

    Whatever her mental condition, the woman was obviously suffering. And she was responding to that suffering by feeling hopeless and bitter. She needed my understanding and prayers, not my judgment.

    Several years later, I read a story in a magazine about a first responder who had been at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. He was so traumatized by the destruction and death that had surrounded him on that day that he was abusing alcohol to ease the pain. His marriage was in trouble, he was unemployed, and he was seriously depressed.

    One day he was out in his front yard with his young daughter. A stranger walked by, said hello, and smiled at the toddler. In an instant, the first responder’s life started turning around as his perspective shifted. If a total stranger could show a little kindness to a child, then maybe there was some good in the world after all.

Facing the pain

    Here were two different people responding to the same situation—a frightening terrorist attack on American soil resulting in the deaths of approximately three thousand people. Who could blame the woman for retreating into anger and bitterness? But where did she go from there? I’ll never know.

    The man had witnessed the horror firsthand. He had risked his life to save others. He was a hero. And yet he, too, was overwhelmed by the cruelty behind it. Self-medicating his PTSD, he descended into alcoholism. It took time—not just days, but years—for him to reach the point where his heart could be touched and his life could be restored.

    Suffering hurts. It damages our minds and our emotions. It dampens our spirits. It leads to a desire for escape, a crying out for relief. It’s easy enough to advise people to count their blessings, to have an attitude of gratitude, but can we realistically expect that response when the pain cuts so deep?

    Maybe. I think there are a few rare people who can see the good in their lives, and be genuinely thankful for it, even in the midst of the blackest night. But we evangelicals have a tendency to claim that we’re giving it all to God, to believe that we’re being truly thankful, to speak of hope and peace and joy, when in reality we’re simply using a more acceptable form of escape than alcohol or drug abuse: denial of the misery inside.

    I’ve had my share of stresses in the last few decades. (Actually, it feels like more than my fair share. I have to occasionally remind myself that others have been through worse situations.) I’ve followed my own advice in taking all my feelings to God, being totally honest with Him, begging Him for relief. Venting has released the anger and fear and hopelessness. It’s brought me back to a place where I can genuinely thank God for all the good in my life.

Giving thanks anyway

    But occasionally I’ve found myself wallowing in the pain. Obsessing over my circumstances. Making no progress in working through the distress, especially in cases where I can’t take any action, where all I can do is wait and see what the outcome will be. Stuck. Like the woman who wrote the letter to the editor.

    At those times, praising God in spite of the difficulties, finding things to be grateful for even when I don’t feel like giving thanks, seeing the good in little everyday events (like the first responder) helps to lift my heart and my soul out of the pit. It’s not an artificial denial of what I’m really thinking and feeling. I’ve brought it to God, hoping and praying for the strength to endure. I haven’t found the relief that I’m seeking, but I know that I need to move on.

    The Holy Spirit has led me to a better understanding of spiritual warfare through all of this. There can be a fine line between an honest expression of the ache inside and a repetitious cycle of despair and self-absorption. When I cross that line, Satan is winning. He’s got me right where he wants me. He tells me that I’m simply pouring out my heart to God in a healthy way. That’s a good thing. Why not continue to vent?

    But when I deliberately turn from brooding to thanksgiving, I’m resisting that liar. I’m standing up in my own little way against the evil one. Breaking his power over my thoughts. Giving God the glory that He deserves and that Satan wants for himself. I’m depending on God to remind me of His blessings and to make me truly thankful even in the toughest times. It brings me closer to Him and out of the clutches of the enemy. Therefore, I give thanks.

Up

A pastor's painful words

    It’s only one sentence, only one line, just a brief statement. But coming from the pastor, speaking to the congregation on a Sunday morning with all the authority of his pastoral office, it carries a lot of weight. And it reflects an evangelically-correct attitude that should be strenuously denied by our leaders, not encouraged.

    “A Christian is always up!” Exclaimed with energetic fist pump and great enthusiasm.

    I can’t look at the friend sitting next to me. We’ve had this conversation too many times before. The one about believers denying that they feel any pain. I know that if our eyes meet, it will trigger a reaction that would be noticeable to everyone around us. I’m not in church to dispute the pastor’s words openly and publicly. I don’t have the kind of relationship with him where I could diplomatically question his comments to his face. But I will blog about them here in hopes that evangelicals everywhere will recognize this statement for the false teaching that it is.

    How will we reach a world that’s hurting if we deny the fact that we, too, can hurt? How will we minister to Christians who are suffering if we keep telling them that they’re always supposed to be up? Is it any wonder that we’re not reaching our culture? Is it any wonder that younger generations are leaving the church? They see the lie taught by many evangelically-correct Christians. Why are we so blind to it?

The Bible's painful honesty

    Isaiah describes Jesus as being “a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering” (Isaiah 53:3). Was He up in the Garden of Gethsemane as He agonized over His coming sacrifice? His words to His disciples were, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death” (Matthew 26:38). Doesn’t exactly sound up to me. And we certainly can’t argue that He wasn’t being a good Christian by not being up. Or that He had a temporary lapse from His usual perfection by failing to be up. If either of those were the case, there would be no Christianity. Jesus, Who was perfect, Who never ever failed, was not always up. Why would we teach that His fallible followers must be?

    Was Paul up when he wrote to the Corinthians “out of great distress and anguish of heart and with many tears” (2 Corinthians 2:4)? Was he wrong to grieve over the difficulties the church was experiencing? Should he have just smiled and said, “Don’t worry, God will fix it”?

    “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matthew 5:4). Does someone who’s up need to be comforted?

    “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn” (Romans 12:15). Isn’t Paul recognizing here that Christians will mourn? And that it’s okay? Rather than teaching that we should always be up, isn’t Paul saying that our souls should be in sympathy with both the joys and the pains of those around us? This verse wouldn’t exist if Paul’s theology proclaimed that a Christian should always be up.

    David was a man after God’s own heart (1 Samuel 13:14). Yet some of his psalms express deep sorrow and suffering (e.g. 6, 13, and 22). And have you ever read the book of Job? Check out chapter 3, where he goes to great lengths to express his regret over having been born. Yet God Himself describes Job as “blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil” (Job 1:8).

    Please, pastor, don’t ever say that again. Let the members of your congregation hurt when they’re hurting. Walk beside them in their pain. Let them be honest about their sorrows. That is what, in time, will bring healing. Our God is a God of truth. If we’re to follow Him, we must be people who value truth. Including the truth of how we’re feeling inside.

Pour Out Your Hearts

Pour out your hearts

    “Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge” (Psalm 62:8). Many years ago, during my first depressive episode, the middle part of this verse (pour out your hearts to him) became very special to me. I’d lived with tremendous inner turmoil for several months, feeling guilty, considering myself a bad Christian because of the anxiety, despair, anger, lack of energy, hopelessness, and other symptoms that make up clinical depression.

    From what I’d gathered in the five years since receiving Christ, a good Christian, a real Christian, didn’t experience this kind of emotional pain. It went completely against the fruit of the Spirit. If I wasn’t bearing such fruit, something was terribly wrong with me as a believer. The only reasonable response would be guilt and shame. God would be extremely unhappy with me if I didn’t overcome this weakness through confession and prayer (and maybe just trying harder and harder).*

    Then I read the Psalms with new eyes, and God ministered to my needy soul, comforting me through the words of David. “Pour out your hearts to him.” Was I really allowed to do that? Was it really okay to tell Him how much I was hurting, not as a confession of sin, but simply as an expression of my deep pain? He drew me so much nearer to Himself as He reassured me, over and over again, that it was not only okay, but encouraged by many Bible passages.

    In the years since then, I still feel like I run into a wall of denial most of the time when another Christian is going through a difficult experience. I rarely hear an admission of how much it hurts to lose a loved one. I rarely see tears of anguish and grief and sorrow. No. We must be stronger than that. We cannot admit to the “weakness” of actually feeling torn apart by genuine mourning.

    C. S. Lewis initially had his book, A Grief Observed, published under a pseudonym. Would it have been acceptable for one of the greatest Christian thinkers of the twentieth century to reveal the depth of his wounds and doubts? Apparently he and his publisher didn’t think so. I’m not sure much has changed in the decades since then.

Trust in Him

    Reading this verse again recently, the first few words jumped out at me: “Trust in him at all times.” I was struck by the idea that we’re supposed to both trust in Him and pour out our hearts to Him. One does not negate the other. Pouring out our hearts in anguish, despair, fear, anger—and honesty—as we wrestle with the sorrows of everyday life is not contradictory to trusting in Him at all times. We’re told to do both. Even in the same verse.

    Meditating on it further the next day, the Lord opened my eyes a little wider. We’re told to both trust in Him and pour out our hearts to Him. Maybe they’re not just compatible with each other, as I’d gathered yesterday; maybe they must go together.

    In human relationships, we don’t open up in complete honesty with someone unless there is great trust. But we don’t know whether we can trust someone until we see how they respond to our honesty. Pouring out our hearts increases with trust and trust increases with pouring out our hearts. They always go together. And in this process, intimacy grows. There can be no intimacy unless there is both trusting and pouring out our hearts. Then the friendship becomes a refuge, a place of safety, as in the last part of the verse.

God is our refuge

    The same principle holds in our relationship with God. We will not open up in complete honesty with Him unless there is great trust (faith) in Him. On the other hand, our trust in Him grows as we express our emotions more honestly and openly. As with people, there can be no intimacy with God unless there is both trusting and pouring out our hearts. And when we do both, we experience the truth of the last part of the verse—God is our refuge. We see more clearly how He protects and nourishes us.

    Maybe evangelically-correct Christianity has it backwards. Maybe our hesitation about pouring out all our deepest feelings to God springs from a lack of faith, rather than an abundance of faith. Maybe those who never pour out their hearts to Him, with the mistaken idea that this demonstrates the strength of their faith, are actually unwilling to trust Him with the honest expression of their deepest needs due to the weakness of their faith.

*For a great article combating this point of view, see mentalhealthgracealliance.org/christian-mental-health-and-mental-illness/2018/8/2/6-reasons-why-depression-and-anxiety-is-not-weak-faith-or-sin

Make Believe

Real people

    Recently watched I Can Only Imagine with a friend who’s very particular about the movies she sees. Must be high quality. No lame faith-based films with predictable dialog and two-dimensional characters. We both agreed that this one was as well made as any Hollywood movie. Authentic characters. Realistic storyline. Good acting. Definitely not preachy.

    My initial response was one of optimism. Hurray! Christian movie-makers are finally getting it. They’re growing up. They’re telling real stories about real people. Those shallow movies with the B actors and the cardboard characters are becoming a thing of the past. We’re moving on.

    A few hours later came the crash of realizing another painful possibility. Maybe our movies aren’t real because we’re not real. Maybe our movies portray make-believe lives because we’re living and promoting make-believe lives. Why do I hear so many Christians raving about the latest shallow faith-based film? Maybe these believers simply don’t know any better. Maybe they’re championing the same kind of life as they’re living. The kind of life they’ve been taught to live. The evangelically-correct life.

Unreal expectations

    In a women’s group twenty-some years ago, one of the moms asked us to pray for her daughter, Violet, an extremely shy kindergartener at a local Christian school. Violet was occasionally wetting her pants in class, and nothing the adults had recommended had resolved the issue. Thus the request for prayer.

    I could immediately identify with this young girl. When I was the same age, in the same situation, my shyness was so inhibiting that I couldn’t work up the courage to draw attention to myself by standing up and walking the few steps to the bathroom. I thought I could “hold it” until school got out, but I didn’t always succeed.

    I was trying to decide how to share my experience with the women’s group when the mom continued, “She knows her position in Christ,” as if that should resolve the entire problem. I was too stunned to speak, but all the other women nodded their heads wisely, indicating their agreement that a five-year-old who knew her position in Christ should be able to conquer every challenge in her life.

    What more could the adults around her offer her? Psychologically-based solutions? Understanding of her inner turmoil? As in many Christian movies, in this real-life situation God was the only answer. If we have enough faith, God will fix the problem without our having to think or to do any hard work. I was overwhelmed by the absurdity of the women’s responses, but I had no hope that I could convince my friends to look at the problem from Violet’s point of view. I was obviously the anomaly in the group.

Real forgiveness

    Near the end of the Imagine movie, the Christian main character angrily says to his father, who abused him the entire time he was growing up and is now repenting, “Am I supposed to just forgive you?” Real. Authentic. Honest. Expressing his heart, not just tossing off the expected Christian response.

    From a few rows behind me, I heard another audience member give an emphatic, “Yes.” No grasp of how we humans actually work.

    Yes, God wants us to forgive as He forgave us (Colossians 3:13). But the truth is that such consistent, ongoing abuse can take years to heal and to forgive. We are not God. We are broken and fallen. Our minds and souls are warped by the wounds inflicted on us in childhood. God doesn’t often heal those wounds instantaneously.

    What happens if I buy into the evangelically-correct assumption that simply saying the words, “I forgive you,” fixes everything? How does this affect me when I’m hurting? Such denial leads to continuing stress and stumbling, blocking growth, blocking intimacy with God and others, and potentially ending in blaming and rejecting Him when it doesn’t work.

    How does it affect my ability to minister to those who are struggling to forgive someone who has deeply wounded them? I see them as failures who just need to get with the program and everything will be okay, instead of recognizing them as hurting people who need time to process their emotions and responses.

    Many years ago, when I was leading a group in my church for overcoming anxiety and depression, we watched a video featuring a reputable Christian psychologist. (If I could remember his name or the title of the video, I would cite them here, but that info is long gone from my brain.) He told the story of a couple that he had recently counseled. I might not have all the details right, but the gist of the situation was something like this:

    The parents were traveling with their six children when they were involved in an accident caused by a grossly negligent driver. Two of their children were killed. The couple immediately “forgave” the driver. Local media picked up on the story and marveled at the strength of their faith. Within a few years, though, two of the surviving children committed suicide as teenagers. In their now undeniable sorrow, the parents went to the Christian psychologist for help.

    It turned out that they were still mourning the deaths of their first two children. They thought all they had to do was say, “I forgive you,” and trust God to make it all okay. They were painfully, tragically wrong. They had never faced their anger, doubts, and grief. They were living in the make-believe world of most faith-based movies, thinking they were being good biblical Christians. The parents appeared to be coping, but the life of denial was too much for the two teens who committed suicide. It was only after the remaining family members dealt with their trauma and turmoil that they found true peace and the ability to truly forgive.

    It took work. It took time. It took courage. But God eventually brought healing when they stopped denying the pain.

    Maybe Christian movie-making won’t change substantially until Christian thinking changes substantially. Maybe we get the movies we want—those that reflect the way we live our shallow lives. Or maybe I Can Only Imagine is an indication that attitudes are changing, that we’re becoming more real, that even evangelically-correct Christians are recognizing the need to be more authentic. I can only pray.