Aging and Freedom

The freedom that comes with aging

Entering the Worship Center one Sunday morning. Looking around, greeting people, finding a seat.

I try not to focus on the externals when I’m with others, but I can’t help noticing the clothing, the jewelry, the hairstyles. And the freedom they represent.

More than half of the congregation is older than me. They’re well past the age where they worry about conforming to the fashions of the moment in order to be accepted. They’re comfortable wearing what they like. It’s a freedom that comes with aging.

Saying hi to Jane and Jim. Widow and widower. They’ve been sitting together every week for several years. But there are no rumors, no speculation about their relationship, no hinting in whispers that they must be more than just friends. They’ve reached an age where single members of the opposite sex are free to spend time together without triggering speculation and gossip.

As a teenager, I hated the pressure to conform to the latest styles, and the social norms that made it next to impossible for boys and girls to be friends without pursuing or assuming a romantic relationship.

In the few moments that it takes me to find a seat, I feel a tremendous sense of freedom. A freedom that comes with aging.

A few years later, this is reinforced by a brief comment on the news. (I don’t remember the source, and can’t find the comment online at this point.) The newscaster is interviewing a woman on her hundredth birthday. He asks, “What’s the best part of living so long?”

She immediately replies, “No more peer pressure.”

She’s outlived all her peers. She’s free to wear whatever she wants to wear. She’s free to sit with the same man every day without worrying about what other people are thinking. Or even about what he’s thinking.

Additional freedoms

There are other freedoms that seniors can enjoy.

*The freedom from all those big decisions that will determine the trajectory of our lives for fifty years or more. Where to live. Whether to go to college. What career to pursue. Whether to marry and have children. How to raise those children.

*The freedom that comes from letting go of possessions. If we live long enough, many of us will be unable to keep up with the responsibilities of a house and yard. We’ll downsize.

It’ll be tough. It’ll be even tougher if we end up in a small assisted living apartment. It’ll help if other family members cherish the items we’ve invested with the greatest sentimental value. But the reality is that, even within our lifetimes, much of our stuff will go to the trash heap. We’ll need to grieve our losses. How can that be good?

We Americans tend to define our lives and our value by the things we possess. Letting go frees us to appreciate the far more precious things that we can never own. Like God. And people. When we’re not so focused on our manmade treasures, we’re free to pay more attention to the beauty of God’s world, the depth of His character, and the talents and wisdom of those around us.

*And even, in an odd way, the freedom that comes from knowing that nothing more can be done to improve our health or extend our lives. My mom’s been going through this in recent years.

In the past, she was somewhat obsessive about her health. She’d learn about the latest greatest preventive techniques. She’d become angry or bitter if a treatment didn’t work out perfectly. She lived with the anxiety of knowing that she, or her medical team, could make the wrong decision with potentially disastrous results.

Now she’s declining treatment. She knows that little can be done for her at this point. She’s made her peace with that reality. She’s free from the stress of having to research all her options and trust the medical professionals to do the right thing, free from the fear of missing out on the best treatment, free from the fear of her life ending early. She’s ready to go home.

Contentment

I don’t mean to make it sound like there aren’t any drawbacks to aging. It usually includes some loss of independence, and therefore loss of freedom, especially if a person’s life ends in assisted living or a nursing home.

But the world puts so much emphasis on youth that it can be hard to appreciate the intangible benefits of aging. If we see no benefits at all in our current situation, where does that leave us? What does it say about our trust in a loving God?

At the root of all these freedoms that come with aging is a powerful biblical value: contentment. The contentment that comes with reduced pressure from our peers and a reduced number of options for the future.

Paul writes in Philippians 4:12-13, “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength.” He was in chains (1:13), probably under house arrest (NIV intro to Philippians), awaiting trial, when he wrote these words. Not exactly enjoying many freedoms. Yet, through Christ, he had the strength to be content.

This isn’t an automatic response. Even Paul had to learn it. Fallen human beings have a natural bent to be dissatisfied. The ad industry, especially in America, aggravates our discontent. It may be that those who’ve spent sixty years or more grumbling and complaining will continue that lifestyle right up to the end.

But maybe, just maybe, the grumblers and complainers can learn to recognize the freedoms that come with aging. Maybe they’ll be able to enjoy the limited years they have left with contentment.

And maybe our young people can be more countercultural and find the freedom that comes with contentment. Why wait until you reach old age?

 

Before the Resurrection

Jesus’ last hours

When I think of the hours leading up to Jesus’ arrest, my mind goes instantly to Gethsemane, where He poured out His heart in agony before His Father. Then it moves to the upper room, where He taught the disciples to remember His sacrifice through breaking bread and drinking wine, warned them about the difficult days ahead, predicted Peter’s denials, and sent Judas away to betray Him. That last meal strikes me as a solemn time, a time of foreboding and anxiety.

This is how I tend to look at Jesus now: Human. Weighed down as He faces painful trials.

In contrast, as a new believer my understanding of Christ strongly emphasized His deity. He was God. Of course He could handle anything life threw at Him. He was above it all. He had compassion for others, but nothing could really hurt Him.

Lately God has been impressing on me my need for a more accurate view of our Lord Jesus Christ. I don’t think it’s possible for any of us to completely grasp how He could be fully human and fully God—always and at the same time. But chapters 13 through 17 of the book of John help me to understand this mystery a little bit better. Here are some of my reflections on that passage.

Jesus was “sorrowful and troubled” in the Garden of Gethsemane (Matthew 26:36-46). He was serious and solemn in the upper room during the Last Supper. But even though He knew what was going to happen, even though He was “troubled in spirit” at the thought of His betrayal, He experienced and displayed the supernatural nature of God the Son at the same time. That nature included being filled with love, peace, and joy; and having power, glory, and intimate fellowship with His Father.

Love, peace, and joy

God is love (1 John 4:8). The triune God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—is love. Even in His human body, Jesus was a member of the Trinity. The toughest challenges He faced could not weaken the love that they shared.

During and after the Last Supper, He confirmed His Father’s love for Him and His love for His Father. Because of the strength and the depth and the intensity of that love, Jesus continued to love His disciples even as His most difficult time approached.

He “showed them the full extent of his love” by washing their dirty, crusty, stinking feet and by laying down His life for them. He urged them to remain in His love. It would always be there for them. No matter what He or they went through. We can’t remain in something that comes and goes.

I don’t often think of Him this way, but Jesus had peace and joy in His last hours on this planet. He gave His peace to His disciples, a peace beyond anything the world could provide, a peace powerful enough to still their troubled hearts and calm their greatest fears. How could He give them something if He didn’t have it Himself?

In the same way, Jesus prayed for them to have the full measure of His joy. He could give great joy to His disciples because it was with Him and in Him even at this time when He knew that He would soon undergo the physical pain of crucifixion and the spiritual pain of bearing the sins of the world.

Power, glory, and fellowship

Even in His apparent weakness, Jesus had great power. He “knew that God had put all things under His power.” He declared that the devil had no hold on Him. He had the peace of knowing that all that was happening was happening by His choice. He knew that the result of His seeming defeat would be the demonstration of His victory over evil.

Did Jesus still have the glory of the Godhead during His life on earth? Many commentators agree with the footnote on Philippians 2:7 in the 1985 NIV Bible, which says that Jesus laid aside His glory during His incarnation. That’s why He prayed that the Father would give Him the glory He had before the world began.

Jesus obviously didn’t appear in all the glory that Isaiah and Ezekiel saw in their visions. And yet He said that glory had come to Him through His disciples, and He had given them the glory that God gave Him. It sounds like some part of that glory was still His in the upper room, during His arrest and trials, and at the cross. Was it a glimpse of His glory that caused the soldiers sent to arrest Him to draw back and fall to the ground in John 18:6?

Jesus knew that the Father was always with Him. Not just at His side, but totally one with Him in perfect fellowship. The Father was in the Son and the Son was in the Father. He knew that even when the disciples deserted Him, He wouldn’t be alone because the Father was always with Him.

(Somehow this changed temporarily when Jesus became sin for our sakes and God forsook Him. It would take more than one blog post to explore this concept fully, and I don’t believe any of us can understand it in all its depth. But we know that sin separates us from God and that Jesus cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” in Matthew 27:46.)

Before and after Easter

Jesus was human. He could be hungry and thirsty and tired and lonely. He felt the pain and anguish of knowing what lay ahead of Him. He hurt when He was rejected or betrayed.

But He was also God. Even in times of hunger and thirst and fatigue and loneliness and pain and rejection and betrayal, even during the days and hours before and on the cross, even in the Garden of Gethsemane crying out in anguish, He still had the the supernatural nature of God. He was God in the flesh.

Easter is a time of celebrating the greatest event that ever occurred—the resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ from the dead. But even during the events leading up to the resurrection, Jesus was filled with the same love, peace, joy, and power that He would have after that momentous event. He maintained some of His glory, and most of that time He had intimate, unbroken fellowship with God the Father.

I have a hard time grasping that.

My limited mind wants to separate His two natures, to imagine that at one moment He’s agonizing over His trials without any sense of joy or peace (fully human), and at the next moment the joy and peace return (fully God). As if His two natures alternate, rather than existing together. But that’s not how it works.

So maybe there’s hope for me. Maybe I can be more like Jesus and always know His love and joy and peace, even as I’m going through times of distress. Maybe I don’t have to overcome or deny my natural human emotions, as I tend to think I do, before I can truly experience the effects of His supernatural nature in me. Maybe I can do both at the same time.

That’s happened before, beginning with my first depressive episode. My mood was dangerously low. Knowing God’s presence and love brought it up a little higher, but it was still far from normal. Yet somehow I felt the joy of the Spirit inside. Depression and joy at the same time.

Lately it’s been tougher. It seems like I’m either weighed down by the pain of this world or walking in His peace and joy. So my prayer for myself and for my readers is to be more like Jesus in this respect. To have God’s supernatural power within enabling us to be both “troubled in spirit” and filled with joy and peace. At the same time.

God in the Fire

Falling into the flames

After three years of having his medical condition under control, my precious young loved one might be experiencing another flare-up. After three years of knowing that he wasn’t in treatment, that he might never have to deal with it again, that God had spared his life (at least temporarily), my defenses are down. I’ve forgotten how to do the daily walking-with-this-weight-on-my-shoulders thing.

I try not to fall apart when I get the news that a routine lab test shows a potential problem. Scans will be done next week to determine what’s happening. I pray for God’s strength in me. But I fall asleep that night feeling more numb than strong.

I wake up in the morning with a sense of terror, of pain, of being too weak to go through all this again.

Oh God, please heal him. Please let the tests show that he’s okay. Please take away every last trace of this condition. Please, please, please. Praying. Begging. Pleading. Over and over again. Agonizing.

Getting up and getting ready for the day. Doing a brief reading from Timothy Keller’s Walking With God Through Pain and Suffering. The message from the section “Three in the Furnace” in chapter 11: God is with us in the fire.

And my whole perspective changes.

God’s presence in the fire

It’s not just that He is with me in the fire, as if He’s abstractly within me or beside me as I go through the flames (as I’ve apparently always visualized it), but He is in the fire with me.

God is in the fire. It burns Him. He feels the pain, not just indirectly as He sees it hurting me, but directly, on His own skin (so to speak). It’s scorching Him, too.

And He’s not just in my fire. God is in every fire with every believer in the entire world every minute of every day and night. The fire of every Christian martyr being tortured and beheaded for their faith right now. The fire of every Christian whose family has been crippled by yet another mass shooting. The fire of every Christian victim of injustice. The fire of every Christian who’s simply struggling to cope with everyday life. The God of the Bible is a God of constant pain.

(I’ve said that He’s with every Christian because, biblically, I know that to be true. Is He also ever with unbelievers? I can’t answer that with certainty by citing a specific passage from the Bible. But because of His nature and character as revealed in His Word, I imagine He often is. He loved me while I was still an unsaved sinner. That means He loves the unsaved sinners around me. Why wouldn’t He be with those He loves?)

And He’s taken all this on voluntarily, by His own free choice.

God’s power over pain

I can almost picture Him saying, “You think you’ve got troubles? Quit your complaining and consider what I’m going through.” And yet, of course, He doesn’t.

There’s a sense (beyond my understanding) in which God actually hurts. Not because He couldn’t prevent it if He chose to do so. He allows Himself to feel the sting just as His Son allowed the Romans to crucify Him. Because of that, He understands our pain more deeply and completely than we can ever imagine.

But at the same time, He has power over all pain. As much power as He has over everything else. Pain cannot change His innate character, as it will change mine for better or for worse. It cannot harm Him. No matter how great it is (like bearing every wound of every believer every minute of every day and night), in a sense it’s just a speck of dust compared to His eternal Being. He can handle it without flinching or complaining.

My life is like a finite jug of water. If you keep dripping the black ink of suffering into it, it will alter the color of the water. It will change me.

God is more like an infinite barrel of bleach. No matter how much black ink you pour into it, the bleach will quickly absorb it and transform it until it’s no longer visible. That’s sort of like what He does with the very real pain that he feels. Rather than letting it change Him, He transforms it.

When I’m in Christ, He can absorb and transform my suffering, as if my jug is now immersed in His barrel. His bleach seeps in, often slowly, over time. But as I read and reflect on Keller’s comments, it rushes in all at once. I’m suddenly and miraculously released from the agony that I’m feeling. My heart is lighter and my day is brighter. I don’t seem to have the capacity to worry and fret and grieve over the news of the threat to my loved one’s health.

My response

Is this the “victorious Christian life” that I hear so much about? Should we expect to be such super Christians that we can take every complaint to God and be instantly relieved of it? Should I be walking around with a cheerful smile on my face every moment, in spite of the very real possibility of losing this loved one?

I don’t think so.

Much of the time God allows us to continue hurting in order to fulfill His greater purposes. How can I minister to others who are suffering if I feel no ongoing pain? How can I do as He does and walk through the fire with them? I need to be scorched, I need to blister and peel, or I won’t be able to relate to those who are being consumed by the flames. When I’m in the fire with them, God can use me to strengthen them and maybe even pull them out.

So why did God provide this instantaneous relief for me at this particular time? I have to wonder if it was His sign that my loved one is going to be okay. Further analysis shows no indication that the illness has returned. The initial test result was alarmingly high, while all the others are in the normal range. The doctor can’t explain the discrepancy, but says he isn’t worried.

The Old Testament mentions many times when God gave someone a sign to confirm in advance something that He had promised would happen soon. I’m not sure how often He does anything like that today. Not very often in my experience. I can remember one other example more than forty years ago. But I’m thinking maybe this was one of those rare occasions.

I treasure this moment of healing from a wound I didn’t think I could bear. I hope I’ll always remember it and respond to God with thanksgiving and joy and awe.

But the greater treasure isn’t my restored well-being. It’s my deepened understanding of who God is. The opening of my eyes to see Him in the fire with me, feeling the heat and the pain just as much as I do.

 

The Fruit of the Spirit

 The fruit

The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22-23).

Who are these verses describing? Us, as followers of Christ? Yes, to some extent. The Holy Spirit is growing these characteristics in us. But like the produce in my grocery store, every piece of my fruit is imperfect—unripened, bruised, or broken. There is only One who always, eternally displays this list of virtues: God. And yet there are fruits listed here that I just don’t think about very often in regard to Him, other than His action in developing them in us. And there are some that the Bible rarely uses to describe Him.

Love, patience, faithfulness

The Scriptures frequently associate three of these words with His nature: love, patience, and faithfulness. Without these qualities, there would be no possibility of my having a personal relationship with Him.

God’s love is expressed in His willingness to go to the greatest lengths to save me.

He demonstrates His patience every time I defy or disappoint Him. He doesn’t just zap me on the spot or instantly revoke my salvation; when I repent, He patiently forgives me and draws me back into His loving arms. Over and over again.

In His faithfulness, He provides for my deepest needs. Daily. Sometimes moment by moment.

Goodness

God’s Word often says that He is good, especially in the Old Testament. But it seems like the only time I hear Christians make this claim is when He says yes to a particular prayer or provides for our needs in unexpected ways. Do I only remember His goodness when He does something good for me?

God is always good. He cannot be anything else. He’s good in the sense that He has no capacity for doing evil. He never sins. He never does wrong. All that He does springs from His total goodness—even in His judgment, even when He allows terrible things to happen. Because of His innate goodness, He can fulfill His promise that all that we witness and experience—including that judgment and those terrible things—will work together for good for His followers (Romans 8:28).

These four words are used throughout the Bible to describe God’s character and actions. But what about the other five fruit?

Joy and peace

I understand that our God must be a God of joy and peace or I wouldn’t be able to bear this fruit. But when I’m struggling and hurting and suffering, I focus on, and I need to know, His sympathy, His sadness, His aching heart. It’s hard to imagine God smiling away in perfect peace as He sees my pain and the brokenness of His creation. And yet, somehow, he always dwells in joy and peace. Maybe because He sees below the surface to the good stuff underneath.

When I’m mourning a loss, He knows that I only grieve for those I’ve loved. That love was deeper and longer-lasting than my grief will ever be. My broken heart heals with time, but the years can never erase the blessings I experience because of the love that I’ve shared with someone else.

When I’m sick or injured, it feels like my whole life is wrapped up in my agony. But it’s actually only one small part of me. I’m still His child, reflecting His image, growing into His fruit-of-the-Spirit likeness. Much of that growth comes because of my suffering.

Maybe God is rejoicing in the good in my life even during my bad times. Maybe His peace stems from looking ahead to see how my light and momentary troubles will bring greater love and joy and hope and faith into His creation. Maybe He really can be filled with unspeakable joy and unshakable peace even as He shares my sorrow.

Kindness and gentleness

I like the idea of a kind, gentle God. One who treats me with tenderness and understanding and concern for my well-being. This is the God I turn to when I’m hurting.

But I can only find a few verses that explicitly state that these qualities are a part of who He is. God’s kindness is meant to bring us to repentance (Romans 2:4). Jesus describes Himself as gentle (Matthew 11:29). Most of the other references to these two traits are reminders that we need to exhibit them.

Illustrations of God’s kindness and gentleness appear throughout the Bible, though, especially in the person of Jesus. His actions speak louder than many thousands of words ever could.

Self-control

When I first started reflecting on the fruit of the Spirit as aspects of God’s character, I wasn’t sure that self-control applied to Him. I was thinking of it as something we fallen humans must exercise to keep from destroying ourselves and our planet. We need it to resist the evil around us and within us. But God is perfect. And perfectly good. Why would He need self-control? How do we see Him demonstrating it?

Then one day while I was reading from the prophets, I had one of those “Well, duh!” moments. In His mercy, God is continually exercising His self-control as His precious but rebellious creatures despise and defy Him. The books of the prophets are full of descriptions of His intense and well-justified wrath. Without His self-control, He would have destroyed this planet long ago.

Wrath

But that potent word “wrath” bothers me. How can a God of wrath also be the source and the prime example of the fruit of the Spirit? Isn’t there some kind of contradiction here?

I look to Jesus’ example in the Gospels for an answer to this dilemma. And here’s what I see: Jesus violently removing the money-changers from the Temple courts. Twice (John 2:13-17, Matthew 21:12-13). Jesus scathingly humiliating and reprimanding the religious leaders of His day in front of large groups of people. Many times (e.g. Matthew chapters 12 and 23). Jesus displaying His wrath.

And how did the poor, the weak, the weary, and the down-trodden respond? The Bible indicates that they were initially puzzled as they marveled at His audacity. But He attracted many followers from among this group. They must have come to realize that His wrath was turned against those who were abusing and tormenting the vulnerable and the helpless. Those who claimed to speak for God while coldly enforcing the letter of their laws and ignoring the spirit of His laws. The common people could see, and delight in, the absolute fairness of Jesus’ wrathful judgments.

One of the biggest struggles I have with the God of the Bible is the concept of hell. How could I ever be at peace in heaven, knowing that someone that I loved in this life was suffering through eternal torment? Maybe, just like the poorest people who followed and worshipped Jesus when He scolded the Pharisees and cleansed the Temple, maybe in the next life my eyes will be opened to see God’s perfect fairness, and I will experience His perfect peace.

Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. These aren’t just character traits that the Holy Spirit is growing in us. Together, they make up a beautiful description of God Himself.

 

 

Really?

 Questioning God’s Word

    I’m so bad about questioning the Bible. I know it’s the truth, I know God inspired every word, I know He knows what He’s talking about. But too often I read a passage and a little voice in my head says, “That’s not how life really works.”

    It’s just a little doubt, a minor disagreement with God. Is it all that important? Probably. After all, what I’m actually thinking is, “This one brief phrase, this one tiny sentence isn’t true. Even though it’s part of God’s Word, I don’t believe it.” At those times, I’m grateful for the many examples in the Old Testament of how God responded patiently and tenderly to people like Abraham, Moses, David, and Job when they questioned Him.

    My latest issue is with Psalm 145:14-16 (italics added): “The Lord upholds all those who fall and lifts up all who are bowed down. The eyes of all look to you, and you give them their food at the proper time. You open your hand and satisfy the desires of every living thing.”

    Really??? All I have to do is look at the world around me to see that this claim isn’t true.

Taking it too literally

    My basic nature is that of a left-brained nerd. I want to take every word, every verse, every book of the Bible completely literally. So I stumble over passages like this.

    But the Bible isn’t always as literal as many of us (evangelicals in particular) want to believe. Especially certain parts, like the Psalms. When I stop clinging to my own way of thinking and let the Holy Spirit guide me, I realize that maybe this passage is not intended to be an exact description of how the world actually works or a promise that God will always fix whatever's broken. Instead, it might simply be a joyful celebration of God’s generosity and provision, written in hyperbole to emphasize just how amazing and overflowing that generosity is.

    I’ve come across other passages where the Holy Spirit seems to be using hyperbole (an exaggeration of the literal truth in order to emphasize a point or create an effect), rather than stating a fact. When I looked up “hyperbole” in Wikipedia, one of the three examples the article listed was from the Bible. Maybe Wikipedia recognizes nuances in Scripture better than we evangelicals do.

Examining my mental images

    As I’m reading these verses today, something else that helps me to understand them is to reflect on the image they create in my mind. I’m picturing someone who has fallen and is supernaturally set upright on their feet by God. Someone who is bowed down with a heavy weight and whose back is miraculously straightened by our Lord. Complete instantaneous healing.

    But then I remember days when I’ve fallen or been bowed down and remained in that position, and yet, at the same time, felt the upholding and lifting up of the Lord.

    I heard a song a few years ago on a secular radio station. I was in a hard place at the time. A medical issue was messing with my brain, and bad things were happening in my life. When I heard this song, though, I smiled at the refrain, “My head’s underwater, but I’m breathing fine.”*

    I didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the lyrics, but that one line, at that time, kind of summed up what was going on inside of me. My head was underwater. I should have been drowning. I should have been fighting for each breath and finding only water filling my lungs. I should have been panic-stricken, straining to reach the surface in search of oxygen. Instead, I was breathing fine.

    I had fallen on the floor. I was bowed down by the weight of many sorrows. God didn’t set me up on my feet or straighten my back, as I thought this psalm was promising. He didn’t take the pain and the helplessness away. But He elevated and supported my sprawled-out body. He lifted me up in His everlasting arms with my back still bent. He was the reason I could breathe just fine even though my head was underwater.

    Did He follow through on His apparent promise in Psalm 145? Not if I take it in a more literal sense, meaning that he solved all my problems. But spiritually, He went far beyond my expectations and understanding. Although I was still hurting, He upheld me on the inside. He lifted me up into His joy and peace and love. He provided the kind of food that I needed the most—the spiritual, not the physical. He satisfied my deepest desires—to know Him, to walk with Him, to experience His presence.

    Will I remember this lesson when I read other similar passages and that little voice in my head says, “That’s not true!”? Will I keep my perspective and praise God for His compassionate, generous, faithful character even when life is tough?

    Some day, I hope to move on to where I can fully trust Him and take Him at His Word. Not sure that will happen in this lifetime. But I know that through this latest reading of Psalm 145 He’s taken me one more step in that direction.

*by John Legend

The Blessing of Beauty

 Beauty as therapy

    Sitting at my computer building an online jigsaw puzzle. Glancing out the window at the front yard. A sense of peace and contentment settles in my soul. I say a quick prayer of thanks to God for the beauty, both man-made and natural, in this world. When I’m struggling with stress and surrounded by suffering, beauty has a calming and uplifting effect.

    Music soothes the savage beast. A familiar saying based on William Congreve’s words, “Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.” Vivid images testifying to the power of this form of beauty. King Saul experienced this truth firsthand when David played his harp for him (1 Samuel 16:14-23).

    A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Another familiar saying, from the poem Endymion by John Keats. My favorite line: “In spite of all, some shape of beauty moves away the pall from our dark spirits.”

    I choose individual online jigsaw puzzles based on the beauty that strikes me as I scroll through the many options. When I started doing yard work several years ago, I was surprised to discover that I enjoyed it. Part of that pleasure comes from watching beauty spring from my fingertips as I pull ugly weeds or rake up dead leaves or trim a ragged bush.

    During my first depressive episode, creating beauty was life-saving. When the suicidal thoughts raged through my brain, drawing me ever closer to the edge of the cliff, I discovered that playing my flute, writing, or doing needlework infused my soul with a sense of calm and peace, pulling me gently back. Moving away the pall.

    Several years ago, researchers reported that people who make their beds when they get up in the morning are happier than those who don’t. I wonder if the act of making the room a little more beautiful lifts up their spirits.

    When the Sudoku craze started, psychologists questioned why so many Americans who weren’t typically attracted to recreational mathematics and logical thinking were suddenly taking up a hobby that involved analytical reasoning. And enjoying it. Studies soon revealed that successfully solving a puzzle activates the pleasure centers in the brain, triggering a sense of well-being. Puzzle-solving creates a kind of beauty where there was once disorder or imbalance or emptiness. We’re physically wired to find enjoyment and peace in creating that beauty.

Art and beauty

    So what happens to a nation that considers it a virtue to tarnish those things that were once used to beautify? When novels are written to expose the gritty side of life. When happy endings are seen as unrealistic and therefore unartistic. When discord is considered a more sophisticated form of music than harmony. When the most critically-acclaimed visual arts employ harsh lines and depressing colors.

    How will a person living in such a culture respond? Maybe by turning to more damaging forms of stimulation, such as drugs and pornography, in an effort to feed those pleasure-center brain cells that are starving from a lack of beauty. Maybe by obsessing about human beauty.

    Many years ago, I decided to stop reading most twentieth-century literature. Up to that time, I’d reasoned that if the critics praised it, I should check it out. But on the whole it’s depressing. I can get enough of that in real life. And I can find other sources of high-quality art without turning to those that I know will bring me down.

    Barry Manilow’s upbeat tunes were panned by the critics as less artistic than the edgy music of his time. But forty years later, I heard a reviewer on the radio comment that Manilow was a much more talented singer and songwriter than he had ever been given credit for in the past.

    It took the passage of time to appreciate the beauty that Manilow had created. It took stepping away from his contemporaries’ idea that good art would challenge our beliefs, wake us up to the problems around us, open our eyes to the difficulties in life. Is that the best use of art? Don’t we come face-to-face with the ugliest realities often enough without deliberately using our sources of man-made beauty for such a purpose?

Real beauty

    At the same time, the greatest examples of beauty don’t deny the fallen side of life. The beauty of nature includes lions who hunt helpless zebras and tear them to shreds when they catch them. The loveliest paintings need shadows to complement the light. A beautiful novel requires painful conflict.

    A crucial part of the most beautiful story of all, God’s provision for the salvation of His creation, was the brutal death of His Son. Real beauty doesn’t gloss over the pain and suffering. To be truly beautiful, art must be based on the realities found in a broken world. But to be uplifting, to stimulate the pleasure centers in our brains and soothe our souls, it must also provide harmony and hope. In Philippians 4:8, Paul advises us to think about the things that are true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy. Our Lord knows the benefits of reflecting on that which is beautiful.

    At this time of uncertainty and suffering and pain and grief, I give thanks to God for the beauty around me. His incredible Word. Sunsets and stars. Flowers and kittens. The internal beauty of people who reflect the image of God. A well-written novel. A pretty painting. A hymn that’s stood the test of time. And I give thanks for the opportunity to create a little bit of beauty of my own.

Maybe It's Not a Command

 God’s commands

    “Do not be anxious about anything” (Philippians 4:6). How often have I been told by the evangelically correct that this is a command, just like “do not worship other gods,” “do not commit adultery,” “do not steal”? Many, many times.

    But it doesn’t sound like one to me. Commands are given in a stern voice with dire consequences for defying them. They’re surrounded by statements about the holiness of God, His perfection, and His complete goodness which is incapable of fellowship with sin and evil. They’re proclaimed from a mountain covered in fire and smoke. A mountain that mustn’t be touched by any animal or any person other than Moses, Aaron, and Joshua on penalty of death. Once a command has been broken, fellowship with God can only be restored through painful and humiliating repentance and sacrifice.

God’s compassion

    But as I read Philippians chapter 4, I’m immersed in God’s kindness and love and understanding. Right before He tells me not to be anxious, He comforts me with His presence in verse 5: “The Lord is near.”

    He follows His encouragement to refrain from worry with instructions on how to overcome my anxiety when it hits: “But in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.” He’s offering me help and hope. Does He ever do that when He’s confronting me with my sin? No. In that case, He says to cut off my hand or gouge out my eye (Matthew 5:29-30). Take extreme measures. Nothing like that is suggested here.

    Verse 7 describes the blessing that will result from my increasing ability to trust Him: “And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” When a command is broken, such peace is only promised after confession and repentance. But there’s no call to repentance here.

    In the well-known passage advising me not to worry found in Matthew chapter 6, Jesus’ words aren’t in the form of a rebuke for sin; they’re more like water and sunshine and fertilizer for my growing faith. He tells me that I’m more valuable than the birds of the air and the lilies of the field. He reminds me that my heavenly Father is gladly providing for my daily needs. His words are spoken with love and compassion. The Bible never treats immoral behavior this way. Sin is far too serious in God’s eyes.

    Peter encourages me to cast all my anxiety on God. He doesn’t advise me to do it because God will punish me if I don’t; he invites me to give my worries to Him because He cares so very much for me (1 Peter 5:7).

    Jesus comforts me in Luke 12:32, “Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom.” He addresses my fear, not with judgment, but as a Shepherd tenderly caring for His sheep. He tells me that my loving Father is pleased to graciously grant me riches beyond my wildest imagining.

The greatest God

    Sometimes I wonder if people reject the God of the Gospel because He sounds too good to be true. How could such a God exist? How could He love me so deeply when I defy Him and disappoint Him on a regular basis? I know I don’t deserve this. Could His grace really be so great, so rich, so free?

    But this is the only kind of god that I could ever worship without reservation, without disappointment, without that little voice inside telling me that He should be better than He is. He must be beyond all my expectations of the best possible god, or He isn’t God at all.

The greatest good

    I also question the idea of seeing Philippians 4:6 as a command because it just doesn’t make sense from a psychological point of view, and I have a feeling that God knows human psychology way better than all the wisest mortal counselors who have ever lived.

    When I was a child, I was a crier. Any little pain, physical or emotional, could bring me to tears. Following the philosophy of their generation, my parents often responded to my weeping by commanding me to quit doing it. The result? I sobbed even more loudly because I was hurt by their lack of understanding and empathy. In a similar way, my anxiety is never, ever reduced or resolved when someone tells me to just stop it.

    I suspect God understands this aspect of human psychology and knows how to deal with it in a way that will lead to the best results. When the evangelically correct command believers to simply cease being anxious, many respond with repression and denial. Hide the anxiety. Pretend it’s not there. Don’t let anyone see it (especially fellow Christians), or you’ll feel guilty and rejected. Others give up on their faith in this God who appears to have no compassion for their struggles.

    God’s way is always the better way. Commanding and expecting me to stop indulging in a particular sin is reasonable and right. Even though I’ll never be perfect in this life, the only way to make any progress in overcoming my evil choices is to recognize that they’re wrong and intentionally turn in the opposite direction. I can find the motivation and the strength to do this because I’ve experienced His forgiveness through Jesus’ sacrifice. That’s the best way to deal with the sin that separates me from the blessing of fellowship with Him.

    But anxiety is a different matter. Soothing my fears, offering realistic ways to work through them, reassuring me of His presence and His care, are far more effective than chastising me. In His love and grace, He provides the better way. The way that meets my deepest needs. The way that increases my faith and my love for Him. The way that draws me nearer to Him. That’s where He wants me to be.