I started thinking about that recently when I heard a brother in Christ sound almost apologetic or embarrassed for describing a totally healthy emotional state. He was sad, but he was also ashamed to be sad, worried that it was somehow unspiritual and immature of him to feel that way. I've grown tired of this mentality that I see too often among the people of God. We expect that "happy all the day" should be the norm for someone who trusts Jesus. And that works fine on good days. But when the bad days stack up, or when they hit particularly hard, is it OK to feel sad (or for that matter, angry)?

     I'll start by saying that any faith without room for sorrow is a deficient faith. But I think even that bar is too low. I would go so far as to argue that sorrow is not just to be tolerated or accommodated, sorrow is a component of spiritual maturity. We know it is psychologically unhealthy to mask our sorrow with a fake smile all the time, but I think it is also spiritually unhealthy to ignore and mask our sorrow.

     Maybe what motivates this is some false idea that the work of Jesus is complete. After all, doesn't Isaiah say of Jesus, "Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows" (Isaiah 53:4)? If he has carried our sorrows, why should we still have them? Psalm 30:5 also says, "Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning." Aren't we through the night and in the morning? Yes and no. Already and not yet. The saving work of Jesus is indeed finished. Sin and death are defeated. The victory of Jesus is already secured, but the application of that victory to our lives is not yet complete. It will be complete when Jesus returns and reigns forever. Until then, we have the foretaste, the first hints of the joyful morning. But we don't have the full experience yet. Now is still the night of weeping.

     Make no mistake, dear reader, I am sorrowful. Even before cancer began threatening to steal the years I had planned with my family and my ministry, I had days of sorrow - true sorrow. But now even more so. And I have shared with you in these writings how the Lord teaches me to act in gratitude, to reach out in dependence, to cling to the hope that I have. And yet sorrow doesn't just go away.  Nor should it.

     Sorrow is spiritually valuable because it tunes us in to the truth about this world. It's the only appropriate reaction to what has become of God's creation. Ecclesiastes 7:2-3 boldly tells us, "It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting, for this is the end of all mankind, and the living will lay it to heart. Sorrow is better than laughter, for by sadness of face the heart is made glad." I'll leave it to the Hebrew scholars to debate the choice to translate the last word as 'glad.' The original word could also mean "right" or "fitting" or "appropriate," which makes more sense in this context. The Preacher of Ecclesiastes is saying that we're all headed towards the grave. This should make us serious. This should make us sad. And as we rightly consider our destiny, we will perhaps more rightly order our remaining days (Psalm 90:12).  Sadness makes us wise.

     One of my favorite series of sermons that we've done at my church is "Singing Our Sorrow," a study of just a few of the Psalms that put the sorrows of God's people into singable poetry. The challenge for the pastors was not how to preach on it, but rather how to narrow down which of the many possible Psalms we would choose to preach on. Sorrow is a vital part of the Christian experience. There's a whole book named after sadness (Lamentations)!

     Or perhaps look to our Savior. Jesus is described in Isaiah 53:3 as, "a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief." He stood at the tomb of Lazarus and wept (John 11:33-35). He cried over the unrepentant souls in Jerusalem (Luke 19:41-44). He cried bitterly in Gesthemene as his death drew near (Hebrews 5:7). Jesus himself was not "happy all the day."

     There's a way to have sorrow that is immature and worldly - focused on self, leading to despair.  Then there is true sorrow, holy sorrow, like what Jesus displayed.  Philosopher Nicholas Wolterstorff, meditating on the tragic death of his son, wrote "Grief is existential testimony to the worth of the one loved" (Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son, p.5)  Or in the way the rock band Switchfoot adapted the quote, "Every lament is a love song" (Switchfoot, Yesterdays).  Jesus wept because something good had been lost.  Something worth loving was marred and broken and gone.  It would be immature of us to face such losses without pain.  It would mean our capacity to love was lacking.  So sorrow is truly spiritual. It is a mark of maturity for those who see the world and human experience as God wants us to see it - meant to be beautiful, marred by sin, moving towards beauty again.

     We are encouraged by Jesus in Matthew 5:4, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted." Sorrow is spiritually right in a fallen world, but we won't always be in a fallen world. Sorrow is one of those attributes that we will not need or experience in God's New Heavens and Earth. But until then, until the day when every cause for pain and sadness is erased, until then it is fitting and wise to react with sorrow when facing death and pain and brokenness.

     As believers, our joy anticipates the reality to come, trusting what Christ has promised and what he has done. Our sorrow recognizes the reality that is here, looking to Christ for comfort and deliverance.  Wolterstorff, in the midst of his despair, notes that after losing his son, "Sorrow is no longer the islands but the sea" (Wolterstroff, p47).  In suh a life, joy may only be the occassional island of escape in the middle of a sorrowful life.  The hope of the Christian is that we anticipate a day when joy is the sea - vast and unbroken, deep and refreshing.  Joy eternal.  So maybe the old song is just ahead of its time. Instead of "now I am happy all the day," maybe we should sing "soon I'll be happy all the day."

     I was reminded of the trickiness of that question recently when I watched an interview with one of the boxing legends of my childhood, Mike Tyson. Tyson was being interviewed by a teenage girl who asked him what he'd like his legacy to be. In a startlingly profane and morbid response (much of which I cannot repeat here), Tyson replied, “We’re nothing. We’re dust. We’re absolutely nothing. Our legacy is nothing.” His response boiled down to this: the dead don't care about anything because the dead cease to exist. Why should we care about how we're remembered? The moment we die, there is no "us" to care.

     While Tyson's response was shocking, especially since he was answering a question from a young girl, he's not wrong. At least from a worldly, Christ-less, evolutionary perspective, all we are is a complex organization of dust, and when our bodies die, there won't be anything left of us to care. The Preacher of Ecclesiastes 3:19-20 describes that view this way: "For what happens to the children of man and what happens to the beasts is the same; as one dies, so dies the other. They all have the same breath, and man has no advantage over the beasts, for all is vanity. All go to one place. All are from the dust, and to dust all return." To be more realistic about where that view leads, someday the universe will cease to exist, and that, too, will be meaningless. There will be no one to care. Even the greatest philanthropist who helps millions or perhaps billions of people must remember that their legacy will fade into oblivion as humanity ends and there will be no one to remember or celebrate anything. That is the only future possible in a universe without God.

     In such a grim and depressing worldview, the word "legacy" is meaningless. It is folly. The idea of legacy only makes sense if there is an eternal reality that outlasts our time on earth, and an enduring standard of good by which our deeds can be measured. In the Broadway musical Hamilton, at the moment before his death, Alexander Hamilton muses, "What is a legacy? It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see." I've been thinking on that lyric for a few months now. What is my legacy? What seeds have I planted in a garden I may not get to see?

     My first thought goes to my children. Have I planted good seeds in their lives with my instruction and my example? Will they mature in Christ as a garden of spiritual beauty and wisdom and courage? The hard news I received in December warned me that medical science does not expect me to get to see that garden in bloom. Is it enough for me to have planted the seeds? Then my thoughts turn to my decades of ministry. My teaching, my preaching, my training, my evangelism, my counseling - will any of it make a lasting difference? I believe it will, but the enemy would love to convince me that it was all in vain. I've never been good at gardening. Most of the seeds I plant either never sprout or else they die quickly. Is it the same with my ministry?

     When I first sensed the Lord calling me into overseas missions 29 years ago, I believed I sensed the Holy Spirit telling me, "You will be a sower of seeds," and at the time I felt called to minister in places where the gospel had not yet been proclaimed. Ever since then, I've clung to the hope of verses like 1 Corinthians 3:6-8 "I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth. He who plants and he who waters are one, and each will receive his wages according to his labor." These verses assure me that even those who never see the harvest still have a rewarding role to play, so long as they are faithful. I also cherish Jesus' Parable of the Seed in Mark 4:26-29. It's a picture of the mystery of God's kingdom growing where we've scattered seeds, though "[we] know not how."

     So yes, in God's kingdom, our legacy can be planting seeds in a garden we never get to see, trusting that God will make all good things grow. That's a little more hopeful than Mike Tyson's take, but I think it's still not enough. The more I consider this issue from a Scriptural perspective, the more I see that the reason I have hope for a personal legacy is also the reason I have hope that anything I do matters today. I have that hope when I remember that God told Jeremiah to buy a field. The story of Jeremiah 32 is oddly placed. After so many chapters predicting the imminent siege and destruction of Jerusalem, chapter 31 promises restoration and the hope of a new covenant. And then that is followed by a real estate transaction.  It's not just confusing to modern readers.  Even Jeremiah asks for an explanation (Jeremiah 32:25) Really, it's beautiful.

     In the Old Testament, owning land in Israel represented your legacy - what you would pass on to future generations, it was the promise that you would be remembered. But when God tells Jeremiah to buy a field, the foreign armies are closing in. The land will soon be overrun and the cities burned. Worse than that, God has said that for 70 years the land will be a waste. Buying a field will not guarantee a legacy; it makes no sense. Except it does. It makes sense because God has promised to restore. God has promised that what was burned will be renewed, what was stolen will be redeemed, what was barren will bear fruit. The purchase of the field was an act of faith that God would certainly make the land new again, and Jeremiah wants to be in on that. Though he would not live to see that prophesy fulfilled, that purchase was an act of faith that investing in God's kingdom is never a waste.

     Every good labor, every cup of water given in his name, every gospel truth shared, every act of obedience is not wasted. They are seeds that will not die, because God will make them grow. They are fields that will one day bear fruit again. As I write this, it is just a few days before Easter, and I am reminded that the resurrection of Jesus magnifies the promise of restoration. We will rise with him and see the garden of all the seeds we planted. We will rejoice together and with him that, because Jesus is risen, "in the Lord [our] labor is not in vain" (1 Corinthians 15:58).

     Whatever difference my life has made (and will yet make with all the years the Lord may give me), I can rest in knowing that, to the extent that I walked faithfully and acted obediently, and even in my failures and wanderings, God's kingdom will be honored and his name made great. Not because I got it right, but because he is at work in me, through me, and in spite of me, to accomplish all the amazing things that I can't now imagine.

     I don't think there was anything wrong with laughing during Tom's service. Over the years, our culture has shifted from having a "funeral" to having a "memorial service" to having a "celebration of life." And laughing during such an occasion is a privilege that is given to the children of God. After all, we have been told that God's people "[should] not grieve as others do who have no hope" and that if we do so, it is because we are "uninformed" (1 Thessalonians 4:13). I don't think there's anything too controversial about the idea that when a brother or sister dies in the Lord, we can mix laughter with our sorrow as we remember them.

     But what about when a brother or sister is not yet dead? What about during sickness? What about when someone (like me) has been given a terminal diagnosis and needs God to miraculously heal or else death is the expected outcome? Can we make jokes about that? As you might expect, there's not a simple yes or no answer to this. Ecclesiastes 3:4 tells us there is "a time to laugh." And since that passage tends to pair up contrasts, laughter is paired with weeping - a time to weep, and a time to laugh. Well, we've done our share of weeping in my home lately. But we've also found time to laugh. And sometimes, the funniest thing in the room is my cancer.

     When I make a stupid move in a card game (something I often did even before cancer), my daughter will tease "brain tumor!" My wife laughs at the odd pattern on my head from where the hair has fallen out. My son and his friends ask if the radiation has given me superpowers yet. One of them offered to supply the spider to speed things up. But each family and each person deals with suffering in their own way. Laughing doesn't mean we're not taking things seriously, and it doesn't mean we're not grieving.

     With all that in mind, we can't neglect a bit of pastoral sensitivity and wisdom. We need to be extra careful that we are laughing with someone who suffers and not laughing at them.  A person who is suffering might not be ready to joke yet. There is a normal, healthy process that we move through, each at our own pace. I had to be taught a lesson about that recently: I made a joke about my tumor while preaching. I thought it was funny, but it went over like a lead balloon. Not even a sympathy chuckle. As the elders of my church explained to me the next day, "It's OK if you make jokes about it. Just don't expect us to laugh." It was a timely reminder that I am not alone in this, and that my church family is grieving with me. Their grief will look different from mine, and it may move at a different pace. We always need to be sensitive to that.

     Some people may never reach the point where they are comfortable finding humor in the midst of pain, and that's OK. That's not immature or unspiritual. But, as Paul said to the Thessalonian church, "I do not want you to be uninformed." We don't make jokes because we believe that "laughter is the best medicine." And we're not joking because it helps to distract us from the morbid reality we face. For the believer, gallows humor is only possible because of Jesus. That might sound odd, but hear me out.

     If despair was the only proper response to sickness and death, then humor would be inappropriate. We can't joke about something that destroys us and leaves us with no hope. Despite how the movies might show it, you don't crack jokes about a beast that is about to devour you. You can't be humorous about the oppressive tyrant with his boot on your throat. You make jokes about something that has lost its power to intimidate. I read a glimpse of this in a psychology article that said, "Gallows humor is a coping mechanism that renders absurd what scares us most." Psychology says that our jokes make our fears absurd so we can cope. The gospel says we can laugh because death has already been made impotent by the work of Christ.

     There's a line in Psalm 2 that we should consider here. The scene begins with a rebellion against God and his anointed king (Messiah): "The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the LORD and against his Anointed." Notice how God reacts: "He who sits in the heavens laughs; the Lord holds them in derision" (Psalm 2:2-6). God laughs because his enemies are as good as defeated; they don't stand a chance against the power of God and his chosen king. That's not just true of earthly kings and their oppression of God's children. It is true of the greatest enemy that God's people ever face. The cross of Jesus is the victory of God over death. Not just victory over the death of Jesus, but victory over death itself (1 Corinthians 15:20-26).

     The followers of Christ share in his victory. For me, humor is part of the victory dance. The ability to laugh testifies to the confidence we have that death doesn't win the war. It may win for a season, but its power to intimidate and steal hope has been taken away. It still hurts, of course, and there is a time for weeping. We're not yet in the time or place where God has wiped away not only every tear but also every cause for tears (Isaiah 25:8, Revelation 21:4). But the resurrection and promise of Jesus saves the believer from the FEAR of death (remember Hebrews 2:14-15!). Most of us (except for those alive when Christ returns) will die a physical death sooner or later - the resurrection of Jesus doesn't change that. What the resurrection changes is the way that death affects us. It is no longer the mighty tyrant holding us captive. It can be teased, it can be mocked, it has been defeated.

     It's not a joke to my kids that their dad might be dying. It is a joke that he can't eat all the unhealthy things he used to, that he needs other people to drive him around, that there's a hole in the middle of his brain, that he'll always have a hairless scar on the top of his head, etc. Through our humor, we remind one another that just because this cancer might end in my death, that doesn't mean death wins. Death cannot steal the joy we have in living together with however many years the Lord gives us. Death cannot take the hope that we will see one another again in gloriously perfect bodies. Death cannot use fear to spoil the happiness that we may yet experience in life.

     Every joke makes death's grip on us a little weaker. Every quip expresses our faith that death is defeated. I dare say: humor in the valley of the shadow of death is a confession of faith. So laugh with me, if you can. (Don't feel bad if you can't. Even before cancer, most of my jokes weren't funny anyway.) And if you laugh, laugh as one who has hope; laugh as one who understands that the darkness will soon pass, that the perishable will put on the imperishable, and that death is swallowed up in victory.

     In talking about my condition, my diagnosis, and my life-expectancy over the past two and a half months, the phrases "Best case scenario" and "worst case scenario" have come up quite a few times. Medically speaking, my diagnosis is "worst case scenario." The way my body has not suffered harmful side effects during radiation and chemotherapy has been described as "best case scenario." But when it comes to the children of God, best case and worst case need to undergo a rewrite. But a careful one.

     The apostle Paul, while suffering in prison and mindful of a possible death sentence, wrote to the church in Phillipi, "To live is Christ, to die is gain" (Philippians 1:21). That's what was on my mind when I casually made that remark - because of what the Bible tells us happens to the believer when they leave this life, my death truly is best-case scenario for me. Just as another pastor friend commented when we spoke over the phone from the hospital the day I learned about my tumor, "I'm jealous - you get to be with Jesus!" Without denying the truth of those statements, we need to slow down and read Paul's words in context to understand them better.

     Paul begins by expressing a thought that has guided my response to having cancer: "It is my eager expectation and hope that I will not be at all ashamed, but that with full courage now as always Christ will be honored in my body, whether by life or by death" (Philippians 1:20). I may not be in prison for my faith, but my prayer for myself (in addition to praying for complete healing) is that I will honor Christ, in life or in death. It is with that in mind that Paul explains to his friends that to live is Christ (his purpose in life is to honor Christ, as he explains in verse 22) and to die is gain (death is not defeat or loss, but the great gain of heaven's joys).

     But we need to keep reading to understand Paul more fully.  Because in what follows Paul opens up his heart to show the same inner struggle that I feel as well. "Yet which I shall choose I cannot tell. I am hard pressed between the two. My desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better. But to remain in the flesh is more necessary on your account" (Philippians 1:22-24). Do I want to continue living my family and church and friends? Yes! Do I want to be with Jesus in a perfect existence? Yes! I'm torn between the two.  I know how amazing it will be in the presence of God, but I love my wife and kids so much that I ache when I imagine leaving them.  And I have precious friendships to continue and a fruitful ministry that feels incomplete.  I am torn between the two!

     Yet, when both options are considered, being with Christ is "far better." But, for the sake of those that we love and serve, we continue in this life. For me to remain living is important to my family, who love me and rely on me to protect and provide for them. For me remain living is important to my church, where God has given me great opportunities to serve through the ministry of the Word. I don't do anything that he cannot do without me, but for whatever reason, he continues to use me. And as long as that is the case, I continue.

     So even if "best case scenario" for Paul is being with Jesus, that's not the best case scenario for Paul overall, when he considers the work and relationships God has given him. So when I told my friend that my death was "best case scenario," I failed to consider it in light of the bigger picture of who I am and who God has allowed me to be. So I take it back. I am unafraid to die, but I am not eager to do so... not yet.

     It's not at all unspiritual to cherish the family, friends, and ministry God has given me so that I am uneager to depart from them, even though I know I go to something better. The trick is to still hold such gifts (life, breath, health, family, friends) with an open hand, so that when God does determine that my time in the flesh is finished, I go to him with joy.

     Paul resolves his dilemma thus: "Convinced of this [that my staying alive is important for your sake], I know that I will remain and continue with you all, for your progress and joy in the faith, so that in me you may have ample cause to glory in Christ Jesus" (Philippians 1:25-26). Let me learn from this that best case scenario for me is to honor Christ in my body, whether by life or by death. I pray that for now and for many years to come, it will be by life.

     One of my favorite books of the Bible has always been 1 Peter. It opens with a joyful reminder of our heavenly inheritance and the security we have in Christ. Then Peter jumps right into the gritty reality of life on this side of eternity. "You rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith — more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire — may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ" (1 Peter 1:6-7). That's a bit of a complicated sentence, let's unpack it:

     Gold is tested by fire, which reveals the impurities so that they can be removed as the gold melts. Through testing, genuine gold is revealed. But even the purest gold will one day perish (or perhaps be repurposed into pavement in heaven!). Peter's point is that faith, which is much more precious than gold, is also tested. Gold is tested by fire and made more pure; what tests and purifies our faith? Trials.

     "Trial" is a bit of a vague term in the Bible. It can mean "temptation" (as in Matthew 6:13, 1 Corinthians 10:13, etc). It can mean a test (as in Hebrews 3:8, 1 Peter 4:12, etc). It can mean a burden (see Galatians 4:14). Or just difficult circumstances (as in Luke 22:28, Acts 20:19, etc). So what Peter is saying here is probably a double meaning. The difficult circumstances of life - in the case of Peter's audience, being persecuted for following Jesus - serve as a test of our faith.

     If my faith is only present in favorable times, it is not genuine. If my faith departs when difficulties enter my life, it is not genuine. This is the fate of the seed sown on rocky soil. Jesus says as much in Luke 8:13, "The ones on the rock are those who, when they hear the word, receive it with joy. But these have no root; they believe for a while, and in time of testing fall away." Faith is easy when the weather is good, our bodies are healthy, our bank balance is sufficient, and friends support us. When losses hit hard, when friends and finances flee, when bodies break and groan, if we fall away then our hope was not in God but in his gifts.  The one who suffers under trials is forced to ask, Do I still trust God? Do I confess that he is good, wise, and mighty?  Do I look to Christ to give me all I need? That is the testing of faith. And faith that is tested and proven genuine is precious indeed.

     Writing to Christians as the Roman Empire crumbled, Augustine of Hippo weighed the question of why some who called themselves Christians cursed God during the crisis while others worshipped him. Did the suffering itself cause them to reject God? Augustine argued that no, the trial does not create the character of a person. The trial reveals what was already there:

"Thus the wicked, under pressure of affliction, execrate God and blaspheme; the good, in the same affliction, offer up prayers and praises. This shows what matters is the nature of the sufferer, not the nature of the sufferings. Stir a cesspit, and a foul stench arises; stir a perfume, and a delightful fragrance ascends. But the movement is identical."

(from Augustine's City of God, page 14)

     Job and his wife suffered the same losses. Her response was "Curse God and die!" Job's response was "Blessed be the name of the Lord!" Same trial, but only one was shown to have faith.

     What Peter writes and what Augustine illustrates is what I hope I am  demonstrating in my life. In this illness and all the sad news that follows after it, I am undergoing a trial. My faith is tested. Will I stay faithful to God only so long as he gives me what I think is good and right? That's not faith. That requires little or no trust. But faith that follows God through the valleys of weeping and hardship shows itself to be genuine.

     Another Biblical author, James, adds this encouragement: "Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness." (James 1:2-3). James' observation is that tested and proven faith is stronger. Once we learn that we can trust God in the hard times, we are better able to trust him in the not-as-hard times. And in the even-harder times.

     So perhaps this will all be a short chapter in a much longer story of my life. Or perhaps the Lord plans to bring me home sooner than I expected. Either way, this season of life is the stirring of the pot, a trial to show whether a foul stench or a delightful fragrance arises. I did not ask to be tested in this way, but I try to count it all joy nevertheless, because as Peter said earlier, that tested genuineness of my faith will result in praise, glory, and honor.

     My main complaint about the week I spent in the hospital before and after my surgery was the pillows. Given how much a night in those rooms costs, I would expect that the pillows would be a little more comfortable. But I wasn’t there to be made comfortable. I was there to go under the knife.

     And as I reflect on that, I remember a comment I came across a few years ago. A friend of a friend was criticizing churches. Her complaint was that too many churches are not places where everyone is accepted just as they are. Now, I don't know this woman well at all and I don't know where she is in her relationship to Christ, but I do know she has been hurt by churches and that she has a heart for people who are different. I can sympathize with her and commend her for that. But her comment carries an assumption that has crept into popular thought about the church, something that I thought about during my recent hospital stay. There is a distinction to be made between welcoming people as they are and accepting people as they are. The church should always do the former. It should never do the latter.  The hospital welcomed me with a tumor, but they did not accept that I should remain unchanged.  The call to welcome sinners is not the same as a call to accept sin.

    Making people feel accepted and affirmed is not the end goal of Christian community. No more than making sure you are comfortable is the primary goal of the hospital staff when they admit you for surgery. Sure, they want you to feel safe and comfortable in their care, but their objective is much bigger than that. There is work to do on your body, work that will probably involve pain and discomfort, but which will ultimately lead to a greater comfort than you are capable of experiencing now. When a church becomes a place where welcome and acceptance are the highest virtues and greatest priorities, it becomes like a hospital with the fluffiest pillows but no knives. There is no healing in such a place as that.

     One of my pastors from many years ago used to say that his job was to “comfort the afflicted and to afflict the comfortable” (I didn't know it at the time, but he was quoting 19th century journalist Finley Peter Dunne). It's not just the openly rebellious, the thieves and murderers and adulterers who are called to repent of their sins and to turn from their current path and follow Jesus. It is all of us. The church does a grave disservice to her hearers when she neglects to call them to repentance and seeks instead to reinforce the delusion that we are just fine the way that we are. To love sinners, to truly love them the way Jesus would, our work cannot end at welcoming them, embracing them, listening to them, and seeing in them image-bearers of their creator and ours. No, that is only the beginning. It's only the beginning for all of us.

     I need to stand before God's Word like a man looking in the mirror, allowing it to reveal my deficiencies and sins (James 1:21-25). I need to call my religious, moral, kind-hearted brothers and sisters to do the same. As a preacher on Sunday morning, I do not seek to reinforce the complacency of people who think they are fine just the way they are. I call everyone to examine themselves in the light of God's design and expectations and to rely on the power of the Holy Spirit to change us into conformity with the image of God in Jesus Christ (Romans 8:29). We expect nothing less of everyone who passes through our doors. To deny this is to be a hospital that refuses to perform surgery, lest it hurt someone.  After all, the church preaches the Word of God, which Hebrews 4:12 describes as, "sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart."

     The accusation then comes that this is inconsistent with grace. Grace demands nothing of us, we are told. I submit that this is half right. Unconditional welcome and acceptance is half the story of grace. The grace of God receives us as we are – the father in Luke 15:11-24 embraced the runaway son, even though his son was covered in filth upon his return. But he didn't leave him in filth. He called for him to be re-clothed in fitting garments. The woman caught in adultery is not condemned by Christ, but she is called to leave her sin behind (John 8:1-11). Scripture tells us that the grace of God “teaches us to renounce ungodliness and worldly passions, and to live self-controlled, upright, and godly lives in the present age” (Titus 2:12).

     Yes, too often the people of God have confused the spiritual surgery of gracious correction with something ungracious and unhelpful. Too often we have stood at the door to the hospital, refusing to allow the sick and hurting to enter. This, too, is wrong. But to joyfully bring in the wounded and diseased and then to deny them the healing they need simply to be polite is also wrong.

     To call on sinful people (and by that, I mean all of us) to turn from what is sinful according to God's Word is not inconsistent with loving them and welcoming them. And to insist that we must choose either one approach or the other (i.e., to say we must either be gracious and welcoming or else speak of sin and call people to repentance) is a false dichotomy. Most of us lean too much in one direction or the other. Some have fully abandoned one in pursuit of the other. We are all called to both. Jesus did both. The church should be characterized by both. Only both of these things together will provide the healing needed by sin-sick souls.

     I shouldn't be talking about my death. Or at least that's what some of my brothers and sisters in Christ would suggest. They caution Christians that to talk about our illnesses as if they might end in death (even a few years down the road, as in my case) is to lack faith that God will heal us. I disagree.

     It is with great love for these brothers and sisters that I disagree with them. I do not doubt that they love the Lord and I know their faith is great, perhaps greater than mine. But I don't believe that accepting death as a possible or even likely outcome is a lack of faith. To believe that would be to give faith a power that God has not given it. Faith is accepting the world as God presents it to us and living in response to that reality.

     For example, the world tells me to work as much as I can and that my worth comes from my productivity. God tells me to stop every seventh day and that my value comes from my creation and redemption at his hands, and not from what I produce. Faith accepts God's script and takes a Sabbath rest. The world tells me that people who hurt me and who sin against me deserve my hatred, my acts of revenge, or (if I'm feeling kind) my cold shoulder. God tells me to love them. Faith accepts God's rendering of the world and moves towards our enemies in love. Faith is not what makes the Sabbath beautiful or what makes my enemy love-worthy. Faith is my action in response to the reality that God presents. And so faith can only respond to what God has clearly said is true.

     When it comes to my cancer, faith can only respond to the truths that God is in control, that he has numbered my days, that he does all things well, that he is able to heal, and that I may rejoice and glorify him in all circumstances of my life. Do I believe God can heal me and extend my days beyond what the doctors expect? Absolutely. Do I have certain assurance from him that he will do so? No I do not. And that is because God typically works through what we call "ordinary means." When an orange falls from a tree branch, is God able to stop it from hitting the ground? Absolutely, no doubt about it. Do we have reason to believe he will? No. Because unless he has a special reason to intervene, God allows the ordinary means that he has created - gravity, weather, photosynthesis, cellular mitosis, entropy, etc. - to work the way he designed them to work. Even sinful and sad parts of his creation work this way, things that will not exists in the New Heavens and Earth (Revelation 21:4), things like earthquakes, predators, mental illness, and even cancer.   

     I have always considered that the work of the physical sciences is simply a matter of learning to describe the way the world works when God isn't intervening in a miraculous way. Right now, scientists know a lot about how our bodies work, and they know a good bit about how cancer works, and they know some about how surgery, radiation, and medicines can affect cancers. And they know, through repeated observation, how long a body usually lives with certain types of cancer. To acknowledge that is no different than acknowledging that eating certain foods makes our bodies fat or sick. God could prevent that in a particular person's life, if he chose to. But unless he steps in and does something extra-ordinary (meaning "out of the ordinary"), then the human body and all of nature operate according to what is "ordinary."  

     My attitude is not, I think, defeatist. Instead, I find myself resonating with the faith of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in Daniel 3:17-18, "Our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up.” Do you see that? They believe 1) God is able to miraculously deliver them; 2) they believe God will deliver them; 3) but if he does not deliver them, they will continue to walk in obedience. They accepted that God might not choose to intervene to save them, and if so, then people thrown into a furnace will ordinarily burn. But that won't change their faith. Their confidence is not based on whether or not God steps in, their confidence is that serving God is right, no matter how their story plays out.

     God is able to heal me. Maybe he will heal me (I do really pray he would). But if not, I still worship, serve, obey, follow, love, and thank him. Perhaps my personality and life experience leads me to speak more about the "but if not" than the earlier part of their declaration. That's not a lack of faith. That's an acceptance of the reality that God has given us, a reality where many sicknesses lead to death, where many relationships end in pain, where the righteous don't always get justice, and where creation itself groans in frustration until this broken physical world is made new again and the bodies of God's children are made new (Romans 8:19-23).

     I said I resonate with the faith of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. Maybe that's not true. Maybe they had a greater expectation than I do that God will miraculously disrupt. Maybe my faith is a little more like Job's. In the midst of his suffering (which far exceeds my own), he declares of God, "Though he slay me, I will hope in him" (Job 13:15). Job acknowledges that God is the one that heals, yes.  But he is also the God who slays.  And yet we still put our hope in him.  And as Job contemplates the direction his life seems to be taking, he confidently says through his pain: "For I know that my Redeemer lives, and at the last he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I shall see God, whom I shall see for myself, and my eyes shall behold, and not another" (Job 19:25-27). All along, Job has affirmed that God is able to relieve his suffering. All along Job has prayed for just that. But his faith is not a confident expectation that God will act a certain way; his faith (and mine) is that God is our only hope, no matter what course our lives take.

     In my previous post, I described how my heart is anchored by the knowledge that God is sovereign, God is wise, and God is good.  I could simply leave it at that and say, "I know it's true because the Bible says so." I would not be wrong. But I am one of the weak in faith who needs as much assurance as the Lord will give. And I know I'm not the only one. So the Lord doesn't just tell us that he is sovereign, wise, and good. He shows us, and he shows us that in Jesus Christ.

     In Jesus we see that God is sovereign. He planned from long ago to send Christ as our redeemer, and no invading Roman army, no bloodthirsty Herod, no betraying Judas, no fearful Peter, no scheming serpent can disrupt his plan. Even the grave has no power to hold back the saving work of Christ (Acts 2:24). Because Jesus has risen from the dead, I know that nothing in all creation has the power to separate me from the love of God (Romans 8:38-39).

     In Jesus we see that God is wise. Though the cross - salvation by self-sacrifice, glory through humiliation - seems foolish to the world, it displays the wisdom of God (1 Corinthians 1:21-25). Who else would have planned such a perfect salvation for his people? In Ephesians 3:9-11, Paul describes the gospel of Jesus as a mystery long hidden but now revealed, a mystery in which the eternal purposes of God are fulfilled in Jesus.

     In Jesus we see that God is good. The gift of a dying savior is how God shows us what love truly is. In 1 John 4:10 we read, "In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins." God endures the pain of the cross in order to save his children. Though our understanding of what is good may be different from God's, the cross redefines our true need and shows us that God is lovingly at work to do what is best for us.

     When the author of Hebrews called Jesus our sure and steadfast anchor, he also adds one more nautical term that makes the whole image more beautiful. He writes: "We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf."

     Most Greek harbors were blocked by sandbars. You might have to wait until high tide to get to safety, even if a storm was upon you. But you could give your anchor to a forerunner - a little boat that would take your anchor into the harbor and secure in the rocky bottom. So even while you waited to reach safety, and even as the storm tossed you about, you were still anchored.  

     The author of Hebrews says that Jesus took our anchor - our desire for security, our hope for peace - and he took it like a forerunner. But instead of going into a harbor (and here he mixes metaphors, but we'll allow it), he takes it "behind the curtain." The curtain was the divider in the temple that kept people out of the Holy of Holies, the place where God chose to be present with his people in the Old Testament. It was the place where the yearly sacrifice for the sins of the people was made and the blood of the sacrifice was poured on the Ark of the Covenant. Jesus went into the place of sacrifice (the actual presence of God and not the symbol of the temple) and gave up his life for our sins. In doing so, he firmly fixed our anchor on the most solid place imaginable - on the unchanging character of God. And so we sing "In every high and stormy gale my anchor holds within the veil."

     At the cross of Christ, I see the sovereign power, the wise plan, and the good heart of God all working together. And it is there that my anchor holds, no matter what the doctors tell me.

     Randy tells me I have to include a link to this song about Christ, Our Sure and Steady Anchor. I took a listen and agreed with him.

Anchor 1: God is sovereign (see my post on this from September 2018)
     The word I first used was "mighty." Then I deleted that and wrote "almighty." But "sovereign" explains it better. The word sovereign includes might and power and authority. In simpler terms, we can say it as, "God is in control." The bottom line is that nothing happens to go against his mighty will. Though he gives us free will to make choices, and though many in the world choose evil, God is powerful and able to step in at any point and change any situation. This includes the hard times and the good times. He does not stand helplessly by, powerless to intervene while I suffer. No. I could not worship a God who had not power over my life. Job, in his suffering, recognized that even his worst day was under God's sovereign control when he asked in Job 2:10, "Shall we receive good from God, and shall we not receive evil?” It anchors me to know that, whatever happens, God is in control.

Anchor 2: God is wise (see my post on this from October 2018)
     In the comedy film "Bruce Almighty," Jim Carey's character, Bruce, is temporarily given the power of God. After using the power selfishly for a while, he soon learns that he doesn't have the wisdom to have that kind of power. Imagine giving the power of a king to a teenager and what kinds of disasters would follow. We can declare that God is mighty, that he is in control, even that he is sovereign; but that is of little comfort if his power is not used wisely.

     In circumstances like mine, it's not easy to say that God's plan for me right now is wise. But that's why I needed to get this anchor on board in my heart before the storm. I've spent many years meditating on God's declaration in Isaiah 55:8-9, "For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts." His ways are not just different from mine, they are better, wiser.

     And it is the height of human arrogance to demand that God's ways be explained to me before I agree with them. I don't see the whole picture, and what I do see is still unclear. Someday (but not too soon, I hope!) I will see clearly:  "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known" (1 Corinthians 13:12). It anchors me to know that, though I don't yet understand how, God is wise.

Anchor 3: God is good (see my post on this from November 2018)
     As any fan of comics can tell you, supervillains are usually almost as strong as the heroes, if not stronger. And often they are just as smart, if not smarter, than the good guys. So just saying God is mighty and that he is also wise leaves open the possibility that he is a horror beyond comprehension, an evil, manipulative genius.  Or perhaps an all-seeing, all-knowing watcher who cares little for our little lives. 

     But he is not that. The third leg of this stool (if I can switch metaphors) that keeps the seat steady is that this almighty, wise God is also exceedingly good. We skim the promise of Romans 8:28,"And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good," and expect that everything will be to our advantage. If God is good and almighty, and he works all things for my good, then I won't suffer. I won't get cancer. I won't be hurt by someone I love. But that's not really goodness. Look at the rest of the verse: "for those who are called according to his purpose." God's goodness works in line with God's purposes for us. Purposes that follow his surpassing wisdom. Purposes that involve crosses and trials and shipwrecks and cancers and flames. Purposes that expose the weakness of earthly comforts and joys, loosening our heart's grip on such things so that we cling to the only source of true delight - God himself. Purposes that will shape us into something much better than what we have imagined for ouselves.  He loves us too much to let us stay comfortable in our idolatries.  

     So there is it: My three-pronged anchor that holds me in the storm. My three-legged stool that keeps me steady. I have taught and preached these things for many years. I have known them for many years more. And now the storm comes, my anchor holds me steady. I think this post deserves a follow-up, in which I show that when the author of Hebrews says, "We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul" (Hebrews 6:19), he is referring to Jesus. In Jesus I see vividly the sovereign strength, surpassing wisdom, and satisfying goodness of God. He is my anchor. Amen.

     Anchors matter. And having them when you need them is imperative. And not just on boats. This has come to mind lately as people ask how I'm able to handle the turmoil of my (still not final!) diagnosis. The past two months have upended our lives and radically shifted our course.  How am I able to stay calm and at peace in this storm? I don't share that to make myself sound more pious or spiritual than others. I am amazed and thankful for the peace the Lord has given me. And the only explanation I have is that for a long time now, I've known where my anchor is.

     There's a book I read many years ago that I no longer remember, but I have kept with me a quote from it that speaks to this important idea:

"When the storm is raging it is too late to talk about the anchor that should have been put down before the storm began. What I mean is that it is so important that we should try to think clearly before disaster falls upon us. If we do, then in spite of all our grief we have a philosophy of life that steadies us as an anchor steadies a ship. If we do not, the storm is so furious that little can be done until it has abated" (Leslie Weatherhead, The Will of God).   

     Weatherhead's point is this - if our understanding of God is not deep enough to handle the crises of life, then when those crises come (and they will come), we will be tossed about and truly shaken. But if, before the storms of life, we are anchored in the truths that are deeper than those storms, then we can be held steady despite the wind and waves.  The one who knows and understands God and his promises can say with David in Psalm 16:8, "I have set the LORD always before me; because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken."

     But - and I cannot stress this enough - the anchor needs to be ready before the storm comes. Though he doesn't use the anchor imagery, theologian D. A. Carson says something very similar. At the beginning of his insightful treatment of the theology of suffering, Carson clarifies that his book (How Long, O Lord?) is not intended for the person who is currently in the storm of suffering. He explains,

"Primarily, this is a book of preventative medicine. One of the major causes of confusion and devastating grief among Christians is that our expectations are false. We do not give the subject of evil and suffering the thought it deserves until we ourselves are confronted with tragedy. If by that point our beliefs- not well thought out but deeply ingrained- are largely out of step with the God who has disclosed himself in the Bible and supremely in Jesus, then the pain from the personal tragedy may be multiplied many times over as we begin to question the very foundations of our faith."

     If our view of God is that he rewards our doctrine, our tithing, or our morality with a life of relative ease and comfort, then we have no true anchor for the storm, because that is not who God is.  The storm will expose that falsehood and leave us adrift.  If our view of God is that he is vindictive, punishing our sin with painful experiences, then we will be tossed about when we experience a difficult trial that is out of proportion to what we think we deserve.  If our view is that our faith is powerful enough to prevent or overcome the storms of life, then that anchor will not hold during the difficulties that pay no regard to our confident prayers.   

     I know that some of you who read my blog are in the middle of your own storms right now. My heart hurts with you, and I pray that you have good anchorage to keep you steady. Some of you, as you read these things I share, have been able to "borrow" my anchor, and that encourages me.

     But many of you are not in the storms right now. To you I say, make ready your anchor. Know where it is and how to find it. Be ready before the storm.

     I had intended to explain in the rest of this blog what my anchor looks like, but I've already gone on long enough. The next post will explore the three-pronged anchor that steadies me during the storm.