God clearly promises blessings in Scripture, even material ones, but if these are our focus we’ve narrowed in on the smallest part of his love and grace to us. It also says something about our shallow understanding of suffering and its place in our spirituality.

Nobody likes suffering, but if Christ himself learned obedience through the things he suffered (Heb 5.8), how much more do we stand to learn? Christ only comes with a cross. His crown only comes with thorns. Accessing his life only comes with dying — dying to sin, dying to self, dying to delusion, dying to vain ambitions, dying to anything that distracts from a life of witness to Christ.

Suffering is not alien to the Christian experience. It is a key component of the Christian experience. To say otherwise is to ignore endless passages of Scripture (e.g., two thirds of the psalter) and deny the testimonies of our brothers and sisters throughout the entire history of the church, and even those living today outside the so-called developed world.

Visit rural Uganda and tell me with straight face that God wants us to experience a life of ease and wealth, that he’s concerned about what kind of car we drive. It’s offensive to contemplate. More offensive to contemplate: say it in the face of the martyrs’ families in Nigeria who don’t even pray that their persecutors would stop, only that they would be able stand when their time comes. We’re not even worthy to suffer for Christ like that.

Our life in Christ is not about ease. It’s not about comfort or security or the trappings of wealth. God may bless some with those things. Praise him for it. But God is far more concerned about whether we love him and our neighbor in whatever station we may be. He’s concerned about a life lived in witness to his love.

Any theology that leaves little room for suffering is a suspect theology. If Jesus himself experienced pain, loneliness, frustration, etc., then we should be ready for the same. If the apostles and the early Christians were willing to lay down their lives, certainly we should not expect uninterrupted peace and tranquility.

The disruption may in fact be central to our sanctification. What if, for instance, you struggle with a sin over which you can’t seem to get victory: greed, lust, anxiety, anger, doubt? That’s your cross to bear. And a good theology will illumine the struggle; it will sanctify the suffering so that we can see it as God’s tool to shape us into the image of his Son. Rather than fleeing suffering, (preaching to myself here) we should welcome the chance to grow because that’s why God permits and even sends it. Our best life includes our current struggles and setbacks, and God wouldn’t have it any other way.

There’s pathology afoot in any other view. A theology with no room for suffering forces us to hide our failures and our faults, even from ourselves, maybe even from God. Of course such a maneuver is bound to fail as well, and then we stand alone with our sin, condemned by our very existence.

Instead we should remember that God uses our sufferings to sanctify and save. We stand in the arms of a loving, forgiving savior who helps us bear the weight and keep going.

We often think of this parable as speaking primarily about evangelism. The sower is the evangelist, spreading the Word. But that’s only the most basic dimension. The story applies to the whole of a Christian life because we must bring forth the seed of the gospel in our hearts at all times and for all time.

With that in mind, consider Christ’s statement about seed that fell in brambles: “[T]hey are those who hear, but as they go on their way they are choked by the cares and riches and pleasures of life, and their fruit does not mature” (Luke 8.14).

This is something we all must beware, not merely new Christians. As we go our way, are we entangled in “the cares and riches and pleasures of life”?

Are we full of anxiety and fears, worries and distractions? Is our treasure in material ease, pleasure, and comfort? Do we identify God’s blessing too closely with gain and his displeasure too closely with loss?

Some people lose everything and draw closer to God. Think of Christians who suffered persecution, great persecution. What of the faithful believers behind the Iron Curtain, for instance, those who lost everything but the honor of dying in witness to the gospel? The Word took real root, deep root, in their lives and blossomed to the glory of God.

When we face our petty cares or fondle our small desires, can we keep them in perspective? The bramble patches of our lives should shrink as the gospel grows in our hearts. Taking the imagery from the parable a bit further, we should pray and strive so that the gospel will choke out the cares and lusts and vain ambitions of this life. Then we can “bear fruit in patience” (8.15).

What sorts of things do you find in your life that choke out the Word? One thorny bramble for me is anxiety.

“Then why ask me which one?” I asked.

Oblivious to my irritation, Fionn answered with a question: “What’s the point of a test if you don’t learn something?”

That’s an interesting answer. We are used to thinking of tests as a way to measure what we already know, not to teach what we don’t yet understand. They are the means by which our teachers find out if we were paying attention in class.

So now think of this in relation to God’s testing. God is no school teacher issuing a spiritual scantron hoping to check our progress. He knows our progress already. Rather, we are the beneficiaries of the testing. We are tested to teach, not measure.

Notice the emphasis of James: “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing” (1.2-4).

Testing in our life isn’t to measure what’s already there. It’s to produce something additional to it. It’s to help us grow in Christ.

C.S. Lewis once said that if you think of the world as a place to make you happy, then you’ll be disappointed. Instead, he said, “think of it as a place of training and correction and it’s not so bad.”

Fionn was exactly right: “What’s the point of a test if you don’t learn something?” We need to get more comfortable assuming the goodness of God. The trials and tests that we endure are there for our good.

Man is properly understood to be made in God’s image. This is the higher part of his nature that transcends the lowly animals and brings him nearer to the Supreme. But while the human mind is naturally capable of reason and intelligence, it is crippled by habitual sin so much that it can neither enjoy nor abide nor even tolerate God’s unchageable light. It must first be healed and gradually renewed so that it will be capable of such joy. For that to happen, it must be imbued and purifed by faith.

To encourage the mind as it moves in faith toward the truth, the Truth itself — God, the Son of God — assumed humanity without discarding his divinity. He thereby established and founded this faith so that man might have a path to man’s God through the man who was God.

For this is “the Mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus” (1 Tim 2.5). In his humanity, he is both the Mediator and the Way.

If a traveler has a path to his destination, he has hope of reaching it, but if there is no path, or if he cannot find it, how is he supposed to know where to go? There is only one way sure to prevent getting lost. It is by following the one who is simultaneously both God and man. As God, he is our goal; as man, our way.

The City of God 11.2. Paraphrased from the Marcus Dods translation.

(Peter Hellberg, Flickr)

“Beloved,” says Peter in his first letter, “do not think it strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened to you….”

Our troubles may be painful, but they are also predictable, at least in some sense. Trials are normal. “The labours of the farm do not seem strange to the farmer,” penned Basil the Great to comfort friends during such a period, adding, “the storm at sea is not unexpected by the sailor; sweat causes no wonder to the hired labourer; and so to those who have chosen to live the life of piety the afflictions of this world are not unforseen.”

If we’ve chosen to live as Christ in the world, we will face troubles in the world. The trials are sent in part to try us as Peter says. They are part of our training, our conditioning, our sanctification. In the fifth chapter of his letter to the Romans, Paul says,

[W]e … glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; and perseverance, character; and character, hope. Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us.

Basil said such hope “hold[s] and weld[s] together man’s entire life” and “give[s] consolation for the hardships which fall to each….”

Our trials increase and strengthen our hope in God’s deliverance. Such hope does not dissolve troubles or make them go away. As Basil suggested, it fixes the broken places in our hearts and lives. We will not avoid difficulties in this world, but our hope is that God will redeem all of our troubles in Christ.

Question: How are you thinking about the trials you’re going through right now?

(spDuchamp, Flickr)

Often we see a crisis or a need and jump to fix it. We raise funds, join a movement, buy a T-shirt, send our tithe, blog, campaign, distribute voters guides, do all kinds of things — many of them good. But they’re not enough. All those things are externally focused, which is only half the picture.

“The strongest weapon in the world,” says Peter Kreeft in How to Win the Culture War, “is sanctity. Nothing can defeat it.”

For Christians to really make a difference, we need to join our desire to right wrongs in the world with a desire to right our own hearts. Holiness matters. And sanctification, the process of increasing in holiness, matters for more than ourselves. One of the ways we fight poverty is to become poor in spirit. One of the ways we reduce the power-hungry is to become meek. We cannot bring the kingdom to bear on the world if our hearts are not subject to the king.

Jesus’ warned about that in the Sermon on the Mount. “You are the salt of the earth,” he said, “but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men.” Holiness has real power. But if Christians are not holy — and are not striving to become more so — our efforts are empty and meaningless, salt with no savor.

So what’s stopping us?

What’s preventing us from being poor in spirit, from being meek and merciful, from being people who hunger and thirst for righteousness as well as people who mourn, from being peacemakers, from being pure in heart, from being people willing to suffer persecution for righteousness’ sake? Kreeft answers the question by quoting from a book by William Law, A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life:

If you will look into your own heart in utter honesty, you must admit that there is one and only on reason why you are not, even now, as saintly as the primitive Christians: you do not wholly want to be.

Wow. Kreeft calls the statement an indictment, and it is. Here’s what’s tricky. By focusing on the externals — what we’ve done for this cause or that — we can dodge the charge, ignore it, push it aside and behind us. Our good deeds serve as masks for bad lives. But masks eventually slip.

Do-good activity unmatched with holiness always peters out. Real change in our world comes with real change in our hearts. To make a lasting difference, we have to work on both.

(Marfis75, Flickr)

I’ve still got a long way to go and, as they say, results may vary, but here are three positive ways that marriage to Megan has begun to change me.

1. Learning to love better

The more circumstances require you to love like Christ, the more like Christ you become. That’s the hope at least because such circumstances pop up in marriage all the time — little moments where loving poorly can cause enduring damage, and loving well can heal, or at the very least prevent harm. You know how it goes: a conversation takes a turn that maybe neither one of you saw coming, or your spouse calls you on one of your shortcomings, or a crisis suddenly manifests. It could be the finances, the kids, the work hours. It could be all of those, as often happens, all mixed up. The question is: Can you love your spouse well through the difficult moment?

Not always, if you’re like me. But I find as these opportunities increase, so does my facility in handling them. That hasn’t always been the case. I’ve been married before and failed spectacularly. But by trying to make loving well my top priority in such moments, navigating life’s difficulties has become easier, and our relationship has strengthened in the midst of very trying times.

2. Seeing weaknesses better

Like many couples, Megan and I share different strengths and weaknesses. In some ways they are polar opposites, and this has really served us well, me particularly. Because I’m weak where she’s strong and vice versa, I’ve become much more alert to behavior patterns and thought processes of mine that are problematic. These are things I either failed to notice before getting married or never thought were terribly important. It turns out they are wildly important in some cases, and I never would have seen them outside my marriage.

Marriage is a mirror that reveals many defects. It’s also a hospital to heal some and a gym to discipline others. And I need all of those things.

3. Wanting to be better

I’m not content to love poorly or let my weaknesses win. There is too much riding on my marriage for that.

Before marrying, I was pretty self-satisfied. I had outward pressures to grow and mature, pressures that were even acute from time to time, but since marrying I find myself internally driven. There’s a push from within to grow and mature, to be what Megan needs me to be, what my children need to be. As a single person, self-improvement didn’t seem to matter much. As a married person, self-improvement has become imperative.

These are only three areas. There have been many others, and I’m sure God has used my marriage to reshape my character in ways I’m not even aware of. Here’s what I do know: When you go to work on your marriage, marriage goes to work on you.

This is not to say that I’ve attained to much of anything. I only have the rest of my life (and eternity) to grow more like Christ, and I’ll need every minute. When striving for the upward call, we ought never plateau. But I know where I’ve been, have a sense of where I’m going, and am overjoyed to be on the journey with my wife.