Good Gifts, Celebrating and Sacrificing

I have been slowly but surely working through Piper's Let the Nations Be Glad. A book like this is a good read when it can stay theoretical, when you are comfortably in your homeland pew. But when you're one of those the book is talking about? Well, at some moments it's been an encouragement, at others an exhortation, but most often a shameful mirror, showing a high standard with plenty of room to grow. But all of that is for another time.

There have been a lot of hard-hitting excerpts, but probably none more than the following, which I found incredibly pertinent...

I'll explain first: there is something quite powerful and profound in enjoying life to its fullest and thanking God for it, acknowledging him and glorifying him as the source of all good things. Good food around a picnic table on a breezy summer day with family and friends? Something resonates in our souls: Thank you, God! James 1:17: Every good and perfect gift is from the Father above. Psalm 103:5 He satisfies us with good things. Acts 14:17 He did good by giving you fruitful seasons, satisfying your hearts with food and gladness.

This ongoing sense of gratitude has been a focus for me in recent years, and I've seen it develop in circles around me as well. As an effort to take nothing for granted, it's an excellent attitude and mind set of praise, giving glory and thanks where it is due.

But this taking pleasure in 'good gifts,' more recently I've felt conflicted about it, and slowly realizing why. If all we do is enjoy life and thank God for it, well, so what? Especially in a wealthy, consumerist, materialist society, this becomes too easy. And eventually it can become a justifiable materialism, a watered down prosperity gospel, a holy coverup of greed, a pious form of gluttony, as we insatiably search for more good gifts to acquire and consume.

The point is, there's more to it all than that. As Piper says better than I do, if the outworking of our faith stops there, maybe it's the gifts we love, and not the Giver.

Glad Suffering Shines Brighter Than Gratitude:

It is true that we should bear testimony to the supremacy of God's goodness by receiving his good gifts with thanksgiving (1 Tim 4:3). But for many Christians this has become the only way they see their lifestyles glorifying God. God has been good to them to give them so much. Therefore, the way to witness to the reality of God is to take and be thankful.

But even though it is true that we should thankfully enjoy what we have, there is a relentless call in the Bible not to accumulate more and more things but to give more and more and to be deprived of things if love demands it...What is clear from the New Testament is that suffering with joy, not gratitude in wealth, is the way the worth of Jesus shines most brightly...

...You cannot show the preciousness of a person by being happy with his gifts. Ingratitude will certainly prove that the giver is not loved, but gratitude for gifts does not prove that the giver is precious. What proves that the giver is precious is the glad-hearted readiness to leave all his gifts to be with him. This is why suffering is so central in the mission of the church. The goal of our mission is that people from all the nations worship the true God. But worship means cherishing the preciousness of God above all else, including life itself. It will be difficult to bring the nations to love God from a lifestyle that communicates a life of things...

It's not a call to feel guilty about receiving good gifts, nor a call to refuse them. It's a call to be vigilant in our love for the Giver, a love that has so little to do with his gifts that we are always ready to gladly leave them behind.

It's not a bad gig.

On the Move

I don't think it technically counts as crawling yet. It's more of a tummy pull slide maneuver with the occasional barrel roll. Whatever it is, the other kid is getting around. So much so that while my back was turned earlier today, he moved all the way over to the cat's water dish and dumped it all out on the floor and himself. And even while typing these few sentences he's gone from one end of the room to the other to get the cat's ball, then back to the other end to eat his brother's crayons, and even though I pick him up and move him to a safer locale, he's not only mobile, he's determined, back in the same spot seconds later.

This is not a phase of parenting we've had to worry about before, the phase where absolutely nothing anywhere on the floor is safe, and neither is turning your back. Seems like a lot of fun. Relaxing, too.

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I'm still kind of circling and trying to pinpoint what exactly I'm getting at in all of this. Meanwhile, I've lost some of you long ago. I promise this will be the last attempt to articulate myself on this subject for the foreseeable future.

I was reminded of an article passed on by a friend a while back that deals with some of these same ideas, more specifically on how people wired different ways interact in the same community. What I've been calling melancholics, he calls Winter Christians. What I've been calling happy-go-luckies, he calls Summer Christians. I like those terms. If you've been tracking this train of thought with me, you might be interested in what psychologist Richard Beck writes over here.

But I read my reaction to that article, in an email from more than two years ago, and my reaction was the same as today's: But why are we one or the other? Shouldn't Winter Christians experience summer? Shouldn't Summer Christians experience winter?

In Lamentations 3, Winter Christians are comfortable with half of the text and uncomfortable with the other. Summer Christians the opposite. But both halves are there, both are equally the words of God.

I want us to embrace all of Lamentations 3. I want Winter Christians to more readily accept expressions of hope. I want Summer Christians to more readily accept expressions of lament. And I want us to bear with and learn from each other, mourning with those who mourn and rejoicing with those who rejoice, no matter what our disposition, being sorrowful yet always rejoicing together.

New Sneakers

You know the scene. A little boy straps on a pair of new sneakers and is utterly convinced he can run faster, jump higher, basically the closest thing in this natural world to super powers. It's the stuff of daydreams. I can vividly remember the feeling.

I've been under the assumption that this belief was completely due to successful marketing ploys. Maybe that's because I seem to have grown up in the height of sneaker wars and their ridiculous gimmicks and subsequent commercial series, all of which worked quite well on my peers and me. (At the time, there were two ways to size up the caliber of the opposing basketball team: the height of their tallest player and the shoes each one was wearing. But back to the point at hand...)

Exhibit A: Reebok Pumps.

Exhibit B: Converse React Gel.

Exhibit C: Nike Air

Exhibit D: Oddly enough, even L.A. Gears had some appeal.


But I am here today to tell you this assumption has been debunked. The belief in the super powers of new sneakers is not due to marketing campaigns, but rather seems to be innately written in the DNA of young boys everywhere.

I know this because we gave the kid (who has never heard of Pumps nor Jordans) a new pair of sneakers (that only cost 5 euros, mind you) and he has been skipping and galloping and stomping and running and jumping and kicking (in ways we have never seen before) ever since they were strapped on.

Sorrowful Yet Always Rejoicing 4

More simply put, I guess what I've been trying to express is that hope doesn't negate lament and lament doesn't negate hope. Lament does not mean an absence of hope. If anything, it authenticates and deepens the hope. But hope does not discredit or invalidate lament. If anything, it points us towards that which our hearts our longing for. It orients us towards the solution to the reason we're lamenting in the first place.

And so, I'd like to see us be more comfortable with the two right next to each other. I'd like see us succeed in being sorrowful yet always rejoicing.

But really, this shouldn't be an unfamiliar concept. Because Biblically speaking, some of the greatest proclamations of hope come in the midst of lamenting, and some of the deepest examples of lamenting come while being focused towards hope. I'll give just one example here: Lamentations 3.

I am the man who has seen affliction
under the rod of his wrath;
he has driven and brought me
into darkness without any light...
He has made my flesh and my skin waste away;
he has broken my bones;
he has besieged and enveloped me
with bitterness and tribulation...
He has walled me about so that I cannot escape;
he has made my chains heavy...
he turned aside my steps and tore me to pieces;
he has made me desolate...
He has filled me with bitterness;
he has sated me with wormwood.
He has made my teeth grind on gravel,
and made me cower in ashes;
my soul is bereft of peace;
I have forgotten what happiness is;
so I say, “My endurance has perished;
so has my hope from the LORD.”

It doesn't get much more blunt or bleak. And yet in the middle of this, there is a glimmer of relief, a passage we often like to quote without its context, robbing it of its full force and depth of meaning:

But this I call to mind,
and therefore I have hope:
The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
“The LORD is my portion,” says my soul,
“therefore I will hope in him.”

We Found a Forest

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As Christians, our response to some sort of hardship or suffering is a complex thing. Part of it is personality. Are you a pessimist or optimist? Depressive or resilient? Eeyore or Tigger? Surely part of it too rests on spiritual maturity and one's understanding of and relationship with God. There are variables in one's own personal history, supportive relationships, and simply one's own ability to move through difficult processes. But these different responses--each of which have some sort of Biblical support--can produce a sort of friction when together in the same community.

When a common hardship comes along, one wants to grieve. Another might look on and make judgment calls, thinking he has lost all hope, that his grief shows a lack of spiritual maturity. And the road goes both ways, because the second wants to point to the sovereignty of God and the lessons we're learning. Meanwhile the first looks on and makes judgment calls, thinking this inability to mourn is unhealthy and his optimism is a sign of a shallow relationship with God. There is a skepticism that the truth they're sharing is simply a repertoire of clichés that aren't actually profoundly believed and experienced.

So who's right?
"Cheer up."
"I can't."
"God is good."
"You're in denial."
"He's faithful."
"It's not that easy."
Back and forth we go.

The first answer that comes to mind goes something like this: Yes, we can all agree it's OK to grieve, mourn, lament, as long as you don't stay there. At some point you have to move past it, get through it, and recover some sort of joy.

Somewhere in there I agree, but it raises a big question. How long do we allow? How soon do we arrive at hope? Will one night of crying do it? Two weeks? A year? How much is enough? How long is too much? When is pointing another towards hope appropriate and when is it too soon? When is staying in grief healthy and when is it too long? And in certain cases, for the example the death of the child, is it truly possible to really fully get over it?

And this idea also poses a problem for us melancholics, as it seems to assume the default mode of the Christian is happy-go-lucky with permission to just be sad for a couple of days here and there. (I'm skewing things by oversimplifying and exaggerating: in my honest moments I do wonder if there is some truth there...)

So if this idea of movement and arrival isn't exactly right, what is? I'm wondering if Paul's powerful description of being an apostle gives us some clues.

In 2 Corinthians 6, he starts by outlining some of the hardship they're facing, and again, it's worse than a bad day at work:
...afflictions, hardships, calamities, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labors, sleepless nights, hunger...

But this list is actually given in the middle of a list of qualities that can be seen in them through the help of the Holy Spirit. Despite the hardship, they are experiencing this--living this out--as well:

...by great endurance, by purity, knowledge, patience, kindness, genuine love; by truthful speech, and the power of God...

OK, so happiness didn't make the list, but they aren't sitting back and feeling sorry for themselves either. It gives us reason to believe that they were probably experiencing their fair share of grief and lament, but it wasn't debilitating or paralyzing.

And then he enters into a beautiful litany of descriptions using seemingly opposite conditions:
We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet well known; as dying, and behold, we live; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing everything.

I find these words so powerful next to one another.

Imagine a different list. "We're unknown, dying, punished, sorrowful, poor, and we have nothing." It would be justified considering their experiences, but pretty bleak, lacking hope.

Or another list, still. "We're known, alive, always rejoicing, making many rich, possessing everything!" Sure, it contains the final message of the gospel, but in the face of all sorts of hardship, it makes most all of us no matter what our disposition say, "Yeah, right!"

But no, our list as Christians includes both: unknown, yet well known, dying, yet alive, having nothing, yet possessing everything.

The point is this: both are true at the same time and neither are right all alone. The sad camp needs to admit and acknowledge the truth that brings hope. The happy camp needs to admit the real difficulties we face in this world and the way they can make us feel. Both are held together in perfect tension. Both inform and help one another. Both are more complete representation of who we are in this life.

We're not just sorrowful. We're not just rejoicing.

We are sorrowful yet always rejoicing in this already but not yet kingdom.

We may not always get over it, but we will find ways to rejoice even in the midst of our sorrow.

But that's not easy when we're left to ourselves and our own reactions. It's just one more reason we need each other, one more reason to empathize and encourage, one more way to bear with each another in love.

Sorrowful Yet Always Rejoicing 2

This liberty to mourn, grieve, lament--or more simply just be sad every once in a while--is a great burden lifted, especially for those of us with a more melancholic temperament. But it's probably precisely because I'm one of those stuck with the melancholy that I wonder if, as is often the case, the camp that has swung the pendulum has let it swing too far.

Some of us pendulum swingers have begun to believe that if anyone is happy, they must be faking it. Anyone who seems to have the joy of the Lord must be fooling themselves. It's not that easy we say. We've equated authenticity with sitting around moping and talking about how hard and difficult life is all the time. I suppose I'm exaggerating, but there's some truth in there somewhere.

The truth is, we melancholics have to realize that actually, there is a joy that strengthens, a hope that endures, a peace that passes understanding. And it's ours to be had here and now in this life. That is to say, we can point to the laments in the Bible all we want, but the other camp that's clapping and singing happy songs has their own fair share of biblical support to back things up too.

OK, so nowhere in the Bible are we exhorted to go skipping around town with a smile on our face singing about how happy we are. (What a relief!) But it's hard to deny that the point of this whole big story is a hope that keeps us going through difficult times. It's a knowledge of the bigger picture, of what's going on behind the scenes, of the end of the story, of what's still to come. And this is what's supposed to bring us that joy, hope, peace, gladness.

Not to mention those exhortations to count it all joy and rejoice in the middle of suffering, and that the original recipients of those exhortations were facing some real suffering, not just a bad day at work.

Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness and Self Control. These aren't really melancholic words either.

So while the permission to lament is much needed progress, let's not force people to lament when they don't need to, and let's not excuse a sadness that is actually a loss of real joy due to a self-focused lack of the big picture. The happy camp isn't exactly wrong, after all.

But when you've got one person (like the song leader) rightfully pushing for the silver lining and directing us towards the hopeful happy ending, and another person (like the OT prof) rightfully asking for permission to mourn and lament...Who's right? Who wins? What's the answer?

Sorrowful Yet Always Rejoicing 1

Shortly after the events of September 11, what seemed like the entire university family, students and professors alike, found themselves inside the chapel for a service, all in a sort of state of shock. The music leader chose several songs to direct our focus, and with one after another we sang of hope, of God's control, of his hand and presence. And in a brief moment of silence after yet another, a man from the back addressed the song leader by yelling,

"Sing us a lament!"

It was the Old Testament professor, one of the most intense men I have ever met, always carrying himself a bit like a story out of the book of Judges. The leader was a bit stunned and confused and asked for clarification. Standing up and speaking still from the back of the room, the OT professor gave some words of explanation in front of the couple thousand members of the community, finishing simply in a shaking voice, "We just need a lament."

In other words: you're rushing into this hope and joy and good news bit. Yes, we know all that to be true. But we're still in shock here. Not yet. We've lost real people in a senseless act, and to rush past lament is to completely minimize the heavy reality of this event.

And this man knew his Old Testament intimately enough to know that a lament is not off limits for the people of God.

Somewhere through the years we all began to believe that Christians were supposed to be the happiest-go-lucky people on the planet of the earth, always smiling, always singing, always skipping. The chorus of my childhood was our anthem: "And I'm so happy, so very happy, I've got the love Jesus in my heart..."

But then when hardship or trouble or suffering came, we weren't sure what to do. We felt guilty for feeling sad or sorry. And so, too often the only solution was a fake smile plastered on our faces and muttering as convincingly as possible: "Yeah, it's hard, but God is good!" And meanwhile, the sadness and grief began growing and eating away at us under the surface with no idea how to handle it next. We didn't feel the permission to be human, and a dressed-up religious version of denial became our only option.

I'm no expert and my perspective is a bit limited, but it seems as though there's been a shift in recent years. Maybe it's a growing focus in the psychology/counseling realm or the younger generation's desire for authenticity or just a more even-handed reading of the Bible, but regardless, I get the feeling more and more people are saying that it's OK to be sad, to mourn, to grieve, to lament, to struggle with depression...and at that, to take as long as you need, because rushing that sort of thing is only counter productive. We are human, created as emotional beings in the image of God, and stuck in this world of suffering, and if David and Jeremiah and Job and Habbakuk could ask questions and express complaints in the midst of weeping and wailing, well, we can too.

The shift is needed. Refreshing and healthy and biblical. Our hymnal could use a few more laments. And we should be more at ease singing them.

But I don't want to stop there.