Fiery Trials

So, I mentioned a post or two ago that I've been reading Elisabeth Elliot's A Chance to Die: the Life and Legacy of Amy Carmichael. Very slowly, I might add, but sometimes that's the best way. Gives one time to digest, you know?

Well, friends, I wish I could be completely transparent, but you'll know what I mean when I say that sometimes things are hard. Some things in life shake us to our very core.

As believers it's a precious place to be, really. It takes us to the feet of the King; it teaches us to prostrate ourselves before His throne, to cling to His promises, to cry out in fear and desperation, to pour out our frustration and bewilderment -- and then to receive His comfort and assurance. At times like this, suddenly Scripture comes to life. Passages that can be debated to death in the arcane discussions of seminary classrooms suddenly jump from the page and reach into the very soul to provide reassurance and courage, to bolster a flagging faith. They leap out of the book to lift our chin, to train our eyes on His with a firm reminder to not look at the wind and the waves, but only at His face. Look at Me and do not be afraid, He says.

Selah.

But I get ahead of myself. Sometimes things are hard.

The other morning God lead me to read 1 Peter 4 where it says, "Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ's sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when His glory is revealed. … Therefore let those who suffer according to God's will entrust their souls to a faithful Creator while doing good."

This passage on that day was a balm to my agitated soul. Don't be surprised, He says! This is not outside of My will. It's a part of the plan, darlin', even if it looks a little messy for awhile. I've still got it under control.

I believe it was God who helped me connect what appears to be a messy and precarious situation in my life with Amy Carmichael's experience in India. I'm telling you, for her it was just one crisis after another and a lot of hard, grueling labor along the way. But her work there was surely God's will, wasn't it? In the comfortable old U. S. of A. we can easily forget that while sin definitely produces grief, godliness does not guarantee ease of experience. And that is okay. Suffering in God's will has a joy of its own as long as you can be confident that you really are in God's will, that you're doing exactly what He has asked you to do.

As it turns out, I'm happy to report that there is a plethora of Christian pop psychology skulking about that could be applied to my circumstance. Scads of books line the shelves in Christian bookstores with smiling authors looking out at us promising to help break the bondage, gain the blessing, draw healthy boundaries, deliver tough love, give healing a chance, experience emotionally healthy spirituality. I'm happy to report this because it gives me an opportunity, figuratively speaking, to spit on the whole stack of those books. Aren't I mean? Just nasty, I am.

I have an idea though. Let's play a game. Let's imagine Amy Carmichael talking to Hindu priests, not about the salvation of Jesus Christ, but about breaking the addiction cycle. Maybe that would have been more effective. Yes, yes, and let's picture her, rather than listening to God's step by step prompting to establish the Dohnavur orphanage and rescue thousands of little girls from temple prostitution, teaching them about the true Savior, instead teaching classes to those same girls on establishing healthy boundaries. And sewing. Let's write into her legacy the many personal retreats she could have taken, reprieves from the endless stream of dirty diapers especially during outbreaks of dysentery in the nursery, so she could attend seminars on emotionally healthy spirituality.

Aw, am I being unfair? All I know is that in my experience, "Blessed is the man who makes the Lord his trust, who does not turn to the proud, to those who go astray after a lie." (Psalm 40) Is it too bold to say that in the end much of that pop Christian psychology amounts to nothing more than going astray after a lie? We attempt to sidestep the rough road of discipleship by indulging and massaging, examining, proclaiming, and inflating ad nauseam our own egos. But there is no answer there. No hope, no peace, no purpose, no comfort. Only more anguish as we look inward rather than upward, frantically searching for a salve to relieve the torment of our souls, a salve only the person of Jesus can provide.

"You have multiplied, O Lord my God, Your wondrous deeds and Your thoughts toward us; none can compare with You. I will proclaim and tell of them, yet they are more than can be told." (Psalm 40) This is the joyous proclamation of one who has eschewed the pop psychology books, and instead clung to the person and promises of Jesus Christ. Only one who has been willing to look into His face, hold His gaze and agree to trust Him, to obey Him, to believe His promises, can utter those words.

I think I've been cruel here, and I'm sad as I reread this. I'm sad because there are women in my circle of acquaintance who devour these types of books. One woman in particular whom I love dearly (although I don't know her well) has attached herself to one of these books, even one that I mentioned above almost by its very title. She seems to believe this book is her salvation and must therefore be of great value to all her friends, so she is giving away copies of this book to everyone she knows. I don't know her well enough to understand what suffering she believes this book will alleviate, but it breaks my heart to imagine her reading this blog and being hurt because I've been unfeeling about her pain, derisive about her hope for an answer through this author.

But still. The answer will be found upward, not inward. Neither will it be found 'side-ward,' so to speak. I'll explain...

Last night I went with a friend to a church function. As I shuffled my way through the throng of 1200 people and chatted with the handful of people I knew, a sad sort of joy took residence in my heart because I realized that I was quite alone in my difficulty. No one could know, and cynically I recognized that no one would care if they did know. In the end, we Americans are pretty self-absorbed. We're happy to hear each other's troubles here and there occasionally, but if the trouble is deep, pervasive or just too hard, we'd rather not be drawn in. And if it's really too hard, we prefer to turn the whole problem around to be the victim's own fault somehow; somehow they brought it on themselves. Perversely, there's comfort in believing that. (Prudent use of the pronoun 'we' here, by the way. I include myself in this indictment.)

I exchanged pleasantries with one family there that we have known and been friends with for almost 25 years, since we were all single. We have kids of similar ages and for awhile the kids were friends. But our families have drifted apart over the years. Without saying too much, it's been a case of them just not wanting to know, not wanting to be involved. What does that mean about our "friendship?" What was it ever? It was a charade. Honestly, as long as their relationship with our family served them well, they were happy to maintain ties, but when we couldn't fit the paradigm anymore they moved on to families that could, that served their purposes better. It's ugly of me to think this way, and maybe I'm not being entirely fair. But it is hard for me to bump into them without feeling an ache. The superficial pleasantries we exchange now are at least not masquerading as anything more meaningful these days. How's that for comforting?

(Time out. Get a grip, girl! Holy ravioli, have you ever heard such a stinking load of self-pity? Puh-leeze (eye-roll). How much responsibility are we supposed to take for one another anyway? Grow up! They are busy raising a family, which you well know is an all-consuming task. Our burdens are not theirs; they've got burdens of their own that they're not asking us to help carry. So quit feeling sorry for yourself and get on with the task at hand.

Right. On the other hand, as friends who were there to see the avalanche begin its descent down the mountain toward us, it would just be nice to be asked every once in a while how we're doing.

It's still a stinking load of self-pity, I know.)

But you know where I'm going with this, don't you? There is One who will not abandon us when the going gets rough. And with that thought I floated through the night, all warm and fuzzy on the inside. He's the One with all the power and all the answers anyway. My soul can be at rest in the complete confidence that He understands all the intricacies, He guides the outcome, and He will hold my hand through the rough waters.

But now, thus says the LORD, your Creator, O Jacob,
And He who formed you, O Israel,
"Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name; you are Mine!
"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
And through the rivers, they will not overflow you
When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched,
Nor will the flame burn you.
"For I am the LORD your God,
The Holy One of Israel, your Savior;
I have given Egypt as your ransom,
Cush and Seba in your place.
"Since you are precious in My sight,
Since you are honored and I love you,
I will give other men in your place and other peoples in exchange for your life.
"Do not fear, for I am with you.

Isaiah 43:1-5ish

Can't say I understand that entire passage. Arcane seminarians can wrangle over Cush and Seba, Egypt as a ransom, the other peoples being exchanged for my life. The parts I do understand are good enough for me, and I drink them in like the deer pants for flowing streams. This Christian life will not be without fiery trials – do not be surprised! Amy Carmichael would have been stunned to imagine anyone thinking otherwise. But as long as my suffering is according to His will, I will entrust my soul to a faithful Creator in doing what is right.

My Hero, Elisabeth Elliot

I love Elisabeth Elliot. Right now I'm reading a book by her entitled A Chance to Die, The Life and Legacy of Amy Carmichael. I love the book because I love her. Amy Carmichael is to E.E. what E.E. is to me I think.

Anyway, I look forward to blogging about A Chance to Die sometime soon – next time I get a day to myself maybe, so don't hold your breath. But I'm still optimistic it will happen, because I do love the book.

But I mention E.E. because soon after I published my last blog entry, I read my daily e-mail devotional from E.E. She discussed, of all things, time alone. See why I love her? It was so pertinent to our most recent conversation that I have to copy 'n' paste it here for your perusal. Here we go: (By the way, she seems to take the long, round-about road to get to her point in this essay -- just like I so often do. Ahh, yet another reason to love her!)

Author: Elisabeth Elliot
Source: Love Has A Price Tag
Scripture Reference:

Junk Food

If you're hungry, the airport in Fayetteville, Arkansas, is not a good place to be. The selection of "snacks" in the vending machine is impressive, but there is nothing at all that one could call food. You can insert your quarters, nickels and dimes (no pennies) and get chocolate chip cookies, potato chips (plain), potato chips with "bar-B-Q" flavor, potato chips with sour cream and onion (artificial) flavor, potato "Stix," pork rinds, corn chips, "Cornies," "Pub Fries," "Cheddar Fries," "Cheetos," "Cheese Smackers," and things called "Doritos," "Bugles," "yammers" and "Dunkums."

Alongside that machine is another one offering brightly colored aluminum cans of sweet fizzy stuff with which to wash down all those snacks or, I suppose, to Dunkum. I don't like to contemplate what state your blood sugar or your nerves or your sanctification would be in if your supper comprised a Tab and a package of Jammers, but on second thought, a look around the boarding lounge of almost any airport--at the facial expressions, the behavior of the pre-school-age tots, and the remarks overheard--give a clue. We are a nation "overfed but undernourished," to borrow the title of Curtis Wood's book.

Junk food is not nourishment. It's easily available (if you have the right coins). It is packaged up in eye-catching wrappings, presumably untouched by human hands. It can be transported to plane, to beach, to movie theatre, to school, to bed. It can be grabbed in a moment, wolfed down on the run; and there are no preparations to make, nothing to clean up except greasy fingers. It does away altogether with the ritual of eating--the laid table, the attractive presentation of a dish, the fellowship with others, the leisure to enjoy. In a world that has lost or discarded nearly all other rituals, what will become of us if we do away with even this one?

But worst of all, junk food feeds (feeding will make you fat) but does not nourish. Nourishment makes you strong. I sat on the molded fiberglass seat in Fayetteville, waiting for the small plane which would take me to Tulsa, and wished for a few crunchy fat Bing cherries or a slice of the wheat-honey bread that I make regularly at home--real food.

Don't misunderstand. I like potato chips. I like Cheetos. I haven't tried the commercially packaged pork rinds, but I certainly enjoyed the kind the Indians gave me in South America--fished out of a cauldron of hot fat bubbling over an open fire in some jungle clearing, eaten with a chunk of steamed manioc or a plantain roasted in the ashes.

We are people of our times and culture. Because of the "schedule" I seem to be obliged to keep, I am always looking for ways to use my time more efficiently, and one of them is to listen to tapes while I do my hair and face. I switched the recorder off the other day, disgusted with what I told my husband was spiritual junk food. A man was rambling on about his own feelings, his "meaningful" experiences, and how he got in touch with himself, with other people, and with God. No doubt he was telling the truth, but there wasn't a single reference to Scripture, and not much there that would nourish me.

Christian bookstores usually carry some real "meat," if you can find it. It is not likely to be up front where the paperbacks, the tapes and the records are, which display on their jackets color photographs of the author, the speaker or the singer, often taken in an open meadow, in a soft, misty light, and with a few wildflowers. (Are there any analogies here artificial color, perhaps, or flavor? What about preservatives? I understand preservatives are used in foods to give a longer "shelf life." The booksellers have thought of some tricks, I'm sure, to keep their wares in the public eye for a few weeks longer, but no trick takes the place of quality for preserving a book's shelf life.)

Tastes are developed. Solzhenitsyn, in his speech at Harvard a few months ago, deplored the "TV stupor" in which Americans live. He spoke of the decadence of art, of intolerable music, of mass prejudice, spiritual exhaustion, material luxury, and a morally inferior happiness. He is right. Alas, his own experience of totalitarianism and concentration camp gives him the perspective and the authority to judge our society. We must hear him.

Doctors have been learning of the physical exhaustion that can result from artificial or refined or highly sugared foods. Might not one cause of the spiritual exhaustion which Solzhenitsyn observes be the spiritual junk food we consume? What shall be done for the child fed on the snack-pack, the soft drink and the TV dinner? Will he never choose, let alone enjoy, vegetables? Will the Christian whose spiritual sustenance has been limited to the mass-produced, who is accustomed only to "snacking," whose tastes have been conditioned by the majority, ever choose what is truly nourishing?

What it comes down to, with regard to spiritual things, is that we ought to learn to do some of our own cooking. Granted, it is much easier to grab a package. But sometimes we ought to start from scratch.

Let us start with silence. That may be the hardest thing to achieve in our world. But it is not impossible. For one thing, it takes the will to be quiet. It is possible to be quiet on a crowded subway or in the kitchen when the bacon is frying, the washing machine is running and the baby wants more milk. It is easier by far to be quiet when things around us are quiet, and for most of us this means getting up early.

I was in my study this morning before the traffic had started up on Route 1A. No sound came from the road or the house. Only the sweet susurrus of the crickets in the grass and the cawing of a crow in a beech tree broke the silence, yet it took also an act of the will to be still and know that He is God. My mind races quite naturally over things done yesterday (burying a beloved friend's beloved little dog, getting my sister from the hospital, swimming in the ocean, writing a page or two) or things to be done today (writing more than a page or two, having a friend to tea, getting my mother from the airport). Be still. It is a command. The Hebrew word used in Psalm 46 can mean "Shut up."

The great books that have been spiritual meat and drink for me have been produced, I feel sure, out of great silence. Men and women of God have learned of him by being quiet and allowing him to speak to them in their solitude. They have been willing to be alone, to shut up, to listen, and to think and pray over what they have heard. In our modern world most people choose noise. Go to the beach or a forest camp and find portable radios, television sets, record players. Sit down in a waiting room and listen to what Malcolm Muggeridge calls that "drooling melange" of Muzak. People want noise. They would far rather discuss than think, talk over their problems than pray about them, read a paperback about what somebody else thinks about the Bible than read the Bible.

We cannot stand stillness. Yet we need it. I wonder if the popularity of transcendental meditation is due to this felt need. Whatever may be said about TM's being a religion or not, the measure of success it seems to enjoy could be attributed in part to the simple fact that its devotees spend a certain amount of time daily in motionless silence. That can't hurt anybody.

As one of those who write the stuff that is for sale in the bookstores I referred to, I know that responsibility is laid upon me to provide real food. So I speak to myself--I must do my own "cooking." It is not fast food that I ought to provide for my reader. I must feed him, but in order to do that I must myself be fed. What I speak or write must come out of silence where only a still small voice can be heard.

I speak also to my reader. Seek what is good for the soul, even if it doesn't come in paperback. Read an old book once in a while. (Try P. T. Forsyth, The Principle of Authority, or Luther's Letters of Spiritual Counsel.) And once in a while lay aside the books and the tapes. For a set period of time be alone, be still. "The man who lives on me will live because of me," Jesus said. "This is the bread which came down from heaven."

Copyright 1979, by Elisabeth Elliot
all rights reserved.