Passage: Lord’s Day 30
Q&A 80 is a section of the Heidelberg Catechism that is intentionally antagonistic. Other Reformed Confessions, such as the Canons of Dort, are written with an explicitly polemical agenda – that is, their authors clearly state their intent to refute heresies or alternate theologies. For the most part the Catechism avoids this kind of language. But here in Q&A 80 the gloves come off. The authors of the Catechism contrast a Reformed understanding of the Lord’s Supper with the Roman Catholic Mass. And they conclude that the latter is a “condemnable idolatry.” Why do they take such a hard line?
To be fair, the position of the Catechism is no longer reflective of the official position of our church. Our denominational translation of the Catechism (available at the above link) brackets the aforementioned passage and adds the following footnote:
In response to a mandate from Synod 1998, the Christian Reformed Church’s Interchurch Relations Committee conducted a study of Q. and A. 80 and the Roman Catholic Mass. Based on this study, Synod 2004 declared that “Q. and A. 80 can no longer be held in its current form as part of our confession.” Synod 2006 directed that Q. and A. 80 remain in the CRC’s text of the Heidelberg Catechism but that the last three paragraphs be placed in brackets to indicate that they do not accurately reflect the official teaching and practice of today’s Roman Catholic Church and are no longer confessionally binding on members of the CRC.
In other words, a majority of members of our church no longer hold to the position that the Roman Catholic Mass is a “condemnable idolatry.” That being said, the passage is still there. Why?
The first is that within the practice of the Roman Catholic Church of the 1500’s there was perceived to be widespread misunderstanding of the purpose and meaning of communion. There were many lay members of the church who had been led to believe that their salvation was in jeopardy if they didn’t partake of the Mass on a daily, or at least weekly, basis. This led to the belief that it was the Mass itself that saved people.
The second is that the doctrine of Transubstantiation – that is, the conviction that the bread and wine of communion become the physical body and blood of Jesus when blessed by a priest – can lead to the treatment of the elements as sacred objects. The bread and wine themselves can be treated with a level of reverence or worship that belong only to God. Hence the conclusion that the Mass was idolatrous.
Our denomination no longer holds to such a sweeping condemnation. However, Q&A 80 contain a caution to members of any Christian tradition. The reality is that anyone who takes communion runs the risk of treating it as a substitute for a relationship with the risen Lord Jesus. If we think of the elements of communion as the thing that makes us right with God, then we eliminate our need for Jesus himself. Communion becomes an act of reconciliation that we initiate and we control. And it risks becoming a sort of spiritual self-medication – so long as we’re taking the elements, we’re saved. The elements are seen as the source of salvation. Regardless of the official position or theology of your church, if you approach communion with this attitude (conscious or unconscious), you’re treating it as a “condemnable idolatry.” A substitute for a living God and his gift of grace.
The Catechism reminds us that our sins have been forgiven, once and for all, by the one sacrifice of Jesus Christ. It is through our union with Christ that we are made right with God. Communion doesn’t forge our union with Christ; it celebrates the union that Christ has already granted. Communion doesn’t save people; Jesus does. We don’t appeal to God on the basis of any other intermediary – religious rituals, good behavior, or holy people. Our appeal is solely on the basis of Jesus' intervention: his death on the cross; his resurrection; and his physical presence in heaven before the throne of God the Father.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Union
Passage: 1 Corinthians 10:1-22
A number of sci-fi programs and novels explore alien civilizations that are extraordinarily collectivist. Two that come immediately to mind are the Borg from Star Trek: The Next Generation and the Formics from Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game series. Within these fictional cultures the idea of the individual is foreign. Every representative of the alien race thinks and acts with the goals and interests of the entire race in mind. It is as though individuals exist as expressions of a single entity.
The thing that defines these beings as alien – utterly other than human – is that unity of will and purpose. In the stories, human beings recoil at the thought of a culture in which the individual is lost. When one of these alien societies threatens humanity, the ensuing struggle is seen as a “fight for freedom.” A fight to preserve the individual in the face of forces that will subsume it.
At its heart, the Christian faith is an invitation to the individual to submit one’s identity and will. To find one’s identity as a member of the Body of Christ; and to submit one’s will to the will of Christ. In 1 Corinthians 10 Paul points to episodes in the history of God’s people during which they chose their own way. Turned their backs on God’s overtures and instructions; abandoned the community of believers and their way of life, and charted their own course. Chose the appetites and desires of the individual over the way of the people and the will of God. The Old Testament includes instance after instance in which this course of action leads to disaster. The message repeated over and over is that true humanity is found in reconciliation with the Creator. That people live best when they allow God’s will to restrain and guide them.
The Lord’s Supper is emblematic of our commitment to God and God’s people. It’s not primarily something we take to guarantee ourselves a better life. It’s not a product we consume to enrich ourselves as individuals. It’s an act of submission – to our Lord and to his Body, the church. Submitting to Christ means committing to a way of life. A life of self-giving and self-sacrifice. A life of choosing the interests of others over self-interest. When we partake of the body and the blood we take in the life of Christ and are taken in to his Body. We become one with him and his people.
The paradox is that we don’t lose ourselves in the process. If anything it is in our union with Christ that we truly find ourselves. Our purpose and our worth as human beings become clearer. We become more aware of who we were created to be. This is what we were created for: union with the Creator; union with each other. We find this in our communion at the Lord’s table.
A number of sci-fi programs and novels explore alien civilizations that are extraordinarily collectivist. Two that come immediately to mind are the Borg from Star Trek: The Next Generation and the Formics from Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game series. Within these fictional cultures the idea of the individual is foreign. Every representative of the alien race thinks and acts with the goals and interests of the entire race in mind. It is as though individuals exist as expressions of a single entity.
The thing that defines these beings as alien – utterly other than human – is that unity of will and purpose. In the stories, human beings recoil at the thought of a culture in which the individual is lost. When one of these alien societies threatens humanity, the ensuing struggle is seen as a “fight for freedom.” A fight to preserve the individual in the face of forces that will subsume it.
At its heart, the Christian faith is an invitation to the individual to submit one’s identity and will. To find one’s identity as a member of the Body of Christ; and to submit one’s will to the will of Christ. In 1 Corinthians 10 Paul points to episodes in the history of God’s people during which they chose their own way. Turned their backs on God’s overtures and instructions; abandoned the community of believers and their way of life, and charted their own course. Chose the appetites and desires of the individual over the way of the people and the will of God. The Old Testament includes instance after instance in which this course of action leads to disaster. The message repeated over and over is that true humanity is found in reconciliation with the Creator. That people live best when they allow God’s will to restrain and guide them.
The Lord’s Supper is emblematic of our commitment to God and God’s people. It’s not primarily something we take to guarantee ourselves a better life. It’s not a product we consume to enrich ourselves as individuals. It’s an act of submission – to our Lord and to his Body, the church. Submitting to Christ means committing to a way of life. A life of self-giving and self-sacrifice. A life of choosing the interests of others over self-interest. When we partake of the body and the blood we take in the life of Christ and are taken in to his Body. We become one with him and his people.
The paradox is that we don’t lose ourselves in the process. If anything it is in our union with Christ that we truly find ourselves. Our purpose and our worth as human beings become clearer. We become more aware of who we were created to be. This is what we were created for: union with the Creator; union with each other. We find this in our communion at the Lord’s table.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Absence Makes the Heart Grow...
Passage: Lord’s Day 28; Matthew 26:17-30
When I was a kid my parents went on a two-week trip without my sisters and me. The three of us stayed at the houses of different friends. My younger sister was about two at the time, and when my parents returned to pick us up I remember her responding not with tears of joy but with what seemed near indifference. She was busy playing, and was more interested in finishing her game than she was getting in the car.
Very young children have the capacity to adapt emotionally to changes in care environments. Their attachments are formed on the basis of regular contact – they bond with whomever is consistently close by. And it’s remarkable how quickly this bonding process can take effect.
In truth, adults do the same thing in varying degrees. We are shaped most profoundly by those relationships and experiences that are part of our everyday existence. We are much more attached to and influenced by the people we see regularly than we are to those we see occasionally.
Because of this, when we must by necessity be separated from loved ones, we take intentional steps to maintain a meaningful level of intimacy with them. We establish means of communicating regularly. We send letters and pictures. We leave objects that serve as constant reminders – items of clothing; personal belongings; things that connect us to the missing loved ones. These objects keep us close. They instill in us the feelings evoked by the person, and remind us of our commitment to them.
Before an extended departure from them, Jesus gives his closest loved ones a means of staying close to him. Practices and objects that instill the feelings his presence evokes, and remind them of their commitment to him. If his friends didn’t already have a relationship with him, the practices and objects would be void of meaning. But because of their rich and intense fellowship, and because of their commitment, each thanksgiving meal is an encounter. It is as though, every time they eat the bread and drink the cup, he is there with them. He is in them; they in him. They neither forget him, nor who they are with him. Though they are apart, each celebration of the sacrament draws Jesus' friends closer and closer to him.
When I was a kid my parents went on a two-week trip without my sisters and me. The three of us stayed at the houses of different friends. My younger sister was about two at the time, and when my parents returned to pick us up I remember her responding not with tears of joy but with what seemed near indifference. She was busy playing, and was more interested in finishing her game than she was getting in the car.
Very young children have the capacity to adapt emotionally to changes in care environments. Their attachments are formed on the basis of regular contact – they bond with whomever is consistently close by. And it’s remarkable how quickly this bonding process can take effect.
In truth, adults do the same thing in varying degrees. We are shaped most profoundly by those relationships and experiences that are part of our everyday existence. We are much more attached to and influenced by the people we see regularly than we are to those we see occasionally.
Because of this, when we must by necessity be separated from loved ones, we take intentional steps to maintain a meaningful level of intimacy with them. We establish means of communicating regularly. We send letters and pictures. We leave objects that serve as constant reminders – items of clothing; personal belongings; things that connect us to the missing loved ones. These objects keep us close. They instill in us the feelings evoked by the person, and remind us of our commitment to them.
Before an extended departure from them, Jesus gives his closest loved ones a means of staying close to him. Practices and objects that instill the feelings his presence evokes, and remind them of their commitment to him. If his friends didn’t already have a relationship with him, the practices and objects would be void of meaning. But because of their rich and intense fellowship, and because of their commitment, each thanksgiving meal is an encounter. It is as though, every time they eat the bread and drink the cup, he is there with them. He is in them; they in him. They neither forget him, nor who they are with him. Though they are apart, each celebration of the sacrament draws Jesus' friends closer and closer to him.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Foolishness?
Passage: 1 Corinthians 2:6-16
In Book IV of his Institutes, John Calvin talks about the word “mystery.” Calvin points out that “mystery” appears repeatedly in Paul’s letters as the Greek term musterion. This word is, in turn, rendered sacramentum in the Latin New Testament. It is from this Latin term that we derive our word, “sacraments.”
In 1 Corinthians Paul talks about “a mystery that has been hidden and that God destined for our glory before time began.” Paul goes on to talk about Christ crucified; about the wisdom of God. He describes these as “spiritual realities explained with Spirit-taught words.” Paul concludes that these things that make complete sense when interpreted by the Spirit are foolishness to those who are without the Spirit. Mysteries. Sacramentum.
When Calvin talks about the sacraments, he uses this kind of language. The sacraments convince us of and confirm that which would otherwise be mysterious; foolish. But Calvin goes on to argue that the sacraments are meaningless – foolish – unless accompanied by the Word of God. He says,
“a sacrament consists of the word and the external sign. By the word we ought to understand not one which, muttered without meaning and without faith, by its sound merely, as by a magical incantation, has the effect of consecrating the element, but one which, preached, makes us understand what the visible sign means.”
When informed by the Word and Spirit of God, the sacraments have the power to confirm our faith. They have the power to convince us that what God says is true; that God has accomplished exactly what he claims to have accomplished. The power to propel us into a life of sacrifice and service for the Savior.
Anyone without the Spirit only sees little cubes of bread. Ridiculously small cups of juice. Drops of water. Foolishness. By his Spirit God has unlocked the musterion; the divine wisdom of the means of his grace. Christ crucified; the washing of water; the taking of a holy meal. All of which signify and seal our oneness with the one who gave up his body that we might live; who poured out his blood that we might be clean. Foolishness? Mystery. Sacramentum.
In Book IV of his Institutes, John Calvin talks about the word “mystery.” Calvin points out that “mystery” appears repeatedly in Paul’s letters as the Greek term musterion. This word is, in turn, rendered sacramentum in the Latin New Testament. It is from this Latin term that we derive our word, “sacraments.”
In 1 Corinthians Paul talks about “a mystery that has been hidden and that God destined for our glory before time began.” Paul goes on to talk about Christ crucified; about the wisdom of God. He describes these as “spiritual realities explained with Spirit-taught words.” Paul concludes that these things that make complete sense when interpreted by the Spirit are foolishness to those who are without the Spirit. Mysteries. Sacramentum.
When Calvin talks about the sacraments, he uses this kind of language. The sacraments convince us of and confirm that which would otherwise be mysterious; foolish. But Calvin goes on to argue that the sacraments are meaningless – foolish – unless accompanied by the Word of God. He says,
“a sacrament consists of the word and the external sign. By the word we ought to understand not one which, muttered without meaning and without faith, by its sound merely, as by a magical incantation, has the effect of consecrating the element, but one which, preached, makes us understand what the visible sign means.”
When informed by the Word and Spirit of God, the sacraments have the power to confirm our faith. They have the power to convince us that what God says is true; that God has accomplished exactly what he claims to have accomplished. The power to propel us into a life of sacrifice and service for the Savior.
Anyone without the Spirit only sees little cubes of bread. Ridiculously small cups of juice. Drops of water. Foolishness. By his Spirit God has unlocked the musterion; the divine wisdom of the means of his grace. Christ crucified; the washing of water; the taking of a holy meal. All of which signify and seal our oneness with the one who gave up his body that we might live; who poured out his blood that we might be clean. Foolishness? Mystery. Sacramentum.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Sacramental
Passage: Lord’s Day 25; 1 Peter 1:1-12
Water in a bowl. Little cubes of white bread on a plate. Tiny plastic thimbles of grape juice set in the perfect-sized holes of their custom tray. Otherwise mundane objects whose presentation gives them a special significance. Earthly things that, interacted with in the right way, resonate with heaven. Sacraments.
What are the sacraments? John Calvin pontificates that they are,
“…external sign[s], by which the Lord seals on our consciences his promises of good-will toward us, in order to sustain the weakness of our faith, and we in turn testify our piety towards him, both before himself, and before angels as well as men. We may also define more briefly by calling [them] a testimony of the divine favour toward us, confirmed by an external sign, with a corresponding attestation of our faith towards Him.”
Or, more succinctly, “a visible sign of a sacred thing, or a visible form of an invisible grace.” [Institutes, Book IV, 14.1]
The Heidelberg Catechism calls each sacrament a “sign and a seal” of God’s grace. God extends the overture of his grace. By his grace God invites us into right relationship with him. We in turn perform actions that symbolize that God’s grace has taken effect in our lives. We also, by our actions, align ourselves with God’s will – we demonstrate to the world that we are good with God and good with what God is doing.
When we baptize new believers and the babies of believing parents, we together acknowledge that it is God who has drawn the person into covenant relationship. And we commit ourselves to the work God will continue to do. When we take the bread and drink the cup we testify that Jesus gave up his body and blood to atone for our sin and raise us to new life. And we declare that from this point forward we will live the new life he has given. The sacraments are our statement of belief in what God has done for us and our submission to what God will do in us.
As such, our two sacraments are the worship expression of a life that is, in every part, sacramental. Every moment of our life in Christ – every thought, word, and act – has eternal, spiritual significance. In every moment we may declare before people and before God and even the angels of heaven either that we are good with what God is doing or that we are not. In his first letter the Apostle Peter invites his church to live the sacramental life. He says,
In all this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that the proven genuineness of your faith—of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.
Throughout each day we are given circumstances. In response we will testify to the nature of our faith. Do I believe that through Jesus I am reconciled to a gracious and merciful God? Do I believe that God is using every circumstance of my life to draw me closer? Are my thoughts, words and actions “visible signs of sacred things”? These are the questions of the sacramental life.
Water in a bowl. Little cubes of white bread on a plate. Tiny plastic thimbles of grape juice set in the perfect-sized holes of their custom tray. Otherwise mundane objects whose presentation gives them a special significance. Earthly things that, interacted with in the right way, resonate with heaven. Sacraments.
What are the sacraments? John Calvin pontificates that they are,
“…external sign[s], by which the Lord seals on our consciences his promises of good-will toward us, in order to sustain the weakness of our faith, and we in turn testify our piety towards him, both before himself, and before angels as well as men. We may also define more briefly by calling [them] a testimony of the divine favour toward us, confirmed by an external sign, with a corresponding attestation of our faith towards Him.”
Or, more succinctly, “a visible sign of a sacred thing, or a visible form of an invisible grace.” [Institutes, Book IV, 14.1]
The Heidelberg Catechism calls each sacrament a “sign and a seal” of God’s grace. God extends the overture of his grace. By his grace God invites us into right relationship with him. We in turn perform actions that symbolize that God’s grace has taken effect in our lives. We also, by our actions, align ourselves with God’s will – we demonstrate to the world that we are good with God and good with what God is doing.
When we baptize new believers and the babies of believing parents, we together acknowledge that it is God who has drawn the person into covenant relationship. And we commit ourselves to the work God will continue to do. When we take the bread and drink the cup we testify that Jesus gave up his body and blood to atone for our sin and raise us to new life. And we declare that from this point forward we will live the new life he has given. The sacraments are our statement of belief in what God has done for us and our submission to what God will do in us.
As such, our two sacraments are the worship expression of a life that is, in every part, sacramental. Every moment of our life in Christ – every thought, word, and act – has eternal, spiritual significance. In every moment we may declare before people and before God and even the angels of heaven either that we are good with what God is doing or that we are not. In his first letter the Apostle Peter invites his church to live the sacramental life. He says,
In all this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that the proven genuineness of your faith—of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.
Throughout each day we are given circumstances. In response we will testify to the nature of our faith. Do I believe that through Jesus I am reconciled to a gracious and merciful God? Do I believe that God is using every circumstance of my life to draw me closer? Are my thoughts, words and actions “visible signs of sacred things”? These are the questions of the sacramental life.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Who are You Calling Good?
Passage: Lord’s Day 23
Few Reformed Doctrines are as offensive as the Doctrine of Total Depravity. This doctrine is touched on briefly in Q&A 60 of the Heidelberg Catechism, which states:
“…my conscience accuses me of having grievously sinned against all God's commandments and of never having kept any of them, and…I am still inclined toward all evil…”
Grievously sinned against all God’s commandments? Inclined toward all evil? We read this. And we react. Who are you calling evil?
Ironically, during his ministry on earth, Jesus asks the opposite: Who are you calling… good?
The question occurs during a conversation with a rich young man. The man is devoutly religious. He has grown up learning the Scriptures and following God’s Law. He comes to Jesus and poses the ultimate question: “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus knows the answer. But he doesn’t give it. Instead, he asks another question. A seemingly unrelated question:
Good? Who are you calling good?
Actually, what Jesus says is, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God!”
This question contains the two components of the wisdom of Jesus' response. The first has to do with Jesus’ identity. As is often the case, Jesus is having fun with his audience. Jesus doesn’t say what he says about goodness because he isn’t good, but because he is! What he asserts is true. That "no one is good but God" doesn’t preclude the possibility that Jesus is good; it implies that Jesus is God.
This leads to Jesus' second point: that the young man (along with the rest of us) doesn’t really know what we’re talking about when we use the term "good". The young man is operating under the assumption that his standing before God can be improved by his actions. That he will be rendered “good” once he’s achieved a level of performance or moral purity. Hey, I’m a good person, he thinks. Jesus says, “Who are you calling good?” Because when Jesus says “good”, he means, “good enough to be good with God.” And no person is that good. The reality is that if you use the rules as a measuring stick, you’ll fail every time. Goodness is all or nothing. One infraction renders you a lawbreaker. A rebel. Not Good. No human being is good enough at following God’s rules to be called good.
But the Law wasn’t given to make us good with God. God would have done us an infinite injustice to suggest that we had to work our way into his heart. God gives the Law to teach people how to live right – how to live the way he created us to live. God also gives the Law to point out how we should live once we’re in right relationship with him. But we can’t use the Law to get right with God. Only God can do that.
The amazing thing is that God does. We’re not good. But God is. Through Jesus God imprints us with his goodness. If you and I are in Christ, then it’s not our goodness God sees. It’s his. Who are you calling good? There’s only one, and he’s our shot at being good with God.
Few Reformed Doctrines are as offensive as the Doctrine of Total Depravity. This doctrine is touched on briefly in Q&A 60 of the Heidelberg Catechism, which states:
“…my conscience accuses me of having grievously sinned against all God's commandments and of never having kept any of them, and…I am still inclined toward all evil…”
Grievously sinned against all God’s commandments? Inclined toward all evil? We read this. And we react. Who are you calling evil?
Ironically, during his ministry on earth, Jesus asks the opposite: Who are you calling… good?
The question occurs during a conversation with a rich young man. The man is devoutly religious. He has grown up learning the Scriptures and following God’s Law. He comes to Jesus and poses the ultimate question: “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus knows the answer. But he doesn’t give it. Instead, he asks another question. A seemingly unrelated question:
Good? Who are you calling good?
Actually, what Jesus says is, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God!”
This question contains the two components of the wisdom of Jesus' response. The first has to do with Jesus’ identity. As is often the case, Jesus is having fun with his audience. Jesus doesn’t say what he says about goodness because he isn’t good, but because he is! What he asserts is true. That "no one is good but God" doesn’t preclude the possibility that Jesus is good; it implies that Jesus is God.
This leads to Jesus' second point: that the young man (along with the rest of us) doesn’t really know what we’re talking about when we use the term "good". The young man is operating under the assumption that his standing before God can be improved by his actions. That he will be rendered “good” once he’s achieved a level of performance or moral purity. Hey, I’m a good person, he thinks. Jesus says, “Who are you calling good?” Because when Jesus says “good”, he means, “good enough to be good with God.” And no person is that good. The reality is that if you use the rules as a measuring stick, you’ll fail every time. Goodness is all or nothing. One infraction renders you a lawbreaker. A rebel. Not Good. No human being is good enough at following God’s rules to be called good.
But the Law wasn’t given to make us good with God. God would have done us an infinite injustice to suggest that we had to work our way into his heart. God gives the Law to teach people how to live right – how to live the way he created us to live. God also gives the Law to point out how we should live once we’re in right relationship with him. But we can’t use the Law to get right with God. Only God can do that.
The amazing thing is that God does. We’re not good. But God is. Through Jesus God imprints us with his goodness. If you and I are in Christ, then it’s not our goodness God sees. It’s his. Who are you calling good? There’s only one, and he’s our shot at being good with God.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Pure Joy?
Passage: James 1:2-16
A few years ago I helped lead a study of the Book of James. When we covered this introductory passage, one of the participants said, “Is James saying we should ask God for hardship?” At first glance it almost seems as though he is. “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters,” he says, “whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” Pure joy. In my experience the circumstances God uses to teach me patience, wisdom, and trust are not joyous circumstances. The loss of a job. Repeated sleepless nights with a crying infant or sick child. The sustained pain of illness or injury. The uncertainty brought on by conflict in a close relationship. I would never ask for any of these.
And yet looking back I wouldn’t ask God to take them away, either. Why? Because through the discipline of perseverance God has broken me down and re-formed me again and again. Those experiences that have made me more and more the person I want to be – that is, more and more like my Lord and Savior – are painful. I wouldn’t have chosen them; I wouldn’t trade them away. This is the paradox of the life of faith.
The key to all of it is what James identifies in verse 6: trust. James says, “You must believe and not doubt.” The only thing that can turn pain into joy is trust. Trust that God is committed to completing the good work he began in you. Trust that God is at work bringing you closer to him, and bringing out in you the image you were created to bear. If you don’t trust that God’s hand is at work redeeming your struggles, then all you feel is the pain. It is trust that enables us to count it all pure joy.
A few years ago I helped lead a study of the Book of James. When we covered this introductory passage, one of the participants said, “Is James saying we should ask God for hardship?” At first glance it almost seems as though he is. “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters,” he says, “whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” Pure joy. In my experience the circumstances God uses to teach me patience, wisdom, and trust are not joyous circumstances. The loss of a job. Repeated sleepless nights with a crying infant or sick child. The sustained pain of illness or injury. The uncertainty brought on by conflict in a close relationship. I would never ask for any of these.
And yet looking back I wouldn’t ask God to take them away, either. Why? Because through the discipline of perseverance God has broken me down and re-formed me again and again. Those experiences that have made me more and more the person I want to be – that is, more and more like my Lord and Savior – are painful. I wouldn’t have chosen them; I wouldn’t trade them away. This is the paradox of the life of faith.
The key to all of it is what James identifies in verse 6: trust. James says, “You must believe and not doubt.” The only thing that can turn pain into joy is trust. Trust that God is committed to completing the good work he began in you. Trust that God is at work bringing you closer to him, and bringing out in you the image you were created to bear. If you don’t trust that God’s hand is at work redeeming your struggles, then all you feel is the pain. It is trust that enables us to count it all pure joy.
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