“But what if godliness is elusive (at times) because of our failure to believe that Christ has sympathy?”¹
The sentence hit me like a thunderclap.
I’ve been struggling recently. Really struggling.
Yes, I’ve been struggling with chronic illness: tachycardia, debilitating fatigue, swollen and painful joints, insomnia.
But another struggle has recently joined the parade of never-ending symptoms—a mental barricade: an unrelenting feeling of failure and shame.
I can’t shake the idea that I’m not doing enough, being enough, trying hard enough.
Yes, I’m sick, but do I really need to spend this much time in bed?
Can’t I try harder to be more present with my sons, to make it to their soccer games, to come on the family trip to the water park?
Am I making my suffering worse? Shouldn’t I be exercising more, eating better, spending more time in the Word and in prayer?
If suffering were scored like a school assignment, I fear my grade would be a big fat F. Yes, my illness causes struggle beyond my control, but surely there’s some failure on my part that’s making this way worse than it needs to be. Surely some of this is my fault?
Or maybe all of this is my fault?
If I were to list all the things I think I “should” be doing to “fix” my chronic illness and the mental anguish that accompanies it, it would produce one hefty publication.
But I have found that “should” is a terrible motivator. It never delivers what it promises.
This unrelenting weight of shame & guilt has sent me (by God’s grace alone) running to find shelter in one of my favorite books of the Bible.
When my feelings are this big, I seek refuge in the book of big feelings, because it is the book that can best handle a mental state this fragile.
I turn to the Psalms.
Here is part of the first Psalm the Lord led me to:
In my distress I called upon the LORD; to my God I cried for help. From his temple he heard my voice, and my cry to him reached his ears. The earth reeled and rocked; the foundations also of the mountains trembled and quaked, because he was angry. Psalm 18:6-7 (emphasis mine)
Another thunderclap.
The Psalmist goes on to describe God rising in anger against the enemies that were causing the Psalmist distress. He is not angry at the Psalmist, he is angry on the Psalmist’s behalf.
Could this also be true of God’s attitude toward me and my distress?
Is God really angry at the cause of my anguish? Does he possess an earth-reeling, foundation-rocking, mountain-quaking rage at the things that are causing me to suffer?
Is he not mad at ME, but mad on my behalf?
Is he mad at the pain and sorrow I am experiencing? Grieved by all the things I am missing out on? Angry about all the disappointment and discouragement I am constantly facing? Saddened by all the brokenness that causes his precious children to suffer anguish in a world that was meant to be beautiful?
Now let’s be theologically and Biblically accurate here: it’s tempting to think that Satan is the author and cause of all of my pain and suffering and that God is mad at him but struggles to stop him from bothering me.
But the Bible assures me that, whatever Satan’s involvement in my suffering, he is on God’s leash. His attempts to cause me pain are limited by God’s Sovereignty over, and ultimate claim on, my life. I belong to Christ and Christ alone.
My sickness and sorrow, though they may be influenced by Satan’s evil scheming, have been ordained by a good and loving God for his glory and my good (Romans 8:28).
But that does not mean that God revels in my pain even when he ordains it. That doesn’t mean he is indifferent to my heartache. That doesn’t mean that he looks down on me from above, as I weep and flounder, and callously says, “Suck it up buttercup, this is for your good.”
The Bible confirms this:
For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. Hebrews 4:15-16
For because he himself has suffered when tempted, he is able to help those who are being tempted. Hebrews 2:18
Jesus feels our pain because he lived our pain.
He sees. He knows. He empathizes. He grieves. He gets angry on our behalf.
And he is actively praying for us to be set free from the sin and shame that is tangled up with our suffering so that we might find the peace and rest that he paid for with his blood.
So maybe this mental barricade I’m butting up against, this shame and self-loathing I’m experiencing, is actually being magnified by my own self-focus. Maybe the answer to finding this blood-bought peace and rest isn’t to buttress my self-esteem with positive thoughts and affirmations, or dismiss the feelings of shame that don’t align with “my truth”, or to push through pain and misery in an attempt to accomplish my list of “shoulds.”
Maybe the answer is to simply shift my gaze to the one who sees me. To behold the one who sees my pain, suffering, and shame and who looks on me and all my shortcomings, not with condemnation and anger, but with empathy and compassion.
If he does not condemn me for my failure to “suffer well” (whatever that means), then who am I to condemn myself?
No, Christ does not condemn me. Christ loves me. And he knows intimately just how hard and painful this life can be.
My eyes are ever toward the Lord,
for he will pluck my feet out of the net.
Psalm 25:18
Footnote:
- From Upon Waking: A 60-Day Devotional by Jackie Hill Perry
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