Suffering
The Crucible
Part Five of a Seven-part series
If you ask a sampling of people whether they are honest, you will mostly hear answers such as this: “Yes, I’m a pretty honest person.” This answer is telling—it indicates that people are honest most of the time but that they are also aware of practicing exceptions. Strict honesty is difficult and few people are committed to it. Some people think themselves honest but are self-deceived about it; they adopt strategies to fool themselves about the lies they tell. “A white lie is not a lie.” “I only lie if I have to in order to protect others.” “If I was honest about these things I wouldn’t be able to keep my job.”
For most people, honesty is governed by enlightened self-interest; that is, they are honest as long as honesty seems to cause no harm. When honesty is dangerous or costly, it is set aside. So let me make up a statistic and say that 95% of people are honest 95% of the time, and that this is what is meant by “pretty honest”. “Pretty honest” seems pretty good, doesn’t it? That’s like 4 1/2 stars out of 5 on an Internet review. The problem is, a good definition of “liar” is virtually the same as the definition of “pretty honest”. Liars don’t lie constantly. Who tells a lie when there is nothing to fear, when there is nothing that needs to be hidden? Admittedly, some people have more to hide than others, but the principle is the same: a liar is one who abandons the truth whenever the truth seems dangerous.
For a number of reasons, to be committed to honesty is to suffer. It is shameful to make bad mistakes—we would rather not think about them, much less let others know about them. Sometimes we say horrible things or take inexcusable actions, and it is painful to admit to these things. It is difficult to admit failure to someone you have failed in the same way many times. (Have you come to the limit of that person’s willingness to forgive?) It is more difficult to admit failure to someone you believe will find a way to make you pay. There really are people who collect failures like bullets, saving them up for an opportunity to assassinate. It is also difficult to admit failure because sometimes the result is justice—you may well deserve punishment.
Sometimes being honest results in being despised by others, not because of any wrongdoing, but because what you reveal is an unpopular point of view. I was once in a job interview in which I was asked how I would address an internal corporate integrity problem. My answer was something about pursuing an internal correction, if possible, but that I would approach the corporate Board if the problem persisted. One of the interviewers added his own perspective at that point. His theme was loyalty. It felt like he was rebuking me and that I could expect my application to be rejected (which it was). He and I clearly differed about whether loyalty or integrity was the higher principle. Sometimes honesty brings hard differences into the light of day. Sometimes differences can be resolved; sometimes lines must be drawn.
It is not unusual for others to expect you to apply principles, shall we say, “tribally”. The corporate vice president insists on complete honesty and complete confidentiality between the two of you. But, at the same time, he may expect you to work with him to spin every aspect of the corporation that meets the public eye. Sometimes this spinning is innocent and practical; sometimes it is profoundly misleading or illegal. Look to the pollution control bypass equipment installed by VW in their diesel cars, as an example. In the corporate world, in law, in politics, in education, in scientific research, in advertising…probably in every business venture, selective honesty is the norm. How do you commit yourself to honesty and work within this norm? Will you define honesty as relevant only within your tribe, or will you define honesty as relevant for all humans? Taking the broader view is dangerous.
Honesty is one of many human behaviors that can result in suffering. Pick any admired human quality, such as gentleness, patience, peacefulness, faithfulness, love, humility, trust, discipline, etc. The strict application of any of these attributes will sometimes lead to suffering. With respect to character, suffering works as a kind of watershed. Will I be good only when it is comfortable to be good, or will I be good all the time? What is important to me—is it my comfort and safety, or is it being good? Will I turn my eyes away as the Nazis herd the Jews out of my neighborhood, or will I stand up and be shot? Generally, the alternatives before us are not so extreme, but it is not unusual to face repercussions for doing the right thing. Our willingness to suffer in order to do good demonstrates both to others and to ourselves just how committed we are to to the ideal.
Commitment to ideals is something Jesus took (takes) personally. He was also specific about defining the ideals. “Whoever has my commands and obeys them, he is the one who loves me.” – John 14.21 What are those commands? Jesus said: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” – Matthew 22.37-40. Logically connecting these two statements implies that in order to love Jesus you have to love him and your neighbor. Jesus was once asked to define “neighbor”. His answer was the parable of the good Samaritan. This parable made it clear that “neighbor” is everyone, even those who are apparent enemies. This makes the Muslim neighbor to the Christian; the black man neighbor to the Klansman; the guy in the Humvee neighbor to the conservationist; the feminist neighbor to the misogynist. Think of someone you really can’t stand. That is the person you are commanded to love. It is probably not possible to suddenly obliterate painful histories and biases, but it is possible to be helpful to a person, to be kind, to be respectful, to try to see things from that person’s perspective.
Do you remember the story of Job? Briefly, Job was a good man, very rich, and a man with a large family. Rather suddenly he met with every sort of calamity: his children were killed, his wealth taken away, and he was afflicted with sores all over his body. His wife told him to curse God and die. Four friends lectured him relentlessly, essentially telling him to repent, since his afflictions were punishment for his (unknown but certain) bad behavior. But Job wouldn’t confess because it believed he was innocent of the charges. He took his complaints directly to God. God essentially told Job that He is wise and powerful beyond Job’s understanding, so he should trust and bear with it all. In the end, Job is restored to his former wealth and health.
It’s a strange and difficult story. But, for me, the heart of it takes place in the first two chapters of the book. Here, Satan has a chat with God, arguing that Job is only faithful because God showers him with blessings. “Stretch out you hand and strike everything he has, and he will surely curse you to your face.” God takes Satan up on the challenge. Job is assigned the terrible trial. But the trial of Job is more fundamentally a trial of God himself. Job is never told about the debate between God and Satan; he is not informed that he is a demonstration, of sorts. To have informed him would have spoiled the test results, of course. However, the reader is invited to the heavenly amphitheater to sit next to God and Satan, and to look on. When Job passes the test, we learn (and Satan learns) that God has, indeed, created humans with the capacity to have integrity, to be faithful, in spite of contrary circumstances. So the story of Job is a demonstration to us of the deep potential God has invested in us as individuals. God demonstrates that humans are more than superficial, self-absorbed consumers. The intention of the Test Maker is that each individual passes the test he has been assigned, and grows by doing so.
We are all attracted to stories of conflict where good overcomes evil; where despair is conquered by compassion; loneliness is resolved through community or through true love; or injustice is crushed by justice. These stories are characterized by struggles where the protagonist endures hardship, danger, wounds, losses, and insecurities. The more severe the test, the more delight in the good outcome. Yes, there are stories that turn out badly. In classical literature these are called “tragedies”. But we don’t like them much.
Jephthah is a minor character in the Old Testament. In a classic example of zeal without understanding, Jephthah, as a show of thanks, swears to God he will kill the first thing he sees upon returning home. As it turns out, what he sees is his only daughter. In chorus, we all react with, “Oh, no! You should have seen this coming!” We say, “C’mon, Jephthah, repent of your stupid oath. If you have to embarrass yourself in front of your fellows, so be it. The time has come for humility. Your daughter’s life is more valuable than your bond, particularly since that word was rashly given.” Sadly, Jephthah did not admit his foolishness…and with profound regret he killed his dear child. The only thing to like about a tragedy is that it warns us away.
Our attraction to conflict-and-good-resolution is inherent in being created in God’s image. We know intuitively how stories ought to end. The prototypical battle is the one going on between God’s kingdom and the World’s kingdom which, put simply, can be seen as living according to love vs. living according to selfishness. The epistle writer, James, wrote, “What causes fights and quarrels among you? Don’t they come from your desires that battle within you?” “If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them! But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.” — Alexander Solzhenitsyn.
Giving up selfish desires and ambitions for the sake of God and community is often uncomfortable. But it is the watershed, and it separates the sheep from the goats.
Integrity (genuine commitment to right behavior), in addition to serving as a watershed, is the path on which maturity takes place. We learn first to avoid stealing penny candy from the corner store. Conquering small temptations like this prepares us to face larger ones, such as the decision about whether to cheat Uncle Sam at income tax time. There is a personal cost when we do not cheat Uncle Sam. There is a cost to others when we do. There is a connection between suffering and transforming growth. “We rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. -Romans 5.3.
It is unnatural to be a person of integrity. At the same time, integrity is fundamental to the identity of a Christian. In Hebrews we read, “I will put my laws in their minds and write them on their hearts. I will be their God, and they will be my people. No longer will a man teach his neighbor, or a man his brother, saying, ‘Know the Lord’ because they will all know me.” -Hebrews 8.10,11. This perfected knowledge and new natural integrity will not be fully attained until the resurrection, but it is intentionally in development, and part of the process takes place through suffering. To be a person of integrity means to train at it, with all the discipline and attention a world class athlete would apply to his sport. The athlete, for example, will undergo a strict regimen for decades in order to develop the strength and skill necessary to excel. With a sovereign God, a fundamental concept is that every experience of the one who trusts Him adds to spiritual maturity. One of my favorite cartoons is a one-frame feature of a character named Ziggy. One of Ziggy’s friends asks him, “How did you get to be so innocent?” He responds, “Practice.” Innocence is not naiveté. Innocence is understanding both the good option and the evil option, and choosing the good.
Do we always understand the positives of the horrible events we experience? No, I think not. Our experiences are particular; our knowledge of divine history is general. We are like Job in that God does not provide us with particular explanations for the sorrows of our lives, at least not yet. But He has given us the big picture.
I sometimes wonder whether I sincerely love God. Being human, I want to be able to see Him, to touch Him, to hear him. It’s not like He and I have ever sat down together over beer and pizza. At those times I remind myself that one way for me to love God is to love other people (the ones I find easy to love and the ones I find hard). I also believe an important means of loving Him is to trust Him. There are times when He seems to be apathetic, or absent, or cruel, and it is easy to accuse Him of wrongdoing at those times. But He deserves more than this from me.
We trust God because He has proved Himself trustworthy. A good model for this is Jesus. Having the life drained out of you as you are suspended on a cross is one miserable circumstance. You might have some hard questions about everything, as you hang there, feeling (justifiably) sorry for yourself. Jesus cried out, “My God, why have you forsaken me!” Some see this as demonstrating a crisis of faith for Jesus, but this view is doubtful. Jesus was well versed in Old Testament writings. His cry is a quote from Psalm 22. The quote would have been recognized by anyone familiar with the Old Testament (all the Jews) as not a mere quote, but a reference to the context of the quote. The beginning of the Psalm is a cry of despair, but the Psalm concludes in praise. “I will proclaim your name to my brothers; in the congregation I will praise you. You who fear the Lord, praise him! All you descendants of Jacob, honor him! Revere him, all you descendants of Israel! For he has not despised or disdained the suffering of the afflicted one; he has not hidden his face from him but has listened to his cry for help. They will proclaim his righteousness to a people yet unborn—for he has done it.” Psalm 22.22-24,31. What Christ demonstrates, then, is an application of appropriate faith. Faith is not fundamentally taking risks consistent with one’s hopes; faith is fundamentally remembering. Faith considers the big picture. Jesus was in deep misery. But he also understood his apparent defeat within the context of God’s wisdom and love. He knew the Father would generate victory out of the ashes of defeat. He knew that His Father loved Him and would grant Him life…in fact, would grant him many lives (he was given authority to give life to all who would trust him).
And so it is for all who trust Him. Are we guaranteed a rose garden? Well, perhaps. If we have roses, we also have thorns. We are guaranteed to be at enmity with those who despise God. We are guaranteed to be internally conflicted. We are guaranteed to be frail. We are guaranteed to die. Suffering is the crucible of life. It will mine the gold out of the mountain, leaving the mountain behind. It will refine the gold with great heat, until the gold is pure and brilliant. So we need to be prepared when bad circumstances come our way. And we need to remember the big picture. When God is sovereign, there is purpose to everything. All world history contributes to the refining of those whom God is calling to live forever.
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