Christian writer and C. S. Lewis gave dimension to his thoughts on pain and suffering in his book, "The Problem of Pain."
The questions he seemed to be exploring is "Why do we suffer?" and "What kind of a perspective should Christian's have when we face pain?"
Here's what he said:
"The Christian doctrine of suffering explains, I believe, a very curious fact about the world we live in. The settled happiness and security which we all desire, God withholds from us by the very nature of the world: but joy, pleasure, and merriment, He has scattered broadcast.
In other words, Lewis' experience was that, in life, we do not find a permanent sense of peace. Troubles come in and out of our existence, keeping us from reaching that place of rest that we all seek. On the other hand, those things that bring us joy and happiness in life seem to be fairly plentiful and scattered throughout our days.
Lewis continued: "We are never safe, but we have plenty of fun, and some ecstasy. It is not hard to see why. The security we crave would teach us to rest our hearts in this world and oppose an obstacle to our return to God: a few moments of happy love, a landscape, a symphony, a merry meeting with our friends, a bathe or a football match, have no such tendency.
"Our Father refreshes us on the journey with some pleasant inns, but will not encourage us to mistake them for home."
He brings a simple, yet insightful, life principle to light. It's a perspective that only Christians can possess. Those things that bring pain and suffering in life should be viewed as reminders that this life is not our destination, not our home.
Christ said, "Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am." (John 14:1-3)
We have a place waiting for us. And this world is not it. But God gives is little pleasures along the way that do brighten our world, when we let them.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
When Mortality Calls/Go Deep
Death is cruel, and not a respecter of persons.
No one gets a pass. Death comes to all at some point in time. The only questions are when and how. And then, for those who survive a loved one, why?
It's a deep question that cries out for an answer. Christian writer C. S. Lewis observed the cruelty of death during World War II. He asked the questions, and then wrote and spoke about what he found.
In a sermon he preached, called "Learning in War-Time," Lewis said, "War makes death real to us, and that would have been regarded as one of its blessings by most of the great Christians of the past. They thought it good for us to be always aware of our mortality. I am inclined to think they were right."
Lewis goes on to postulate that the basic instinct of an unregenerate man is to seek to build up a "heaven on earth." Think about it. Many in our world today are working to do just that. They surround themselves with worldly toys--possessions, women, trophies. And many succeed, shielding themselves from life's unseemly side, insulating themselves from suffering, and propping up a view that life is wonderful.
For Lewis, war had savaged this illusion. War shows us in no uncertain terms exactly what kind of world we live in. We are forced to face death as a brutal reality.
Lewis continued, "If we thought we were building up a heaven on earth, if we looked for something that would turn the present world from a place of pilgrimage into a permanent city satisfying the soul of man, we are disillusioned, and not a moment too soon."
This improper attitude--that we can somehow conquer death on our own and hold it off while seeking and fulfilling our own pleasures--is shattered in the face of our mortality.
Then Lewis pointed to the proper attitude: "But if we thought that for some souls, and at some times, the life of learning, humbly offered to God, was, in its own small way, one of the appointed approaches to the Divine reality and the Divine beauty which we hope to enjoy hereafter, we can think so still."
What I get out of that statement is that life should be lived from a humble vantage point. Realize that we are mortal. Understand that we live in a fallen world that delivers death as the ultimate judgment for a sinful life. But also, know a loving God that doesn't leave us in this wretched state. Live life, and learn what it means to be held by God's saving grace, even when we face untold sufferings.
When we do that, we somehow move closer to the life we hope to live in eternity. And so, even when facing the grim cruelty of death, we can find purpose.
Lewis added dimension to his point through a passage in his book, "The Problem of Pain," published a year later. We'll look at that at the end of this week.
No one gets a pass. Death comes to all at some point in time. The only questions are when and how. And then, for those who survive a loved one, why?
It's a deep question that cries out for an answer. Christian writer C. S. Lewis observed the cruelty of death during World War II. He asked the questions, and then wrote and spoke about what he found.
In a sermon he preached, called "Learning in War-Time," Lewis said, "War makes death real to us, and that would have been regarded as one of its blessings by most of the great Christians of the past. They thought it good for us to be always aware of our mortality. I am inclined to think they were right."
Lewis goes on to postulate that the basic instinct of an unregenerate man is to seek to build up a "heaven on earth." Think about it. Many in our world today are working to do just that. They surround themselves with worldly toys--possessions, women, trophies. And many succeed, shielding themselves from life's unseemly side, insulating themselves from suffering, and propping up a view that life is wonderful.
For Lewis, war had savaged this illusion. War shows us in no uncertain terms exactly what kind of world we live in. We are forced to face death as a brutal reality.
Lewis continued, "If we thought we were building up a heaven on earth, if we looked for something that would turn the present world from a place of pilgrimage into a permanent city satisfying the soul of man, we are disillusioned, and not a moment too soon."
This improper attitude--that we can somehow conquer death on our own and hold it off while seeking and fulfilling our own pleasures--is shattered in the face of our mortality.
Then Lewis pointed to the proper attitude: "But if we thought that for some souls, and at some times, the life of learning, humbly offered to God, was, in its own small way, one of the appointed approaches to the Divine reality and the Divine beauty which we hope to enjoy hereafter, we can think so still."
What I get out of that statement is that life should be lived from a humble vantage point. Realize that we are mortal. Understand that we live in a fallen world that delivers death as the ultimate judgment for a sinful life. But also, know a loving God that doesn't leave us in this wretched state. Live life, and learn what it means to be held by God's saving grace, even when we face untold sufferings.
When we do that, we somehow move closer to the life we hope to live in eternity. And so, even when facing the grim cruelty of death, we can find purpose.
Lewis added dimension to his point through a passage in his book, "The Problem of Pain," published a year later. We'll look at that at the end of this week.
Monday, October 13, 2008
When Mortality Calls/Think About It
I remember the moment as if it were yesterday.
I was in a meeting, and a man interrupted with a stiff face and a flat statement, "Your father has had a stroke. You need to get to the hospital."
My thoughts were swirling as I excused myself and headed for the car. "Dad's too young to have had a stroke," I rationalized. "This must be a mistake." I was only partially right. It was a heart attack.
When I arrived at the hospital, a youngish ambulance driver with red hair and an ashen face was just coming out of the emergency entrance. He seemed visibly shaken and downcast.
As I entered the waiting room, my mother was already present. She was part of a circle of three, holding hands and praying. She was squeezing her eyes shut tight, as if by straining she could make her earnest prayers change everything. But the tears flowed through the seams just the same.
My brother-in-law, Tom, was part of the circle. His eyes were wide open, even as the minister prayed. He had followed the ambulance to my parents' house by intuition, having just happened to drive by the neighborhood at the right moment. His face struggled with disbelief at what he was experiencing.
When the hospital clergyman realized who I was, he ushered me close to the room where doctors and nurses frantically worked on my father. For over a half hour, they attempted to save him, but to no avail. The artery that fed my father's heart had exploded and the damage done was too extensive to make resuscitation possible.
My two brothers were out of town, so I represented my mother as the head nurse explained all that would happen next--a short and difficult course on attending to the business of the dead. She handed me a clear baggy with the personal possessions my father had on him when he arrived at the hospital. His wallet and comb, keys, some change, and his wedding band. I fought back the tears, trying to listen intently, and asking the necessary questions.
Shortly after that, I had one moment alone with my father. I reached out and touched his lifeless body and the realization came to me in an instant. "Gone!" I involuntarily looked upward and an audible gasp escaped my mouth.
Perhaps needless to say, it was the most difficult moment of my young life. My father was only 59, and I was just 30. It shouldn't have been. But, it was. How do you reconcile the unfair pain of such a moment? Or can you?
Let's explore the discussion more mid-week.
I was in a meeting, and a man interrupted with a stiff face and a flat statement, "Your father has had a stroke. You need to get to the hospital."
My thoughts were swirling as I excused myself and headed for the car. "Dad's too young to have had a stroke," I rationalized. "This must be a mistake." I was only partially right. It was a heart attack.
When I arrived at the hospital, a youngish ambulance driver with red hair and an ashen face was just coming out of the emergency entrance. He seemed visibly shaken and downcast.
As I entered the waiting room, my mother was already present. She was part of a circle of three, holding hands and praying. She was squeezing her eyes shut tight, as if by straining she could make her earnest prayers change everything. But the tears flowed through the seams just the same.
My brother-in-law, Tom, was part of the circle. His eyes were wide open, even as the minister prayed. He had followed the ambulance to my parents' house by intuition, having just happened to drive by the neighborhood at the right moment. His face struggled with disbelief at what he was experiencing.
When the hospital clergyman realized who I was, he ushered me close to the room where doctors and nurses frantically worked on my father. For over a half hour, they attempted to save him, but to no avail. The artery that fed my father's heart had exploded and the damage done was too extensive to make resuscitation possible.
My two brothers were out of town, so I represented my mother as the head nurse explained all that would happen next--a short and difficult course on attending to the business of the dead. She handed me a clear baggy with the personal possessions my father had on him when he arrived at the hospital. His wallet and comb, keys, some change, and his wedding band. I fought back the tears, trying to listen intently, and asking the necessary questions.
Shortly after that, I had one moment alone with my father. I reached out and touched his lifeless body and the realization came to me in an instant. "Gone!" I involuntarily looked upward and an audible gasp escaped my mouth.
Perhaps needless to say, it was the most difficult moment of my young life. My father was only 59, and I was just 30. It shouldn't have been. But, it was. How do you reconcile the unfair pain of such a moment? Or can you?
Let's explore the discussion more mid-week.
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