What the Resurrection Says to My Sinful Heart

So many times in the New Testament our relationship with sin is compared to the death and resurrection of Jesus. The Bible seems to suggest the Cross and Resurrection are the paradigms of our life as Christians. As Christ's disciples, we are marked and molded into a shape that tells His story. In this case, we are now dead to sin and alive to righteousness.

We were buried therefore with [Christ Jesus] by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life…We know that our old self was crucified with him in order that the body of sin might be brought to nothing, so that we would not longer be enslaved to sin…Now if we have died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with him…So you also must consider yourselves dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus. Let not sin therefore reign in your mortal body, to make you obey its passions. Do not present your members to sin as instruments of unrighteousness, but present yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life, and your members to God as instruments of righteousness. - Romans 6

Because of the work of Jesus, the chaffing chains of sin no longer enslave me. Sin is no longer my master. I am free...to obey. I am free to walk in the life of righteousness. I now have, through His divine power, everything I need for life and godliness (2 Peter 1:3). The power of the Holy Spirit is reshaping my heart and desires to walk in God’s ways. All of this - the fullness of life and freedom - are mine.

Alas, I continue to struggle with sin, listening to the seductive voices of selfishness and pride, mis-ordering my loves, giving homage to the idols I have set up in my heart. I might be free, but I still turn back to the slavery of sin. I am still a work in progress. But in the face of this, the resurrection tells me, “It does not have to be this way. The strength and power of the Risen Christ are yours to choose godliness.” The tricky part is living into—and continually embracing—that which is already mine. 

* * *

O God, who for our redemption gave your only begotten Son to death on the Cross, and by his glorious resurrection has delivered us from the power of our enemy: Grant that we who celebrate with joy the day of our Lord’s resurrection, may be raised from the death of sin by your life-giving Spirit. Grant us so to die daily to sin, that we may evermore live with him in the joy of his resurrection, empowered and transformed by your grace in and among us.

-From The Book of Common Prayer

An Answer to "Why" Isn't a Pain-Reliever

This post is part of an ongoing series on ministering to people in pain. Click here to see all the posts in this series.

the·od·i·cy   
noun   A defense of God's goodness and omnipotence in view of the existence of evil.

Why does an all-loving, all-powerful God allow suffering? It's an age-old question. Your answer to it is your "theodicy."

Our theodicy addresses the hallmark question of pain: Why? Why is this happening to me? Why isn’t God answering my prayers? Why hasn’t He healed me? Why did He allow my child to die? Why didn’t He break through to my loved one before they committed suicide? The echoes of these questions reverberate through the deepest levels of heartache and brokenness. Why doesn’t God intervene? Why doesn’t He answer? 

When we are in the role of comforter, we must exercise extreme caution with these questions. Too many of us try to answer them. Much of our cold comfort (please refer to Things Not to Say to People in Pain), is an attempt to explain away pain. They say, "I don't understand why this is happening," and we use their vulnerability as an opportunity to give them a theology lesson. 

I think we do this because we think right beliefs (a good theodicy) will make everything better. We feel a driving impulse to correct what we feel is theologically questionable. We have an irresistible urge to explain what is largely mysterious. So, when they most need calm and patient compassion, as they struggle under the weight of pain and these aching questions, we pour a dump truck of "good theology" on their front lawn.  

This was the grievous error of Job's friends - they tried to give theological answers to his troubles. At the end of the story, we know God is extremely displeased with them. But when God finally speaks, it isn't to give the correct theological justification for why He has allowed Job's pain. He doesn't explain "why" at all. I'll let Frederick Buechner take it from here...

"Maybe the reason God doesn't explain to Job why terrible things happen is that he knows what Job needs isn't an explanation. Suppose that God did explain. Suppose that God were to say to Job that the reason the cattle were stolen, the crops ruined, and the children killed was thus and so, spelling everything out right down to and including the case of boils. Job would have his explanation.

And then what?

Understanding in terms of the divine economy why his children had to die, Job would still have to face their empty chairs at breakfast every morning. Carrying in his pocket straight from the horse's mouth a complete theological justification of his boils, he would still have to scratch and burn.

God doesn't reveal his grand design. He reveals himself. He doesn't show why things are as they are. He shows his face. And Job says, "I had heard of thee by the hearing of the ear, but now my eyes see thee" (Job 42:5). Even covered with sores and ashes, he looks oddly like a man who has asked for a crust and been given the whole loaf."

What do we do with this?

1. Recognize answering the "why" questions won't make the pain go away.
    

2. Remember that what people need more than answers is the presence of our all-loving, all-powerful God. Point them to who He is - the one familiar with suffering, the one who is close to the brokenhearted, the one who is able to redeem pain. And, as His child, remember you have the calling to manifest who He is by your love for other people.
    

3. Listen for people's theodicy as you minister to them. A bad theodicy mixed with pain will make pain worse and can be a threat to faith. (For example: God has so much to take care of, why would He concern Himself with my problems; God is probably punishing me; If I just had enough faith, this would all go away.) The answer to this is not to beat a different explanation into them. This is not a time for theology class. However, these statements are opportunities to gently point them back to the truth of who God is.
    

4. If you're an explainer, reflect on why you do this. Are you trying to defend your view of God? Are you trying to avoid your discomfort with pain through explanations?
    

5. Develop your own theodicy. How do you reconcile God's goodness and sovereignty with the evil we see in our world? For an example, pick up a copy of C.S. Lewis’ book The Problem of Pain.  Just because a theodicy is not best hammered into someone while they're in the midst of crisis-level pain does not mean it isn't worthwhile. It's better thought through before pain hits.

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This post is part of an ongoing series on ministering to people in pain. If you've missed the first posts, start here. 

The Resurrection Changes Everything (Easter Reflections Week 3)

I’ve always found it to be one of the most beautiful moments of the resurrection. Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb to finish the burial preparations. I’m sure she walked wearily, like anyone who has suffered intense grief. The One who had set her free, the One she had followed faithfully—she had seen Him slaughtered, bled out, dead. She had seen Him taken from the cross, seen Him laid out on the stone slab of a tomb. She had wept in the arms of His mother, wept in the arms of His friends. As she walked to His grave that day, she was surely spent by tears and grief. Was her mind still numb? Was it spinning with confusion and questions? 

When she arrives, the tomb is open. Jesus is gone. Was the abuse of the Romans not enough? Was His body to be even further desecrated? Her weeping begins again. She wouldn’t even be able to properly see His body laid to rest. 

And then He appears to her there—but she doesn’t recognize Him. She doesn’t recognize Him…until He says her name. He speaks it, “Mary.” Instantly she knows. She recognizes His voice as He says her name. He says her name, and her whole world changed.

What can I say about this? To draw out a moral would be to undermine the power of this precious, intimate moment. I must sit with this picture, treasure it in my mind—this simple woman, with rekindled hope and joy at the sound of her name.

I’ve been thinking since Easter morning about the first sisters and brothers who saw the risen Jesus. Mary and the other women at the tomb. The limping eleven, huddled behind locked doors with a conspicuously empty seat at the table where Judas once was. The disciples on the road to Emmaus, confused, not recognizing their Lord until He broke the bread with them. 

Jesus came to them, flesh and blood, alive. He came to them—to announce his resurrection life. To bring them peace and joy instead of sorrow. To prove that his death was not in vain.

All I can say is that the resurrection transformed their lives. They went from mourners, from these fearful ones cowering behind locked doors, to boldly proclaiming Jesus as the Messiah and Savior of the world. Within several weeks, leaders would marvel at their boldness. They would marvel at these “uneducated, common men.” Acts tells us these leaders “recognized that they had been with Jesus”—or perhaps, more importantly, that they had been with the risen Jesus. Without the resurrection, they would have remained a rag tag group—some men and women who’d left their professions, their homes, their families to follow a dead religious zealot. But with the resurrection of Jesus and the subsequent sending of the Holy Spirit, they became a force that would change the face of history. 

The resurrection changed everything. It changes everything. 

How to Comfort Someone in Pain

This post is part of an ongoing series on ministering to people in pain. Click here to see all the posts in this series.

Last week, we talked about what not to say to someone in pain. Admittedly, I left you hanging. Some of you have been wondering what you are allowed to say ever since reading that long do-not-say list. 

Admittedly, that was part of the point. If you hesitated before speaking, then I did my job. We too frequently talk at people’s pain, when we need to be more comfortable with listening and silence. We chase pain away with our words when it makes us afraid, uncomfortable, or disoriented. We try to sanitize someone’s pain, to keep it from getting us messy, or to give it a quick fix, to get it over with already. 

Ministering to someone who is suffering requires us to be patient, to sit comfortably in the uncomfortable space of pain, unafraid. Pain is a process. Do not rush it. Remember that your role is to emphasize managing pain, and minister love in the midst of it; your role is not eliminating pain.

Always opt for listening over fixing, and asking over assuming. Remember that saying “I don’t know what to say. I’m just so sorry you’re going through this.” is a fine response. And above all, pray to the God of comfort, for His wisdom and grace to love well.

Show up and be there (Ministry of Presence)

Ministry of presence is always an excellent response to pain. When we’re suffering, we need people who will just be with us, without an agenda, without expecting us to talk, without expecting us to have a perfect theology. We need people who will show up—and keep showing up—with compassion. We need people who will weep with us, who will listen to us rant, who will sit with us in silence when our tears and words have run dry. 

It is not a bad idea to adopt this as your guiding principle: “Unless you truly know what you’re talking about, just keep your mouth shut and sit there.”

Be a good listener

There is healing power in the simple yet profound act of telling our story and having it heard and believed. There is something in that space of storytelling and listening that, even for a moment, lessens our pain—because we’ve been seen and heard. 

When someone entrusts you with their story, there is probably little more to say than, “Thank you so much for trusting me with this.” 

Practice empathy

Our speech should come from a place of true empathy. Empathy says, “I see you here in this pain, and I’ll sit with you here in it.” It says, “I’m sorry you’re hurting—that must be very difficult.” Empathy draws on our own experiences with pain, teaching us how to enter into someone else’s. 

Brene Brown has probably the best video around on empathy. It’s really worth a watch…

Stay in touch

Don’t expect your suffering friend to be the one to keep reaching out to you. Instead of telling them they can call, tell them you will call (or stop by, etc), and then carry through on that promise. Phone calls, texts, and good old-fashioned notes can be meaningful. Let them know you’re praying for them, you love them, you care about them, etc. Do not disappear.

Make offers to help

Ask your friend what you can do to help and support them. Be aware that they may not be able to articulate what their needs are. In this case, make specific offers of help (”Can I bring you a meal on Tuesday?”, “I’m going to the store, what can I pick up for you?”, “Can I help with laundry?”, etc.). Don’t push it if they turn down your help.

Encourage their strength and resilience

When you’re in pain, you need people to validate it—but you don’t need people who are going to enable you to wallow in it. Humans are incredibly resilient, even in the worst of circumstances. Pay attention to areas of strength, bravery, resilience, and growth, and point them out. Hold up a mirror for others to see their own strength.

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I know some of you might prefer a list of go-to responses to people’s pain, but I’m afraid I can’t offer you that (as much as I might want one myself!). It’s simply not that easy. In many ways, the remaining posts in this series will be the answer to this question of how to help someone in pain. For now, I will leave you with this:

Today we talked.
I said, "I'm confused." You asked about my devotions.
I said, "I get angry." You quoted a verse.
I said, "I hurt." You said "Believe."
I said, "I'm depressed." You said, "Rejoice."

You said I could call. I said I would try.
You said you would pray. I suppressed my doubts.
You said things would get better. I wondered, When?
As we parted, you waved with a smile.

Today we talked. Neither of us listened.
And though we talked, there was silence.
Nobody said, "I care."

Today we talked.
I said, "I'm confused." You asked, "About what?"
I said, "I get angry." You asked, "When?"
I said, "I hurt." You asked, "Why?"
I said, "I'm depressed." You said, "I care."

You said you would call. I said, "Please do!"
You said you would pray. I knew you would.
You said things will get better. I tried to believe.
You said there is hope, and you wrapped it in a hug.

Today we talked. You listened for both of us.
And as we talked, there was a third voice.
He said, "I care" with your lips. 

- “Today We Talked,” Ted Heatherington (1991)
 

He Rose, We Will Rise: Why Easter Matters, Part 2

My hands were hooked through the bottom of the steering wheel as I waited at the red light. The radio was off, and I sat in the insulating white noise of the running engine and cars turning in front of me through the intersection. 

The words came singing in my head then. I couldn’t place them at first. 

“There’s a peace I’ve come to know,
Though my heart and flesh may fail.
There’s an anchor for my soul, 
I can say, ‘It is well.’

“There’s a day that’s drawing near,
When this darkness breaks to light,
And the shadows disappear,
And my faith shall be my eyes.

“Jesus has overcome, and the grave is overwhelmed.
Victory is won—He is risen from the dead.

“And I will rise, when He calls my name,
No more sorrow, no more pain.
I will rise on eagle’s wings
Before my God fall on my knees,
And rise.”

I wondered why we didn’t sing this song more often for Easter. For here is one of the key victories of the resurrection. Jesus’ resurrection sealed death’s fate. It released us from the futile cycle of death and decay. His life guarantees we will live. Death will not win. Death will die. Oh what joy!

In her book, More than an Aspirin, Gay Hubbard talks about how the resurrection gives us hope: 

“If in our lives we are already caught in the pain and disorientation of a Good Friday experience, when death prevails and it seems all hope is lost, it is no small thing to agree to live as though Easter, a day of rebirth and new life, were coming. We sense that there may be more of this agonizing Good Friday yet to endure; there may be that terrible silent Saturday yet to come. From this place we cannot see the empty tomb; there is no evidence that Easter is coming. 

What [God] calls us to do is to agree that Easter can come and then live as though it were going to do so.”

This is what the resurrection frees us to do—to live in joy, “though our heart and flesh may fail,” not because we’re living in denial, not because we’re masochists, but because Christ’s resurrection is our sure hope that this is not the end of us. His resurrection is the proof of our future hope with no sorrow, no darkness, no tears. 

He rose. We will rise. 

Paul says in 1 Corinthians 15, “If in Christ we have hope in this life only, we are of all people most to be pitied.” It’s the resurrection that gives us hope. It gives us hope beyond this life. It gives us hope in this life, offering joy regardless of what life may hold.

Praise the Lord—Christ is risen.