Sometimes, Faith is stillness in the quiet When you begin to question Whether or not You heard his directions correctly Before. When doubts grow loud In the absence of his voice, When fear fills the silence, When the once clear call Is suddenly less clear And you cannot discern his purposes, He is still God. Hold fast. Wait. Worship. Hope.
Fear sometimes settles on you like a fog. You feel it all around you, it’s presence chilling and uncomfortable. It obscures your sight, preventing you from seeing the way forward. You know the world around you still exists, that reality is bigger than what you can presently perceive. You know that the fog will eventually lift.
But sometimes it doesn’t.
Or, at least, it doesn’t lift as soon as you’d like. That’s when you start to panic and despair.
It sounds silly, but fear can make you suddenly less certain of what you know to be true. God’s love and his faithfulness, his mercy and his grace, his purposes in discipline and the profit in the testing of our faith—suddenly, these subjects seem strangely foreign. You know the Scriptures. You’ve sung the songs, heard the sermons, read the books. But in the middle of the fog, as fear clouds your ability to think clearly, truth doesn’t appear to come to your mind or heart as quickly or as easily as it once did.
And yet, even when fear feels pervasive and overwhelming, what is true is still true. Though our perceptions may make recognition of truth more difficult, reality has not fundamentally changed. God is still on his throne. The light still shines in the darkness and the darkness still has not overcome it. The Lord’s love remains undiminished, his purposes unhindered. If God really causes all things to work together for good, then he’s still working, even in the fiercest seasons of fear. In spite of how we may feel, he has neither forgotten nor forsaken his children.
It isn’t easy to hold on to truth in the midst of fear. Thankfully, the Lord remains a firm foundation for feeble souls. Fear can reveal our weakness; his power is still made perfect in weakness. So we trust in him though we don’t feel okay, hope in him though things seem hopeless, and keep following him though we don’t know the way. And as we do these things, we will find him faithful, as he has always been and always will be.
I hide behind snooze buttons and busyness, excuses to avoid you, for fear of what you require of me: everything. Heart, soul, mind, strength, passion, purpose, understanding, ability— all of me, myself in sum, denied. I know my life depends upon surrender, so help my unbelief until I sit and listen and obey.
This poem was inspired, at least in part, by C. S. Lewis’s sermon “A Slip of the Tongue,” wherein he considers our hesitancy to draw too near to God for fear of what he may require of us, for we know that he requires complete surrender.
This is the second year I’ve taken the month of January off from posting to the blog. For the last few years, I’ve tried to maintain a consistent schedule for posts: a new essay each Monday and a new poem each Friday. This keeps me in the rhythm of writing each week, the deadlines acting as accountability to sit and reflect. I’ve grown much over the years as I’ve taken time away from my other responsibilities each week to simply write about what God seems to be doing in and around me. In this way, writing is a sort of rest, a break from the weekly routine to think and to feel a bit more deeply about the present journey.
But I’ve noticed that an annual break helps to refresh my mind and heart for a new year of writing. At times, the writing that often promises rest becomes a burden, just one more responsibility to complete before the week is over. So I decided to start taking some time off on occasion. I still write during my month off (mostly poetry, rarely prose), but I do so not for a deadline but simply for the joy of writing. I reflect a bit more freely, knowing I have time to polish a piece before the words will be seen (if they ever make a public appearance). I don’t keep a schedule for writing or work too hard to finish anything. I write when I have time and when I feel so inclined, and I don’t worry if I go a few days without putting words on paper. In this way, not writing is a sort of rest.
This approach to writing somewhat parallels my current relationship with work and with rest in general. Each week, I work to manage a number of responsibilities. Each week brings new lessons to prepare, new readings to complete, new assignments to grade. I used to approach every day as an opportunity to get work done, to strive for progress in the tasks set before me. But after a year or two of this approach, I learned the importance of rest, of trusting in the Lord more than I trust in my own abilities. I started taking a day off of school and work, practicing Sabbath rest, and I noticed my life change for the better. I felt more rested and less stressed, and I found I was more productive than I’d been in a life of nonstop effort.
In recent months, however, I’ve noticed my times of rest growing stale. As I’ve reflected, I’ve come to see that I haven’t been resting in the Lord as much as I’ve been simply stopping from effort and turning my mind and heart off for the day. I may have enjoyed spending days off in front of a tv, but I started to recognize that doing so left me feeling still drained. True, I wasn’t working, but I wasn’t really resting in the Lord either; I just wasn’t doing anything.
I’m trying to learn how to rest, and I’m finding that it’s not as simple as merely ceasing from weekly activities. Rather, true rest is found in turning my mind and heart to the one who sustains me, the one whose power is made perfect in weakness. I feel more rested after an afternoon of reading Scripture or books about the Lord than I do after an afternoon of video games or tv shows. I find more peace in a few hours of creative writing and reflection on the Lord’s work than in a few hours of inactivity. I get away and seek the Lord in solitude, finding comfort with him there. I still enjoy entertainment and fellowship and breaks from activity, but I’m learning to make those things peripheral rather than primary on my days of rest. And I’m making these choices not to seek some self-righteous status but because I’m coming to see more and more how much my life and well-being depend on the Lord.
I’m not good at resting yet, but I think I’m growing, and I’m praying for grace to rest well and to work hard, keeping both in their proper place. The Lord is good and faithful, and he’s given me sweet seasons of rest as well as strength sufficient for the work. As I learn to trust him more and more for these things, I pray that I’d be faithful to him in all of it, that he would be pleased.
The psalmist waited patiently for you And then bore witness to your care and grace. Relief followed the waiting like the dew After a night when darkness hid your face. Though you are never absent, we may not Detect you in the time before the dawn. Your promises—oft doubted, oft forgot— Prove true, a hope long hidden, never gone. But patience is required, for though the end Is certain, yet it does not come too soon. You use the time we wait to break and mend. In silence, we learn how to sing in tune. So hope, though time be now a source of strain. Our waiting on the Lord is not in vain.
“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, . . .”
On multiple occasions over the last year or so, I’ve caught myself wondering what God was doing in my life. In part, I’ve wondered this because his recent methods don’t fit my expectations. It’s as if his focus has shifted from particular actions to internal motivations and desires.
In the past, spiritual growth seemed closely tied to my external behavior. Don’t do this, avoid that, make a habit of practicing these things. Such a focus makes tracking progress somewhat simple, because you can clearly see your successes and failures. Trials, in such seasons, seem to affect those external behaviors. As I seek to build a spiritual discipline, I’m tempted by busyness or distraction or circumstance, and I have to respond either by surrendering to the Lord or to my desires. While the pursuit of holiness in outward actions isn’t easy, you can get used to it a bit. Distractions may become more complicated and temptations may increase in strength or in frequency of appearance, but you still appear to have a clear choice between two paths. You grow accustomed to the type of trials you face.
Now, however, the Lord’s focus seems to be on the internal side of life. As healthy habits have formed and external behaviors aren’t as difficult to manage as they once were, it’s as if God has moved below the surface, showing me that my motivations, desires, trusts, and hopes aren’t as grounded in the Lord as I may have once assumed. I may do the right action, but I may do it for the wrong reasons, acting out of selfishness, fear of others, pride, or any number of motivations rather than acting in faith and obedience to God. My desire may be for my own glory rather than for God’s. Trials, then, are not so clear cut. When the focus shifts to my desires and motivations, the situation is a lot more confusing and complicated.
At first, a shift in trials discourages you. You move from a place of confidence to a place of uncertainty. What once felt like known territory suddenly becomes foreign and unfamiliar. But the change is good, as is the work God is doing. When you meet a new variety of trial, an unexpected and unknown test, you’re reminded that you can’t weather such tests in your own strength or wisdom. Rather, you need the Lord, as you always have. Growth and progress only come as a result of submission to him.
In this way, no matter how trials may change throughout your life, they remain constant in their function: to drive you to the Lord. Trials reveal our weaknesses, uncover our insufficiencies, and highlight our need for further sanctification, further surrender, and further help from above. And thankfully, the Lord is faithful in every trial. Indeed, though the variety of trials seems far more vast than we ever anticipated, the grace of God remains sufficient for them all.
I wait for you, often impatiently. Passionate and shortsighted is my soul, Resistant to the truth of your control. My faith wars with my fears consistently. I pray for grace to give up while I grip More tightly to what you require of me, Thinking of faith as eyes widen to see Any way out. A trembling heart and lip Often appear instead of steadfastness, Longing for Egypt in the Promised Land, Reaching for idols as you hold my hand. Spirit, sustain me. Help me see past this. Teach me to rest in your ability And wait in rev’rence and humility.
How do you respond (w)hen t(h)e w(i)nd (s)hakes your tem(p)orary dwelling? when the thund(e)r b(r)eaks your sense of calm?
(w)hen t(h)e l(i)ghtning (s)trikes your storehouses? when all around you is (p)urifying floodwat(e)r and fi(r)e life-giving, all-consuming?
What do you do when the Father answers your prayers with a storm and a whisper?
Do you run away? Where else would you go?
There is a response when the w(i)nd sh(a)kes your te(m)porary dwelling. when the thunder (b)reaks your sens(e) of calm.
when the lightning (s)trikes your storehouses. when all around you is purifying floodwa(t)er and f(i)re, (l)ife-giving, a(l)l-consuming.
This poem would not be what it is today without the contributions of Andrew Wilson. He helped with both the structure and the content, improving the rough draft immeasurably and guiding the poem to its final form. I’m incredibly grateful for his feedback.
Fasting seems like a great idea until you feel hungry.
I’ve tried to fast more regularly over the last year or so. Jesus seems to expect it of his followers (Matthew 6:16-18), and I’ve heard many speak of it as a key part of their spiritual journey. And yet, while I’ve always understood fasting to be a spiritual discipline, I’ve tended to see it as lesser in importance than other disciplines. If I don’t devote daily time to Bible reading and prayer, I feel off. If I miss a few days of journaling, I can sometimes detect a shift in my perspective. But fasting? Sometimes fasting doesn’t even cross my mind.
So I followed a buddy’s recommendation and tried to set a time each week to practice this discipline. I placed a reminder on my phone’s calendar so I wouldn’t forget, making a choice to form a habit. And initially, I felt great.
Then I would get hungry. Or I would be invited to grab lunch with someone. Or I’d be given food of some kind. Often, the first challenge to my resolve would result in me eating, in a break of the fast. The plan that seemed so simple in theory became increasingly difficult to fulfill in practice.
Ultimately, this is to be expected. Fasting is a clear denial of the self, a deliberate choice to abstain from food in order to seek the Lord, to lay your requests before him, to abide in Christ. When you fast, you embrace temporary discomfort to press into eternal comfort, experiencing the emptiness of your stomach as you open your hands before the Lord. It’s an act of faith, of hope, and of love. And such acts aren’t always comfortable, nor should we expect them to be. Self-denial, even in small measure, may be deeply felt.
But the discomfort of self-denial teaches us. When I see how quickly I break a fast to be filled with food, I realize how deeply I depend upon what is seen and felt and how little I depend upon him who is not so immediately perceived. My failures in fasting reveal my misplaced priorities. But they also provide opportunities for growth. When I see my weakness, I learn to pray for deeper dependence upon the Lord, deeper faith in his provision, deeper love for him. I learn to seek contentment in Christ rather than in my circumstances. I learn to wait on the Lord rather than seeking the speedy fulfilment of my desires.
I’m still not good at fasting, but I want to develop the habit. I want to see more clearly my dependence on the Lord and better understand his provision. I want to grow in faith and hope and love, denying myself a meal to be more deeply satisfied in the Maker. And I pray the Lord would sanctify me in the process.