I hit a difficult patch of life just recently, following directly on the heels of a previous difficult patch. I did what I’ve done for the last forty years, which was to turn to the Word for substantial support. At times the encouragement I’ve received has been intensely personal. This time though, it felt like big-boy talk. Rather than a promise of deliverance, I found an admonition to brace myself for impact.
The help was hardly sentimental. It pulled down high theology into my orbit–not anything new, per se, but meaningful.
Here’s the gist, from the top: From the very beginning, God’s purpose involved displaying Himself to the world. He gave a wall-to-wall testimony of Himself through His own creation–everything from sun, moon, and stars to sea and land, trees, birds, and human beings. Even more dramatically, He manifested Himself in the coming of Jesus. All of this was for the sake of expression.
His own physical appearance in Christ, though, lasted a mere thirty-three years. What about the thousands of years after that time? This is where the people of God become a major factor in His plan. For what was initiated through the appearance of Christ is to be continued through His believers.
He is the light of the world (John 8:12), but we are to be “blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and twisted generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world” (Phil. 2:12).
Along this line, the Old Testament presented this principle:
“The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, ‘Command the people of Israel to bring you pure oil from beaten olives for the lamp, that a light may be kept burning regularly’” (Lev. 24:1-2).
And this passage was the one bearing the reminder to me. First, the people were to bring oil (a symbol of the Holy Spirit). It was to come through them.
Second, the oil was to be a product of olives pressed, beaten. The Spirit doesn’t come through some type of sudden, ramped-up zeal, but out of trials, pressuring circumstances, sufferings, and acceptance of the cross. Once burned on the lampstand, it is supposed to portray a life lived denying itself for the the preciousness of Christ. Only then is God made manifest to the world. It is what should be seen “regularly” (v. 2), “evening to morning” (v. 3), “forever throughout your generations”
No doubt some of us (myself included) would prefer to hear more about the Spirit associated with prevailing strength, and success. Yet Scripture often places the Spirit and these things at variance: “Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the Lord of hosts” (Zech. 4:12). In other words, it is hardly the time for galloping white horses to overwhelm enemies. Instead, now is the time for fuel oil, pressed rich and pure out of the cross beams of a crucifix.
This is all part of participation in God’s purpose. Up front it never feels good. I’ve often read that Charles Spurgeon entered seasons of depression. It may have been brought on due to the freak accident of a fire at his meeting place that killed some people. He also had long term issues of gout so painful it came close to breaking his mind. And Hudson Taylor’s loss of several of his children while on mission to interior China. And Corrie Ten Boom who struggled to forgive a Nazi prison guard at the camp where her sister died. It was all pressure applied, unpleasant, intense, long-term.
The outcome, though, is valuable for the rest of us. Much of my way has been illuminated by stories of past Christians, and the price they paid for Christ. When I’ve languished in self-pity, I was sobered by the testimonies of those who lost far more than I could imagine. When I flirted with the darkness of cowardice, their light emboldened me to live higher. Sometimes they simply encouraged me to walk the narrow way, proving to me that I was not being “picked on.” That’s important, because I often think I am. My heart has a habit of slipping into resentment.
Eventually, my problem is not that I doubt such grace exists, but that I fear needing it. I’d rather not need it. Maybe I don’t really want to express God that badly. I like the idea of eternal purpose, but not the cost. I love the verses, not the accompanying reality. Perhaps I’m not so interested in oil from beaten olives. I’d rather offer something pre-packaged.
But then I start wondering whether God can appear in my life apart from my mouth and my keyboard. Will I make a career of avoidance, rather than embrace? And what contribution will this one life make to the overall shining? It concerns me precisely because I know firsthand a little something about the value of the Savior, and the solemn warnings of a wasted Christian life.
