If He Wills, I Will

If He Wills, I Will

Sometimes, hitting bottom is the only way we begin to look up.

By Jamie A. Hughes

 

It was the first night I couldn’t feel my legs. I lay on the floor of my parents’ half bathroom—the ceramic tiles leeching warmth from my body as I lay flat in the dark, tears pooling in my ears. I was numb from the waist down, not because my six-foot frame had been crammed into that tiny space too long, but because of a lesion on my spine no bigger than three stacked dimes.

Only a few days before, I’d been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis— an incurable neurological disease that had and would continue to damage my nervous system. There is no way to predict when or where it will show up or how severe an exacerbation will be. This kind of news is difficult for anyone to hear, but for me, it felt like a death sentence.

Until then, the only time I’d spent in a hospital involved a candy-striped uniform, and my medical records were shorter than First John. But because of two letters—M and S—my life would become one of injections, MRIs, and uncertainty. Without reason, my body had betrayed me. This isn’t happening, I would tell myself during the long hours of the night. I’ll wake up tomorrow and feel normal. When I didn’t, I became angry, hurt, and desperate by turns. None of it made me better. For all my efforts, I was left as emotionally black and blue as the patchwork of bruises I’d collected in the hospital.

Up until my diagnosis, I had spent my life carving out ever-larger versions of myself like a Russian nesting doll until I could no longer recognize how small the real Jamie was. My health, education, family, and financial stability had all served as insulating layers between God and me, blinding me to the truth that I had and always would be reliant on Him for everything.

I came to the end of myself on that bathroom floor, talking to God as I never had. “I can’t, Lord,” I told Him. “This is too big, and I won’t survive it alone.”

For once in my life, I truly, earnestly prayed.

In the weeks between learning of my disease and that moment of desperate prayer, I came to understand how powerless I am—how empty those outer shells I had constructed really were. My intelligence and education, despite the pride I had in them, were utterly useless. My family couldn’t prevent MS with their love, and no amount of money could buy it off or make it go away. When God was done whittling away these supposed safeguards, what remained of me was like the miniature doll at the center of all those shells: a lesser, humbler version of myself, free from delusion and terrified by the truth.

I’d been raised in church and had received Christ when I was a child, but until that moment, I had known God only in theory—not in Person. Or to put it in the words of Job, my ears had heard, but my eyes had yet to see (Job 42:5). I collapsed under the burden of my illness. And in that moment of brokenness, God repeated the words He said to the apostle Paul—“My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

I’d like to say that moment was one of immediate revelation and I emerged from my parents’ tiny bathroom a different person, but the truth is, it took time. I needed space—breathing room and more prayers in equally unorthodox places—to understand the reason why He had allowed disease to touch my life.

Cracked open by pain and confusion, I was completely emptied of myself. And that’s where my Father needed me to be before He could start my reclamation. I had to belong to Him soul and body before He would return the latter.

Today, I thank God for the thorn in my flesh, the constant reminder of my inadequacy, because by its presence, “I was brought low, and He saved me” (Ps. 116:6). Before being chastened, I had extravagant plans for my life, none of which involved seeking or serving Him. But I now see those ambitions for what they were—vainglorious and unsatisfying attempts to build an empire for myself on a foundation of shifting sand.

Had He not graciously subjected me to this moment, I know I would have eventually come to the same dark place in time. Like David, I fell into the hand of the Lord and was subjected to “three days’ pestilence” rather than "seven years of famine" or "the hand of man" (2 Sam. 24:10-14). In a way, my illness was an answer to a prayer I had yet to voice, a supplication I didn’t know needed to be made.

Three months after that night on the bathroom floor, feeling returned to the soles of my feet—the first part of my body that had gone numb. Aside from minor flare-ups controlled by medication, I now live much as I did before my diagnosis. All the potential handicaps I feared have yet to occur, and doctors say my prognosis is good. But my wellness has nothing to do with their expertise or my merits. The Lord loved me enough to allow a plague to come near my tent (see Psalm 91) in order to draw me to Him. But when His purpose had been served, He drew it back as effortlessly as He once did the Red Sea.

James tells believers, “You do not know what your life will be like tomorrow . . . you ought to say, ‘If the Lord wills, we will live and also do this or that’” (James 4:14-15). This conditional statement summarizes everything I’ve learned through eight prayer-filled years of living with MS—if He wills, I will. Whatever happens, I know He has permitted it for His glory and my sanctification. Recognizing and submitting to this truth has granted me a liberty I never could have gained on my own.

Because I belong to Jesus Christ, I focus on all I’ve been spared from rather than what I could be subjected to. I do not live in fear of the unknown. Instead, I rediscover a miracle each morning: I am able to walk, see, and think, and my first thought is to praise Him, to glorify His name with everything I am and all I do. The healing He worked in my body is evidence of the restoration He first performed in my soul. I take neither for granted, and that is one thing I pray will never change.

R.A. Torrey

 R. A. Torrey

Do What God Asks

By Patricia Raybon

“Do what God asks.”I swallowed hard as I read the words. This was the secret? The path? The key to power in prayer? But I wanted more (or maybe less) from a prayer scholar when I came thirsty to the teachings of evangelist R. A. Torrey.

In fact, I came broken by life—a marriage in the dumps, a child in the wilderness, a beloved aging mother close to death, and my own soul in spiritual decline. So when a new friend gave me a copy of Torrey’s classic prayer manual, The Power of Prayer, I devoured it whole.

And it didn’t go down easy. Torrey taught with love, but his urgings hit tough: that we neglect to pray—then wonder why God doesn’t answer. That we doubt God, forgetting that He operates “the Bank of heaven, a bank whose capital is absolutely unlimited.” And that we fail in faith when we lack the zeal, guts, and will to “fight the thing through on [our] knees.”

So how to toughen our shoulders and fight? And then to seize a victory?Do what God asks. Reading that in Torrey’s prayer primer, I shuddered at the sheer practical, quiet power of it. Know God’s Word. Then live it.Then, said Torrey, citing from 1 John 3:22, “we, too, can say, ‘whatsoever I ask I get.’”

Did my mountains move as I sought to obey God? Without a doubt. But even more, my open ears could finally hear His answers.

The Language of Prayer

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

By Chris Tiegreen

The German pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer is probably best known for his classic The Cost of Discipleship—and for opposing the Nazi party at the cost of his life. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that his prayers reflected considerable tension. While in prison for his role in a plot to overthrow Hitler, Bonhoeffer wrote his famous “Morning Prayers” for his fellow inmates. They are filled with an awareness of the world’s darkness—and a deep sense of dependence on Christ.

Bonhoeffer believed that true prayer originates in the heart of God and is revealed in His Word. We breathe the language of prayer because the Spirit Himself teaches it to us. Bonhoeffer also believed that prayer was a crucial aspect of community. Therefore, he reasoned, prayer isn’t just the impulse of an individual human heart. It can be several voices rolled into one: the Spirit and the fellowship of believers influencing and harmonizing with the self—a chorus, not a solo.

As someone who has a lot of private conversations with the Lord, I need to be reminded that true prayer isn’t just about me. It’s prompted by God’s Word, inspired by His Spirit, modeled by Jesus, and expressed in concert with His body—the church. I’m fully convinced that God enjoys any kind of communication from us, but He also guides us into deep and specific conversation with Him. Bonhoeffer learned the nuances of this holy language well, and he inspires me to do the same.

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Chris Tiegreen is the author of The One Year Experiencing God’s Presence Devotional, Creative Prayer, and Violent Prayer, as well as the new 90 Days Thru the Bible devotional.

Through A Glass Darkly

Seeing God's beauty - and our won - through the stained glass

By James A. Hughes

At ten o’clock in the morning, the sunlight streaming through the cathedral’s stained glass windows fills the east side of the space with kaleidoscopic brilliance. Everywhere I look, there are shades of scarlet, cobalt, gold, lavender, emerald, and aqua illuminating tiled floors and smoothly polished columns, gracing them with glittering embellishments. Standing in the midst of this radiance, I find myself echoing the words of the psalmist who proclaimed, “Great is the Lord and greatly to be praised . . . Splendor and majesty are before Him, strength and beauty are in His sanctuary” (Ps. 96:4, 6).

I wander down the aisles and around the pews, savoring the sights before me. Every windowpane in the expansive room tells a vivid story. In one, Jesus sits at a well, gesturing towards the Samaritan woman’s earthen jar that cannot contain the living water He offers. In the next, the Messiah looks upward as three men lower a fourth—a paralytic in need of healing—through the roof. And in another, He glances down with love at the woman whose faith assured her, “If I only touch His garment, I will get well” (Matt. 9:21).

For some reason, however, I’m repeatedly drawn back to the image of the annunciation and linger before it longer than I do others. In this panel, Mary, clad in pale shades of rose and teal, is a picture of tenderness and vulnerability, especially when contrasted with the angel Gabriel hovering above her, his angular wings aflame. One of his hands rests above her forehead in comfort while the other is raised in blessing—the words “blessed art thou among women” suspended on his lips (Luke 1:28 kjv). Mary’s hands also speak volumes, for one is open upwards in praise, while the other is poised over her belly, already having accepted the proclamation and protecting the womb that will shelter the long-awaited Savior.

This is the moment in which both Mary’s future and ours were forever changed by the Father’s ultimate act of love. There is nothing nearby that describes the scene to onlookers, yet it speaks to me as clearly as if the narrative were written on the wall. It is a lesson meant to be experienced with the eyes as well as the soul.

This clarity and enlightenment was what Abbot Suger, the 12th-century clergyman, had in mind when he began the renovation of Saint Denis, his abbey church near Paris. Suger was an advocate of anagogicus mos, or “The Upward Leading Method,” and believed that light was a divine force that could compel a person to transcend the material world and better understand the very nature of God. As a result, he incorporated flying buttresses, arches that supported the church’s soaring rooftop. They allowed for taller, thinner walls with increased space for windows. The combination of high ceilings and boundless light filtering through the colored glass drew parishioners’ eyes heavenward. This made it possible for everyone to experience the splendor of God in a tangible way. Also, the windows served another purpose—to communicate the Word to illiterate parishioners, which is why some refer to stained glass as “The Poor Man’s Bible.”

Even now, in our modern world where towering structures dominate the skyline and light can be manufactured, stained glass maintains the power to captivate. Perhaps it’s because these breathtaking works bear the indelible fingerprints of God. The artisans whose skills are God-given create masterpieces with fire and iron, using only sand, soda, limestone, oxides, and salts, none of which are man-made. Therefore, glass attests to the truth of Revelation 4:11: “Worthy are You, our Lord and our God, to receive glory and honor and power, for You created all things, and because of Your will they existed, and were created.”

However, no matter how intricate the designs are, how accurate the depictions in these fragile works might be, or how long they were lovingly labored over by craftsmen, without one essential factor, they remain dull and lifeless. Without light, the first creation of the almighty God, our works are left as half-formed as Quasimodo, the famous hunchback of Notre Dame—another cathedral in Paris. And only God can provide the light, the divine illumination that can release the colors within the glass.
For the Christian, these windows are even more compelling because we recognize that, like us, they were thoughtfully created. Unlike darkness and light, the sky and seas, and all moving creatures, only we are made in the image of God according to His likeness (Gen 1:26). For that reason, we are the most precious of all His handiwork.

Because of this, we have been given the ability and desire to create as well. For example, God brought the animals to Adam “to see what he would call them” and agreed, “whatever the man called a living creature, that was its name” (Gen. 2:19). In essence, the first task given to man was artistic! After all, to name something is to grant it uniqueness. This creative process requires intelligence, keen perception, and a sense of logic and order to be done effectively—all of which are dispensations of the Father. That process was perhaps also edifying: by examining the menagerie brought before him, Adam could begin to grasp the infinite artistic power of God.

We continue this pursuit of under-standing today through the creation of divinely inspired, beautiful things. As Romans 1:20 states, “For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen.” Therefore, we can craft works of art and use them to praise God, drawing inspiration from His own creative work in the natural world around us.
Likewise, we understand that, just as the window is strengthened and perfected by heat and pressure, we are also purified through trials in order to be made more Christlike (1 Peter 1:6-9). And as with that gorgeous glass, light shines through us—the light of Christ, which compels the lost to flee darkness and seek the truth of the Lord. The apostle Paul spoke to this idea when he said of believers, “For God, who said, ‘Light shall shine out of darkness,’ is the One who has shone in our hearts to give the Light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ. But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, so that the surpassing greatness of the power will be of God and not from ourselves” (2 Cor. 4:6-7).
One thing, however, is certain. As beautiful as stained glass might be, it also reveals just how inadequate our power to present His glory is and how limited our understanding while we reside in the flesh. In truth, our multi-hued masterpieces undoubtedly appear to God the way a child’s finger-paintings do to an adoring parent—paltry when compared to His unending glory, but valuable for their sincerity.

Yet, praise God, there will come a day when we no longer need to rely on crude tools and materials for comprehension, because we’ll be in the presence of the Master Craftsman. For now, “we know in part and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away . . . For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face” (1 Cor. 13: 9-10, 12 KJV). Yes, there’ll come a day when His flawless light will no longer be obscured by sin.
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from Intouch magazine, February 2012 issue

Beauty and Brokenness

The Four Holy Gospels Frontispiece: Charis/Kairos (The Tears of Christ)

As the book of Psalms says over and over, beauty originates with God and personifies His being. While we tend to think of the obviously sublime—namely, the “pretty” and the pleasing—Scripture clearly shows beauty to be something much more complex, particularly in the person of Christ. From the tension of His birth to His bloodied and broken form hanging on the cross, the beauty of His life on earth transcended the surface layer of presumed reality, pointing to a reality far greater. It embraced both perfection and brokenness; both the darkness of suffering and the power of light.

If the four Gospels can be said to reveal a single thing, it is His incarnation—God coming to be with humankind, to identify with us and our brokenness, and to become its healing. Makoto Fujimura’s frontispiece for The Four Holy Gospels is titled Charis/Kairos (meaning “grace” and “eternal time” in Greek), words that suggest this mystery and miracle. As lofty as that might sound, the manifestation of this grace can be seen in Jesus’ astonishing embrace of human weakness: His tears. Fujimura writes about the significance of this humble image of divine love and its great beauty:

In John 11, Jesus weeps. His tears, shed in response to Lazarus’ death and Mary and Martha’s grief, are full of embodied truth, beauty, and goodness. Why did Jesus weep? He delayed coming to Bethany “so that the Son of God may be glorified through it” (v. 4) and, when He arrived, informed Martha that He is “the resurrection and the life” (v. 25).

If He came to Bethany to show His power and the fact that He is indeed the Messiah with the power to resurrect the dead, why did He not simply wave His “magic wand” to “solve the problem” of the death and illness of Lazarus? There would have been an immediate celebration, and all the tears would have been unnecessary. Tears are useless, even wasteful, if you possess the power to cause miracles. Instead, He made Himself vulnerable, stopped to feel the sting of death—to identify with frail humanity, who struggled to know hope.

Jesus’ tears led to Mary’s later direct, intuitive act of devotion: pouring a jar of pure nard—worth a year’s wages—upon Him. Hauntingly, this provoked an opposite reaction from another disciple, Judas, who condemned her waste. Yet Jesus commended her sacrifice, and the only earthly possession He wore on the cross was the aroma of Mary’s nard.

What we deemed a waste, Jesus called the most necessary. To me, art resonates from the aroma of Christ, hung on the cross. Art depicts what is central by marveling in the peripheral, sometimes in non-utilitarian actions. Such art lights our paths, revealing what is truly beautiful and ugly at the same time. Every act of creativity is, in some way, a response to offer back to God what has been given to us.

Adapted from the articles “River Grace” and “The Beautiful Tears” by Makoto Fujimura (available at makotofujimura.com). Scripture quoted in this excerpt is taken from the English Standard Version.