I turned on the light in the basement office this morning and settled down on the sofa to think, read and pray.
My quiet was soon interrupted, however, by a periodic and puzzling rustling sound. Within a minute or two I was up off the sofa and walking slowly toward its source. A mouse? Did we have to call in the exterminators? I was quite relieved to discover that the sounds were coming from outside of the house. A mouse had fallen into the window-well outside my basement office window and was now fully engaged in a strenuous bid for freedom.
Stuck in the window-well? Good news for me. (He's not in the house!) Bad news for the mouse, however! His prospects were grim. Barring intervention on my part, his exhausted demise in the freezing cold would arrive in due time. He had obviously (and quite mistakenly) decided that the light now pouring through the window pane was pointing him to salvation. Every few seconds I could see (and hear) him leap up against the glass pane. All to no avail.
What to do.
Well, I couldn't see myself enjoying my morning prayer time while listening to the rhythmic sounds of a dying rodent hurling himself against my window. To my shame, I do admit that I might just possibly have tolerated a quiet death. But this fellow wasn't going to die quietly. As I watched the mouse continue to struggle, my desire to help him out of his tight spot grew stronger and stronger. But it was cold outside! And how would I do it without hurthing him?
What to do.
Still watching the mouse hopeless flail about, I found myself reflecting on the fact that Jesus approved of retrieving sheep out of wells, even on the sabbath. Should I rescue a mouse from my window-well during this hour set aside for prayer? There was definitely scriptural precedent. I had to try. I sallied forth from the basement, grabbed a bucket and a stick, and ventured out into the cold, dark morning air to redeem a helpless mouse from certain death.
My mission was noble and my cause was right, but it quickly became clear that the mouse saw things differently. As soon as he saw me, he pressed himself into a tight corner of the window-well and refused to budge. How to tempt, badger or otherwise cajole him into the bucket? Thus began my early-morning battle of wits with a rodent.
It being a dark and cold morning, I confess I wasn't about to play the long game. I began to prod the mouse with the stick, hoping to work him toward the bucket. This mouse, however, was not ready to die just yet. After several minutes of poking and prodding, all I had managed to do was to make him squeal a great deal and scoot several times from one tight corner of the window-well to another. Time for a new strategy. Time for better tools!
I went to the garage and returned with a gardening trowel. With this equipment upgrade I did finally manage to flip him unceremoniously into the bucket — but it took several minutes of effort and I am fairly sure that I gave the poor, bedraggled, frantically squealing mouse a rather comprehensive bruising in the process.
I emptied the bucket out onto the frozen ground and watched the ungrateful wretch scurry off into a neighbor's garden. Mission accomplished. As I walked back into the house, I found myself pondering the lessons lurking in what I had just experienced.
If the mouse had trusted me and/or been ready to die, things would have gone very smoothly. But this mouse did not trust me one bit and he wasn't ready to die either. Zero for two. So, for our little friend the mouse, the road to salvation was paved with pain, panic and fear.
It did not have to be thus. After all, both the mouse and I shared a common goal: we both wanted him to be freed from the window-well. The problem, of course, was that the mouse didn't know better than to trust his bodily instincts for self-preservation. In this situation, of course, those instincts served him poorly. He did not understand that the great power looming over him with a stick was actually working for his eventual good.
Needless to say, I was reminded of how we struggle in like manner with our Lord. How much of our pains and sorrows would cease if we would simply let God have his way with us? It might mean letting some things within us die. Are we prepared to trust him with that? Or are we, like that mouse, going to make the process a painful debacle for all participants?
C. S. speaks eloquently of this in the following passage taken from his book Mere Christianity.
The Christian way is different: harder, and easier. Christ says `Give me All. I don't want so much of your time and so much of your money and so much of your work: I want You. I have not come to torment your natural self, but to kill it. No half-measures are any good. I don't want to cut off a branch here and a branch there, I want to have the whole tree down. I don't want to drill the tooth, or crown it, or stop it, but to have it out. Hand over the whole natural self, all the desires which you think innocent as well as the ones you think wicked - the whole outfit. I will give you a new self instead. In fact, I will give you Myself: my own will shall become yours.'
Both harder and easier than what we are all trying to do. You have noticed, I expect, that Christ Himself sometimes describes the Christian way as very hard, sometimes as very easy. He says, 'Take up your Cross'- in other words, it is like going to be beaten to death in a concentration camp. Next minute he says, 'My yoke is easy and my burden light.' He means both. And one can just see why both are true.
Teachers will tell you that the laziest boy in the class is the one who works hardest in the end. They mean this. If you give two boys, say, a proposition in geometry to do, the one who is prepared to take trouble will try to understand it. The lazy boy will try to learn it by heart because, for the moment, that needs less effort. But six months later, when they are preparing for an exam, that lazy boy is doing hours and hours of miserable drudgery over things the other boy understands, and positively enjoys, in a few minutes. Laziness means more work in the long run. Or look at it this way. In a battle, or in mountain climbing, there is often one thing which it takes a lot of pluck to do; but it is also, in the long run, the safest things to do. If you funk it, you will find yourself, hours later, in far worse danger. The cowardly thing is also the most dangerous thing.
It is like that here. The terrible thing, the almost impossible thing, is to hand over your whole self - all your wishes and precautions - to Christ. But it is far easier than what we are all trying to do instead. For what we are trying to do is to remain what we call 'ourselves,' to keep personal happiness as our great aim in life, and yet at the same time be 'good'. We are all trying to let our mind and heart go their own way-centred on money or pleasure or ambition-and hoping, in spite of this, to behave honestly and chastely and humbly. And that is exactly what Christ warned us you could not do. As He said, a thistle cannot produce figs. If I am a field that contains nothing but grass-seed, I cannot produce wheat. Cutting the grass may keep it short: but I shall still produce grass and no wheat. If I want to produce wheat, the change must go deeper than the surface. I must be ploughed up and re-sown.
Amen.
Showing posts with label The Cross. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Cross. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
I'm A Dead Man (And Other Lies We Tell)
"I'm a dead man."
I'd heard him say it before, maybe a year or two ago. I don't see him often, but our paths had crossed again. Once more the familiar words rolled out of his mouth as he reclined on a sofa in rude health, having just enjoyed a large and sumptuous meal.
A few minutes earlier he had been excitedly relating to me the latest on his search for the ideal retirement community – one which would doubtlessly be warm all year long and situated near a golf course. But conversation had now moved on to the topic of life with Christ, and his language suddenly changed so as to suit the occasion.
"I'm a dead man."
I didn't believe his claim the first time around, and this second pass wasn't any more convincing. I've never seen a more self-satisfied dead man in my life. I know something of his daily life, and best I can tell it has precious little to do with daily death.
So much for this other fellow. What about me? I ate that same tasty meal he ate, and I hope to retire one day too. Am I really different? if so, not nearly enough.
We all, to varying degrees, leave the dying to Christ. We are in the business of comfortably living. Our common desire to arrange for a suitable retirement is just the final chapter in a book devoted to the same enterprise.
Christ's participation in our lives is always commensurate with our participation in his death. Given that we devote our lives to avoiding crosses, why should we be surprised that the American church evidences so little of his resurrection power? Only the dead can be resurrected, and we refuse to die.
The question inevitably arises.... What does it mean to die with Christ? The entire New Testament is an end-to-end answer that question. So why then is the question so inevitable? It's inevitable because we read New Testament like the consumers we are. We pick and choose what we read, notice and remember – and it's usually things we've been trained by our consumerist society to value. Given that our society places a premium on avoiding death, it's not surprising that we fail to notice that death to self is the first, main ingredient in God's recipe to make us anew into the image of Christ.
By avoiding the blindingly obvious scriptural call to die with Christ, we generally miss not only the forest but also the vast majority of the trees. Truth be told, it's a good day when we notice the shrubs. Take Mark 10 for a simple example. The entire chapter reeks of self mortification (both literal and figurative), but our consumerist take-away from Mark 10 is the two verses where Jesus promises us a hundred-fold return on whatever we give up for his sake. (1oo-fold? In this life? Yahoo!) Driven by our fleshly desires, we fix our eyes on a solitary shrub in a chapter full of trees.
Even the shrubs we do not examine too closely. Who remembers that in those same two verses Jesus also promised us persecutions? As the old joke goes... "Is that a promise? Or a threat?" At best we in the American church would take such words as "advance warning." Those who have died with Christ, however, call them a promise – and a good one at that. The Apostle Paul said as much in his letter to the Corinthians.
But we don't want a promise like that, so we firstly ignore it, secondly forget it, and thirdly (the coup de grâce) get offended when the promised persecutions arrive. (Witness the righteous indignation in those various circulating religious emails we all see from time to time.)
We forget everything else Jesus said in Mark 10 too, which explains why we proceed to divorce as often as anyone else, hoard up money just like everyone else (for our retirement, we explain...) and avoid placing ourselves in danger just like everyone else. Like the rest of the general population, we want nothing to do with carrying crosses, be they relational, financial, or physical.
Crosses are for dead men.
2 Corinthians 12:10
That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
Mark 10:22
At this the man's face fell. He went away sad, because he had great wealth.
I'd heard him say it before, maybe a year or two ago. I don't see him often, but our paths had crossed again. Once more the familiar words rolled out of his mouth as he reclined on a sofa in rude health, having just enjoyed a large and sumptuous meal.
A few minutes earlier he had been excitedly relating to me the latest on his search for the ideal retirement community – one which would doubtlessly be warm all year long and situated near a golf course. But conversation had now moved on to the topic of life with Christ, and his language suddenly changed so as to suit the occasion.
"I'm a dead man."
I didn't believe his claim the first time around, and this second pass wasn't any more convincing. I've never seen a more self-satisfied dead man in my life. I know something of his daily life, and best I can tell it has precious little to do with daily death.
So much for this other fellow. What about me? I ate that same tasty meal he ate, and I hope to retire one day too. Am I really different? if so, not nearly enough.
We all, to varying degrees, leave the dying to Christ. We are in the business of comfortably living. Our common desire to arrange for a suitable retirement is just the final chapter in a book devoted to the same enterprise.
Christ's participation in our lives is always commensurate with our participation in his death. Given that we devote our lives to avoiding crosses, why should we be surprised that the American church evidences so little of his resurrection power? Only the dead can be resurrected, and we refuse to die.
The question inevitably arises.... What does it mean to die with Christ? The entire New Testament is an end-to-end answer that question. So why then is the question so inevitable? It's inevitable because we read New Testament like the consumers we are. We pick and choose what we read, notice and remember – and it's usually things we've been trained by our consumerist society to value. Given that our society places a premium on avoiding death, it's not surprising that we fail to notice that death to self is the first, main ingredient in God's recipe to make us anew into the image of Christ.
By avoiding the blindingly obvious scriptural call to die with Christ, we generally miss not only the forest but also the vast majority of the trees. Truth be told, it's a good day when we notice the shrubs. Take Mark 10 for a simple example. The entire chapter reeks of self mortification (both literal and figurative), but our consumerist take-away from Mark 10 is the two verses where Jesus promises us a hundred-fold return on whatever we give up for his sake. (1oo-fold? In this life? Yahoo!) Driven by our fleshly desires, we fix our eyes on a solitary shrub in a chapter full of trees.
Even the shrubs we do not examine too closely. Who remembers that in those same two verses Jesus also promised us persecutions? As the old joke goes... "Is that a promise? Or a threat?" At best we in the American church would take such words as "advance warning." Those who have died with Christ, however, call them a promise – and a good one at that. The Apostle Paul said as much in his letter to the Corinthians.
But we don't want a promise like that, so we firstly ignore it, secondly forget it, and thirdly (the coup de grâce) get offended when the promised persecutions arrive. (Witness the righteous indignation in those various circulating religious emails we all see from time to time.)
We forget everything else Jesus said in Mark 10 too, which explains why we proceed to divorce as often as anyone else, hoard up money just like everyone else (for our retirement, we explain...) and avoid placing ourselves in danger just like everyone else. Like the rest of the general population, we want nothing to do with carrying crosses, be they relational, financial, or physical.
Crosses are for dead men.
2 Corinthians 12:10
That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
Mark 10:22
At this the man's face fell. He went away sad, because he had great wealth.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Life, Liberty, and Bring Me Some of That Happines Too
For most of my life, I found the book of Hebrews confusing and, frankly, a bit weird. It didn't make much sense. I read it from time to time, and all I ever seemed to reap from the effort was the vague impression that this book didn't apply much to my life.
Today I would put Hebrews in my short-list of must-reads from the New Testament, and for one simple reason (if not several): Hebrews exposes the dark rot that seems to permeate every nook and cranny of American life. Americans have bought into the notion that a life without suffering is a well-lived life indeed, and not a few of us seem to think anything short of that (a pain-free life) is a violation of some inalienable human rights. Life, liberty, and happiness. (As for that bit about pursuing it, isn't that making us work just a bit too hard?)
Now here is an odd twist to this journal entry. I just now went in search of a quote from Malcolm Muggeridge which I had in mind to share here. I eventually found the quote, but not before finding two others which in this context simply cannot be ignored.
Here's the first quote: The pursuit of happiness... is without any question the most fatuous which could possibly be undertaken. This lamentable phrase ''the pursuit of happiness'' is responsible for a good part of the ills and miseries of the modern world.
Amen. Malcolm, you're making me look like a plagiarist, but I swear I'd never seen this quote before in my life.
The 2nd quote is not too family-friendly (unless you're trying to start one): "The orgasm has replaced the cross as the focus of longing and fulfillment."
Ouch! More on these in a second, but let's get down the original quote I originally set off in search of. Here it is: Contrary to what might be expected, I look back on experiences that at that time seemed especially desolating and painful. I now look back upon them with particular satisfaction. Indeed, I can say with complete truthfulness that everything I have learned in my seventy-five years in this world, everything that has truly enhanced and enlightened my existence has been through affliction and not through happiness whether pursued or attained. In other words, I say this, if it were possible to eliminate affliction from our earthly existence by means of some drug or other medical mumbo-jumbo, the results would not be to make life delectable, but to make it too banal and trivial to be endurable. This, of course, is what the cross signifies and it is the cross, more than anything else, that has called me inexorably to Christ.
These quotes capture well the essence of why I love the book of Hebrews, and why it makes no sense to American eyes, by and large. For those (many) Americans who treat orgasms as pretty much the end-all be-all of human existence, the book of Hebrews might as well have been written in Sanscrit. (And no, that's not a new font from Microsoft.)
Hebrews doesn't start to make sense until we start to treat the cross with the kind of desire, affection and reverence that we Americans normally reserves for sex.
Any takers?
Today I would put Hebrews in my short-list of must-reads from the New Testament, and for one simple reason (if not several): Hebrews exposes the dark rot that seems to permeate every nook and cranny of American life. Americans have bought into the notion that a life without suffering is a well-lived life indeed, and not a few of us seem to think anything short of that (a pain-free life) is a violation of some inalienable human rights. Life, liberty, and happiness. (As for that bit about pursuing it, isn't that making us work just a bit too hard?)
Now here is an odd twist to this journal entry. I just now went in search of a quote from Malcolm Muggeridge which I had in mind to share here. I eventually found the quote, but not before finding two others which in this context simply cannot be ignored.
Here's the first quote: The pursuit of happiness... is without any question the most fatuous which could possibly be undertaken. This lamentable phrase ''the pursuit of happiness'' is responsible for a good part of the ills and miseries of the modern world.
Amen. Malcolm, you're making me look like a plagiarist, but I swear I'd never seen this quote before in my life.
The 2nd quote is not too family-friendly (unless you're trying to start one): "The orgasm has replaced the cross as the focus of longing and fulfillment."
Ouch! More on these in a second, but let's get down the original quote I originally set off in search of. Here it is: Contrary to what might be expected, I look back on experiences that at that time seemed especially desolating and painful. I now look back upon them with particular satisfaction. Indeed, I can say with complete truthfulness that everything I have learned in my seventy-five years in this world, everything that has truly enhanced and enlightened my existence has been through affliction and not through happiness whether pursued or attained. In other words, I say this, if it were possible to eliminate affliction from our earthly existence by means of some drug or other medical mumbo-jumbo, the results would not be to make life delectable, but to make it too banal and trivial to be endurable. This, of course, is what the cross signifies and it is the cross, more than anything else, that has called me inexorably to Christ.
These quotes capture well the essence of why I love the book of Hebrews, and why it makes no sense to American eyes, by and large. For those (many) Americans who treat orgasms as pretty much the end-all be-all of human existence, the book of Hebrews might as well have been written in Sanscrit. (And no, that's not a new font from Microsoft.)
Hebrews doesn't start to make sense until we start to treat the cross with the kind of desire, affection and reverence that we Americans normally reserves for sex.
Any takers?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
He never called it stupid
Life is difficult. We all discover this to be true. Yes, it's tempting to think that a few blessed souls have it easy, but a review of how things turn out for lucky (??) lotto winners ought to give us pause before we assume that our lives could become miraculously free of difficulties were situation X, Y or Z resolved favorably.
So, given that there will always be a situation X, Y or Z, how should we respond to them?
I, for one, easily get frustrated. As a case in point, I am now in the middle of a situation which has proved costly to me in terms of both time and money (to say nothing of the emotional toll). Despite all my efforts over the past year or two, I have yet to escape it. The situation lingers on, like an intrusive and unwelcome visitor in my home. I believe God allowed it to happen for purposes known to him, and I trust God with the matter. I have already seen some good things come about as a result of what I have experienced.
So far, so good. To be able to say these things truthfully is indeed a victory. But it's not a complete one. I know the victory is not complete because of the words which flow from my heart when the topic comes up in conversation.
In prayer, I work hard to find words that indicate trust and love. God is in charge of the situation, and can be trusted with it. With effort, I find that I am able to thank God for what he is teaching me and how he is shaping me through it. It's tricky business, but I am able to find these words and mean them -- when I'm chatting with God.
But my, oh my, how the wording sometimes changes when I give friends or family an update on this same matter. Suddenly from my heart well up words which bear not-so-beautiful testimony to another perspective which I also hold within me. The thing is "stupid." The situation "sucks." I'm "tired" of it. "How I wish I had never met so-and-so, who got me into this mess." "If I had known what I was getting into, I would never have done it!!"
The strange thing is, I am being pretty honest in both situations. I speak with God in one way, and am helped by the knowledge that he is omniscient, omnipotent and loves me too. Why bother complaining to God, that being the case? In the mystery of life, this is how God is choosing to grow me up. I know this to be true, so I may as well talk that way when I'm in a conversation with him.
But in conversations with other broken people like me, I so easily move into what we all do so well -- an attitude of complaining. And usually I can count on their sympathy, because we all find it easy to slip into the fallacy of believing that difficulties are evils wrongfully thrust upon our lives -- intrusions on the idyllic existence we thought we ought to have been given as a birthright.
Then there is the example of Christ Jesus. Search the scriptures and see. Jesus never called the cross "stupid." He never said his situation "sucked." Whereas our woes usually jump us from behind (or worse, are the direct result of our own screwed up decisions), Jesus' cross was ever before him, precipitated by our screw-ups (not his)... and yet he knowingly kept walking toward it. With a good attitude. We don't know all the exact words Jesus used, but it appears that he talked about his impending doom in a rather matter-of-fact way with his disciples. The strongest words Jesus had to say about the crucifixion he knew he would endure were that it was a "baptism" he was eager to see to completion. (Luke 12:50)
But to call those his strongest words on the topic would be to ignore his prayer in the garden of Gethsemane. (Luke 22:41-44) Wait a minute. Prayer? So... let me get this straight. Jesus' words about his crucifixion were most "godly" when he was talking to men... And his words on the same topic were most "human" when he was talking with God...
Mystery. A complete reversal of how I talk about my little crosses in life. I save my complaints for people, and my most pious words for God. Perhaps there is a lesson there for me, somewhere.
But one final reflection to add to the mix, making Christ's example for me all the more compelling and challenging.
When unpleasant realities intrude into my life, my worst words are always reserved for those who helped usher them in, and the words come most easily when the offender is a close friend or family member. It's that commonly understood reality -- we are often more polite to strangers than we are to our own spouses or siblings.
For stark contrast, look no further than how Jesus spoke about the cross. Not only did he keep a good attitude about it, but he also never held it over anyone. It's a bizarre image... a painting no one ever painted. Jesus never held his cross over anyone. Imagine how tempting it would have been for Jesus to say in exasperation, "You pathetic people -- I'm going to die a gruesome death, and if it weren't for you, I wouldn't even have to do it! A little gratitude is in order here." But the gospels record no such bitter complaints.
Jesus didn't pop an attitude about the cross. He didn't complain to us about it. He didn't shove our noses in it. And when the burden was almost more than he could bear -- he talked to God about it. And he accepted it without argument or bitterness when God didn't take it away.
God, give me this gracious attitude for the crosses I bear in my life, which don't bear comparison to the cross of Christ anyway.
So, given that there will always be a situation X, Y or Z, how should we respond to them?
I, for one, easily get frustrated. As a case in point, I am now in the middle of a situation which has proved costly to me in terms of both time and money (to say nothing of the emotional toll). Despite all my efforts over the past year or two, I have yet to escape it. The situation lingers on, like an intrusive and unwelcome visitor in my home. I believe God allowed it to happen for purposes known to him, and I trust God with the matter. I have already seen some good things come about as a result of what I have experienced.
So far, so good. To be able to say these things truthfully is indeed a victory. But it's not a complete one. I know the victory is not complete because of the words which flow from my heart when the topic comes up in conversation.
In prayer, I work hard to find words that indicate trust and love. God is in charge of the situation, and can be trusted with it. With effort, I find that I am able to thank God for what he is teaching me and how he is shaping me through it. It's tricky business, but I am able to find these words and mean them -- when I'm chatting with God.
But my, oh my, how the wording sometimes changes when I give friends or family an update on this same matter. Suddenly from my heart well up words which bear not-so-beautiful testimony to another perspective which I also hold within me. The thing is "stupid." The situation "sucks." I'm "tired" of it. "How I wish I had never met so-and-so, who got me into this mess." "If I had known what I was getting into, I would never have done it!!"
The strange thing is, I am being pretty honest in both situations. I speak with God in one way, and am helped by the knowledge that he is omniscient, omnipotent and loves me too. Why bother complaining to God, that being the case? In the mystery of life, this is how God is choosing to grow me up. I know this to be true, so I may as well talk that way when I'm in a conversation with him.
But in conversations with other broken people like me, I so easily move into what we all do so well -- an attitude of complaining. And usually I can count on their sympathy, because we all find it easy to slip into the fallacy of believing that difficulties are evils wrongfully thrust upon our lives -- intrusions on the idyllic existence we thought we ought to have been given as a birthright.
Then there is the example of Christ Jesus. Search the scriptures and see. Jesus never called the cross "stupid." He never said his situation "sucked." Whereas our woes usually jump us from behind (or worse, are the direct result of our own screwed up decisions), Jesus' cross was ever before him, precipitated by our screw-ups (not his)... and yet he knowingly kept walking toward it. With a good attitude. We don't know all the exact words Jesus used, but it appears that he talked about his impending doom in a rather matter-of-fact way with his disciples. The strongest words Jesus had to say about the crucifixion he knew he would endure were that it was a "baptism" he was eager to see to completion. (Luke 12:50)
But to call those his strongest words on the topic would be to ignore his prayer in the garden of Gethsemane. (Luke 22:41-44) Wait a minute. Prayer? So... let me get this straight. Jesus' words about his crucifixion were most "godly" when he was talking to men... And his words on the same topic were most "human" when he was talking with God...
Mystery. A complete reversal of how I talk about my little crosses in life. I save my complaints for people, and my most pious words for God. Perhaps there is a lesson there for me, somewhere.
But one final reflection to add to the mix, making Christ's example for me all the more compelling and challenging.
When unpleasant realities intrude into my life, my worst words are always reserved for those who helped usher them in, and the words come most easily when the offender is a close friend or family member. It's that commonly understood reality -- we are often more polite to strangers than we are to our own spouses or siblings.
For stark contrast, look no further than how Jesus spoke about the cross. Not only did he keep a good attitude about it, but he also never held it over anyone. It's a bizarre image... a painting no one ever painted. Jesus never held his cross over anyone. Imagine how tempting it would have been for Jesus to say in exasperation, "You pathetic people -- I'm going to die a gruesome death, and if it weren't for you, I wouldn't even have to do it! A little gratitude is in order here." But the gospels record no such bitter complaints.
Jesus didn't pop an attitude about the cross. He didn't complain to us about it. He didn't shove our noses in it. And when the burden was almost more than he could bear -- he talked to God about it. And he accepted it without argument or bitterness when God didn't take it away.
God, give me this gracious attitude for the crosses I bear in my life, which don't bear comparison to the cross of Christ anyway.
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