As Proverbs says, “Anxiety in a man’s heart weighs him down, but a good word makes him glad.” We all need a good word. We all need the hope of Christ. It is suffering that binds us together in that need.
When I think about what has made my faith stronger, my first thought is when I see Christ in others. When I see others live as though heaven were real and this earth fleeting, it strengthens my faith. When I see others be generous with their time and money, or courageous enough to be people of integrity when compromising their faith is the far easier path, that strengthens my faith. People who live hidden lives.
But in terms of my own life, the most surprising circumstance that has strengthened my faith in God’s goodness is my own struggle with Lyme disease and its aftermath. Of course, the struggle has involved lots of complaining and self-focused misery.
But my pain has also caused me to commiserate with others who are also struggling—with trials far worse than mine. For some reason, my suffering has caused me to have more hope for the hurting of the world. Why is that? I am not sure I can explain it, but perhaps my pain is allowing me to see truths in Scripture that have always been there but which I had neatly boxed away.
As I have prayed for strength and healing for myself, I have often looked around at the hurting around me, including many unbelievers, and I ask, “why should I ask mercy for myself and not also for them? Why should I expect God’s love for me in my pain, but think He does not equally care for them?”
I know the correct theological answers, about profession of faith in Christ and God’s election. But somehow, when I am in pain, those answers are not enough. I feel much more like the psalmist, complaining to God about injustice, and asking why won’t He act? Why won’t He—in the end—have mercy on so many who suffer from oppression?
I feel Paul’s cry in Romans 9 when he expressed his “great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart” for his fellow Jews. I look around at those who are my fellow sufferers and ask for God to show them mercy—not only in this life, but in the life to come, through Christ our Lord.
Perhaps that is why I am still here—to pray. Perhaps I am Jonah under the withered plant. Perhaps we all are.
And I wonder. When I read in the Psalms about God lifting up the poor, or when Jesus says “blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,” there is no qualifier of faith there, no mention of the visible church. I know my theology. I know the technical answer, the analogy of faith I am to apply to such texts. But that does not mean I cannot wonder. And that does not mean I cannot pray for all who mourn now to be comforted, both now and forevermore. Why would I not?
Author’s note: this essay includes reflections which may appear as part of an article in byFaith magazine sometime in 2024. This is published with their permission. My thoughts are my own.