Trying to Make Sense of Evil

Yesterday, I sat with a woman who was reeling from the tragic death of a close friend who'd been killed by her husband who then took his own life, orphaning their 8-month-old child. As we sat there grieving the situation, I found myself wanting to say something to lessen the pain, something that could make sense of a senseless tragedy. But what could I say?

It's human nature to want to make sense of evil, to explain why something awful happens. And this urge is particularly strong for me as a pastor, as if I need to defend God. But I've come to realize that evil has no place in God’s good creation. It's like a piece from a puzzle that has been placed in the wrong box. Though our rational, thinking minds want to figure it out, want to find where it fits and why it’s there, the truth is it doesn’t belong. It is an interloper into this world and our job isn’t to understand it, but rather to resist it.

Wait, couldn’t God remove it?! Of course He could; He’s God and scripture tells us that eventually He will do just that. Yet, part of the mystery of evil is that He doesn’t do so now. Rather than shielding His image-bearers from the pain of this sin-scarred world, He invites us to live as ambassadors of hope to those who have grown hopeless. And that means we will suffer right alongside of them. In fact, He warns us that "here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). In other words, following Jesus won't protect us from pain, won't insulate us from evil. We will experience sorrow and grief. Our hearts will ache, our bodies will break, but we can find hope in the fact that because of the cross, the brokenness of this sin-warped world won't get the last word. Depression and anxiety won't get the last word. Social and relational conflict won't get the last word. Even senseless death won't get the last word. Because of the cross and the empty grave, God gets the last word, and that's the hope we can cling to in the face of senseless tragedy.

But finding hope in tragedy doesn't diminish the fact that life in this world is painful. When we, like the woman in my office, are faced with an unexplainable tragedy, there's no easy answer to make the pain go away. Perhaps our best response in those times is to simply grieve with those who grieve and to bring our sorrow and our questions to Jesus, the source of our hope. He's big enough to handle our deepest emotions and our toughest questions. Besides, He's proven over and over that he can bring beauty from the ashes and breathe new life into dead hearts.

Joy Comes in the Mourning

Yesterday, we laid my friend Josh to rest. Our family has known him for almost 2-decades and the news of his passing from a heart attack last month came as a complete shock. After all, he was in the prime of his life and left behind a wife and two young sons.

There were plenty of tears shed at his memorial service, but I was surprised that the sorrow of his untimely death was overshadowed by very different emotions: hope and joy. This is because just three months before his heart gave out, Josh had entrusted it to Jesus. After years of relying on his own strength to fight his battles, Josh had come to the end of himself and recognized how desperately he needed a savior. And these are the words he wrote in his journal on that day:

Today I decided to stop playing God.

It didn’t work.

I decided that here after in this drama of life,

God was going to be my director.

He is my principal. I am his agent.

He is my Father and I am his child.

10/03/2020

It might seem cruel of God to take someone so shortly after they’d placed their faith in Him. But I see God’s grace in the timing. Because Josh had been relying on his own strength for a long, long time, and God allowed him just enough time to get to the end of his rope and recognize that he really did need a savior. And Josh’s faith in Jesus didn’t just change his life for those three short months. It radically altered his eternal life. In comparison to that, the lives we lead now are a drop of water next to the ocean of eternity.

So we grieve Josh’s unexpected death, but we don’t grieve as those who have no hope. Josh’s trust in Jesus tempers our grief, because we know that this isn’t goodbye. At most this is a temporary separation. And I look forward to seeing my friend again.

That said, if you’re reading this and you are still trying to navigate life in this broken world by your own strength, then know that I am praying for you as well. And while the content of my prayer might seem odd, know that it’s motivated by love:

I pray that you would reach the end of your rope quickly. I pray that you would recognize, as Josh did, that you are not equipped to be self-sufficient. The truth is, you were never intended to do life on your own. Our heavenly Father made you to do life with Him, and you will remain restless until you allow yourself to rest in Him. You will remain unfulfilled until you find your fulfillment in Him. So I pray that you would stop running, stop striving, stop trying to hold your world together and entrust all that you hold most dearly into the hands of the One who formed you and who holds the world together. Because He loves you and He’s not far off. You can always find Him at the end of your rope.

Walking Through the Storm

by Cindy Washbon

Our world today is different from the way it was just two months ago. We find ourselves separated from family, friends, co-workers and normal everyday routines. Many of us are experiencing a wide variety of emotions: despair, anxiety, fear, loneliness.

We often think of grief as an emotion only related to the death of a loved one. However, in this season many of us are grieving the death of a life that "was" and an uncertainty of what will "be". Grief does not come labeled as "One size fits all". Grief is a very personal emotion and uniquely different to each person.

So in this time of uncertainty, we must be patient with our loved ones. Everyone will process this season differently, and it will elicit different emotions within us. Some of us are more exhausted, others more energized by this change. Some of us wear our emotion on our sleeve; others bury it under busyness or binge-watching Netflix. Some may express grief through sorrow, others in anger. Many of us will feel anxiety and fear.

Whatever emotions are bubbling up, and however it is expressed, remember that our grief is unique to ourselves, shaped not only by our current life circumstances, but by our previous circumstances as well. Past wounds, past unresolved grief will color this current season of grief.

So there is no “right way” to walk through this storm; our grief is not "One size fits all." Perhaps the best gift we can give one another is permission to be messy, to be unresolved, and give one another both the space and time to grieve.

But one thing to keep in mind, as Christ followers, is that we don’t walk through this storm alone.

I think of another time my husband Reid and I found ourselves in a season of fear and confusion like this one. It was the Fall of 2013, and Reid had just undergone open heart surgery to repair a leaky valve. Two weeks into his recovery I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Within a month of being diagnosed I underwent a double mastectomy. Our lives were changing rapidly and we were very unclear what our future was going to look like. (Sound familiar?) At that time, I'm not sure we would have acknowledged that we were experiencing grief for the loss our past "healthy lives," but looking back I think we were.

I vividly remember the night of my surgery. I was kept in Pre-Op all night, without a regular nurse checking on me. It was a very long and uncomfortable night and I kept waking up with an overwhelming sense of fear and anxiety. However, I was not alone. Every time I woke up, the words " Trust and Believe" interjected themselves into my “what if” worrying and I knew that my Heavenly Father was there to guide me through this storm. His presence gave me hope in the face of the unknowns.

Hope looks beyond our circumstances, to the one who stands above them. Our Creator hasn’t abandoned us or left us to fend for ourselves. He’s right here with us in the storm of uncertainty and “what if’s.” And He’s promised to never leave us or forsake us (Deuteronomy 31:6; Hebrews 13:5). So our hope is the confident expectation of what God has promised and its strength is in His faithfulness.

We lament like the disciples did when they found themselves in the midst of another storm, one where all hoped seemed lost and yet Jesus was fast asleep in the bow: “Jesus, how can you possibly sleep through this?!" they cried. "Don’t you see what’s happening?” But their cries were not cries of despair, but rather cries for help. Though the wind and waves were overwhelming, their hope was in their Savior, who was in the storm with them. 

Like them, we find ourselves tossed by each wave of change, buffetted by the steady headwind of discouraging news. But like those disciples in the boat, we are not alone in this storm. And like the Psalmist, we cry, “Now Lord, what do I wait for? My Hope is in you.” Psalms 39.7 

We must allow our grief of a life and world that "was" to give way to a hope of what will be. And we need to remember that we are not enduring this alone. God is right here with us. As long as we keeping looking to Him and loving one another, we will get through this current storm we find ourselves in, and our faith may actually grow through it, not diminish. Why? Because our Father won’t abandon us. He won’t turn His back on us. He will be by our side showing us his grace and mercy through it all.

"O my people, trust in him at all times,
Pour your heart to him, for God is our refuge."
Psalms 62:8


*Cindy Washbon is a cancer survivor and a leader in Lighthouse Community Church's Cancer Support Ministry. 

Sitting With Our Sorrow

"Why am I discouraged?
Why is my heart so sad?"
(Psalm 43:5)

I need to warn you at the outset that today’s devotional will be a little different from the previous ones. Up to this point, I’ve been writing from the safety of the sidelines, as an observer describing the interaction of the sheep with its shepherd, but today I’m stepping into the spotlight and getting a little bit raw.

Ever since Easter ended, I’ve been feeling a growing sense of melancholy. And I understand why it’s happening. For the past three or four weeks (I’ve lost track), I’ve been distracted from the darkness of the valley we’re in because of how hard I’ve been running. I haven’t had time to sit with the sorrow of this season because of all the preparations I’ve needed to make: get our church ready for distance worship, get my kids ready for distance learning, figure out how to do distance relationships. Each morning I wake before the sun with my mind racing, and each night I collapse into bed long after the sun has set, exhausted from my myriad tasks, honey-do’s and Zoom meetings. And for those first frenzied weeks, there was Easter looming on the horizon to sop up any spare moment. 

But when Monday rolled around and Easter was in the rear-view mirror, the feelings I’d been holding at bay drew a little closer.

• Weariness at the radical change to our weekly rhythms. I’m finding that change takes a toll even for those of us who are energized by it.
• Fear of the long-term effects of this virus not only physically but psychologically and socially. I mean, will I ever be able to hug someone as freely as I did a month ago?
• Grief at the ways this has impacted people I love. So many people I know are out of work, separated from their extended families, and suffering alone.
• Frustration that I can’t even be there to console those who need it most. It exasperates me to hear that one of my church family is in the ER for chest pains and I can’t rush there sit with them.

That’s just the tip of the ice berg of emotions that are roiling inside of me. To quote my friend Theresa Stack, “Easter is over and Yes He’s risen, but now we need to move on in this broken world.”

But how do we move on? How do we deal with the emotions that are growing within us, metastasizing with each passing day of quarantine?

Do we invent new projects in order to keep ourselves busy? That’s what I’ve been doing so far, but it’s only pushed the feelings deeper. Do we reach for the phone, the remote, the computer, the bottle, the ice cream to help anesthetize the discomfort? God knows I’ve done that often enough. But the feelings are relentless, and they always prowl at the edges of my consciousness, distracting me from being present and stealing my joy.

So what are we to do? What am I to do?

I cannot shake the feeling that my Shepherd is inviting me to do something completely unexpected, something that seems at first glance to be counter-intuitive. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, He has a long track record of flipping our expectations:
The greatest in God’s Kingdom is the servant of all.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Jesus conquering our mortal enemy by dying.

And when I woke on Monday morning, long before the sun peeked its radiant head above the horizon, my Shepherd whispered another counter-intuitive idea into my mind:

     "It’s time to sit with your sorrow."

What do you mean, God? Invite the prowling emotions to draw near? Acknowledge the parasitic thoughts that buzz incessantly around my head? Why would I want to do that?!

Then it dawned on me (or perhaps the Holy Spirit helped me to see): Until we acknowledge our pain, we cannot heal from it. Like a sports injury, if we don’t rest and give our wounds time to heal, they will continue to plague us, casting a shadow over everything we do.

I’ll be honest: sitting with our sorrow isn't easy. Here in the West, we have a compulsive desire to find the silver lining and then move on. It makes sense since we’re a people who want to find meaning in the messiness and make sense of the senseless.

Now, on a side note, I have a lot of hope right now, because I’ve seen some beautiful things along this broken path, and I know that God isn’t wasting this time. He has this uncanny ability to use the manure life throws at us to grow  spiritual fruit in our lives.

But the emotions are still there, and if we want to heal from them and grow through them, then we need to allow ourselves to sit with them.

So that’s what I plan to do with my church community. For the next several weeks, we will be putting our previously scheduled Acts series on hold and spend some time sitting with our sadness (and all the other emotions this season is bringing up for us). This Sunday, I have a mentor of mine joining me to discuss what the Bible has to say about our sorrow. Bill Dogterom is a pastor and professor of Spiritual Formation at Vanguard University, and he’s the first person I reached out to when I realized that I wanted to learn how to grieve well. I am certainly looking forward to our conversation Sunday. If you'd like to join us, just go to lighthousecommunity.com at 10AM Sunday. And if you have any questions you'd like to hear discussed, just email them to eric@lighthousecommunity.com. 

But for this morning, I encourage you to be still for a little while, long enough for the untamed emotions you’ve been chasing off to begin to creep out of the shadows. Don’t push them away. Just sit with them. Because until we acknowledge our feelings, we can’t begin to address them.

I’m grateful to be on this journey with you,
Pastor Eric

It's Okay to Feel Sorrow

This morning, I woke with a single thought on my mind: it's okay to lament. It's okay to feel sorrow.

It's not disrespectful to our Shepherd to acknowledge that we're journeying through a dark valley in the shadow of the coronavirus. And we find hope in the empty grave. After all, the resurrection of Jesus reminds us that our worst day is not our last day. But that doesn't mean we should ignore our sorrow or bottle up our grief.

Rather, we follow David's example in the psalms of lament, as he poured out his emotions, his doubts, his fears. We do so knowing that our God is big enough to handle our emotions. And as David reminds us,"Though sorrow may last through the night, His joy comes in the morning." (Psalm 30:5)

So below I've shared the poem that flowed out of my heart this morning. Admittedly, it's not so much a song of lament as it's a song of permission to lament. But perhaps that's what we need this morning: permission to lament. 

Let It All Out
A Psalm of Lament

When the skies are all cloudy, 
   and the tempest winds rage,
When the storms of life threaten 
   to sweep us away,

It’s ok to feel sadness; 
   it’s ok to ask, “Why?” 
God's not diminished 
   by the tears in your eye. 

He can handle your worry, 
   He can handle your doubt,
So stop holding it in,
   You can let it all out.

Sometimes it seems like 
   our Father's not home,
That He can't hear our cries, 
   that we lament alone.

But the Spirit that raised Jesus 
   and rolled away the gravestone, 
Draws near to bring comfort 
   and to interpret our groans,

So in this time of trouble, 
   if your heart's full of doubt, 
Please don’t hold it in, 
   You can let it all out. 

*****

We grieve, but we do not do so as those who have no hope. And tomorrow we will celebrate the fact that since Jesus lives, so does our hope. If you don't already have a church community to celebrate Easter with, then I invite you to join me online at 10AM. Just go to lighthousecommunity.com and click on "Live Stream." And feel free to share this invitation with others in your Sphere of Influence. After all, we are all walking through this dark valley, and we all need to be reminded that our hope lives.