The Problem of Pain - Part 2

“Endure hardship as discipline. God is treating you as children...

No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. 

Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness

and peace for those who have been trained by it. 

Therefore, strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees.”

                                                  - Hebrews 12:7, 11-12

Pain isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s actually a gift from God. 

He created our bodies with nerve endings to tell us when something is off. In fact, leprosy was the scourge of the ancient world primarily because it was a deadening of the nerve endings – it hindered people from feeling pain, so they ended up hurting themselves even worse.

So rather than viewing our pain as a mistake, as the byproduct of a God who isn’t paying close enough attention to our suffering, I pray that we will view it as a gift. And I hope that we will trust our Heavenly Father enough to allow Him to use our pain to strengthen our faith and grow our spiritual muscles. As the writer of Hebrews put it, “endure hardship as discipline (or training). God is treating you as children.”

As a parent myself, I’m torn between the temptation to protect my sons from any and all discomfort, and the desire to see them grow. I love them, and it’s hard to see them struggle, both emotionally and physically. I hurt when I see them hurting, whether because of friction in a friendship or because they’ve encountered an obstacle that seems challenging to them.

However, I also want to see my sons grow in maturity, and maturity doesn’t happen when they aren’t challenged. Their ability to work through conflict won’t expand if I step in every time I see they’re encountering relational friction. Their confidence won’t grow if I take over every time they hit a problem that they don’t already know the answer to. 

And so, as a loving parent, I actually allow my kids to experience discomfort, to work through hardship, to do their own school projects. I will often stay near, encouraging them and reminding them that they can do it, but if I want to see them grow, then I need to allow them to struggle.

God loves us enough to allow us to struggle as well. He doesn’t shield us from the discomfort or downright brokenness of this world. Rather, He walks alongside of us as we work through the challenges each day throws at us. We may not always recognize His nearness, and He will intervene in ways we may never realize, but in the end, our Father in Heaven loves us too much to protect us from hardship. The cost is simply too great.

Admittedly, we often don’t like the discomfort and pain this spiritual training brings. Neither do my kids. And the writer of Hebrews recognized that fact. He admits, “No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful.” But the pain is momentary; the benefits of working through the pain are far longer lasting.

He continues, “Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.” I’ve often been struck by the fact that the positive fruit of the struggle – in this instance “righteousness and peace” – isn’t a given. It is only produced when we lean into the hardship and allow ourselves to be trained by it. 

I can think of several times I’ve watched my sons encounter challenges that seemed overwhelming to them, though I knew they were more than capable, and then watched as they threw pity parties rather than try to overcome the challenges. In the end, it seems that the only thing my boys learn through the tantrums is that life is hard and their parents are mean. What they fail to recognize in the midst of the emotional outbursts is that my willingness to let them struggle is actually an act of love. And it costs me dearly to love them in that way.

We, too, may be tempted to throw tantrums when God doesn’t step in immediately and calm the storm or give us the answer to our question or fix the relationship that is strained or make the stupid virus go away. Maybe that’s just me, though I doubt it. But Hebrews 12 reminds us that God loves us enough to let us struggle. But He won't make us struggle alone. 

Our Father won’t abandon us. He isn’t an absentee landlord who wound up the world and now sits back and watches it spin out of control. Nor is He like a cruel child who throws a defenseless animal in the water and waits to see if it will get out or drown. Far too many people have looked at the brokenness of life in this sin-warped world and drawn that conclusion.

God’s reasons for allowing us to struggle are far more loving and purposeful. He allows us to work through things for our own good, to make us stronger, to grow our faith, or as the writer of Hebrews put it, to “strengthen our feeble arms and weak knees” (v.12).

This sort of spiritual growth is not only important for our own well-being, but for the people around us as well. After all, we are surrounded by people who are stumbling along their own broken paths, who are enduring their own pain, and our Father has invited us to come alongside of them. And if we hope to be any support to them, then we truly need to get stronger.

So hardship doesn't just remind us to fix our eyes on God and lean on Him when our world is shaken; it is also the crucible through which our strength to walk with others is developed. And that's why our pain is a gift.

The Problem of Pain - Part 1

Yesterday, during our live stream my wife Cathy and I got to process the grief that this painful season is stirring up for many of us. If you missed that conversation, you can find it here. 

One of the more profound insights that I was struck by in that conversation was the radical difference between how our society views and treats pain verses how God views and treats pain.

We live in a society that views pain as a problem to be avoided (or eased) at all costs. One study I read estimated that in the US, we spend over 16.4 Billion every year on pharmaceuticals to diminish our pain. As a guy who lives with chronic back pain, I get it. As I write this, there’s a twinge in my back from an old body-surfing accident, one that flairs up any time I happen to roll over onto my stomach when I sleep. I’ll be the first to say, “I hate pain and I wish it wasn’t part of the human existence.” But it is.

I cannot help but note that pain is a very real part of life in this sin-warped world. Whether physical, emotional, mental or spiritual, we encounter pain in various forms every single day of our lives. And my knee-jerk reaction is to lament its existence and to do everything in my power to alleviate pain (and its weaker little brother, discomfort) both for myself and my loved ones.

However, as I read scripture, I cannot help but notice that the biblical writers didn’t have the same negative perspective on pain. To them, pain wasn’t something to be avoided at all costs. Rather, they viewed it as a natural part of life that could help us grow spiritually. Just listen to a few takes on pain and suffering:

“We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” (Romans 5:3-5)

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” (James 1:2-4)

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead… In all this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that the proven genuineness of your faith—of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.” (1 Peter 1:3,6-7)

Why on earth would we rejoice in our suffering or count our trials as reason for joy? From a 21st American mindset that makes no sense. Suffering, trials and pain are things to be avoided, not celebrated, right?!

And yet, the average American will also spend $112,000 in their lifetime on their fitness – this includes gym memberships that we may or may not use as well as personal training when we really need a kick in our pants. Because we understand that physical health doesn’t come through sitting on the couch with a remote and a bag of chips. It comes through allowing our bodies to endure the discomfort of a work-out; strength comes through exercising our muscles until they grow fatigued.

In the same way, our Heavenly Father knows that while we crave comfort, the trials of life are the best crucibles for our character. He understands that although we would like to avoid pain, our faith grows best when it’s put to the test. And so He allows us to endure trials and hardship and pain.

But our Father doesn’t ask us to endure the storms of life alone. He is right there with us. Or to use the training metaphor, His Holy Spirit resides within us, our own personal trainer who guides us in our response to pain, comforts us in our distress, and encourages us to keep going. Why? Because He knows that the pain is fleeting, but what it’s producing in us lasts far longer.

So don’t doubt God’s love for you if you’re enduring pain right now. It’s a natural byproduct of life in this sin-warped world. Yes, it’s uncomfortable. Yes, we’d like to avoid it if possible. And yes, we will still distract ourselves from it from time to time with Netflix and memes. But the problem with pain isn’t the pain itself.

The problem with pain is our perception of it.

Finally, Some Good News

“Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” 
(Psalm 23:6)

There is so much discouraging news floating around out there. That’s why over the last month, we’ve been slowly working through Psalm 23 – the Shepherd’s Psalm. It is a cry of trust written from the perspective of a sheep towards his shepherd. And it closes in much the same was as it opens: with a declaration of joyful contentment from one who rests under the capable care of the Good Shepherd.

The first verse declares, “The Lord is my Shepherd, I have everything I need.”

The final verse declares, “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever!”


I don’t know about you, but whenever I read about dwelling in the Lord’s house forever, my mind automatically goes to the throne-room of Heaven. After all, that’s where God resides, right? So if I want to be in His presence, I need to go where He is.

And this leads me to interpret David’s statement as a “some day” declaration. Some day I will finally be with God in heaven. Some day I will finally leave this broken world, full of pain and heartache and disappointment.

Someday.

But that implies that I can’t dwell in God’s house now. I’m stuck here in my house, with kids that don’t want to do their distance learning, snacks that keep begging me to add to my ‘dad-bod,’ and a virus that quietly stalks our streets. Oh joy!

But what if I’ve been reading this wrong all these years? What if my Western-interpretation of what David means by “the house of the Lord” has actually obscured the immediacy of his joy?

I turn one last time to the words of Philip Keller, whose insights gleaned from years as a shepherd have proven invaluable to our journey through the Shepherd’s Psalm. He explains that the Shepherd’s house isn’t referring to a physical home, like a church building or even to heaven itself. Rather, “what is referred to by ‘house’ is the family or household or flock of the Good Shepherd.”

In other words, coming into the house of the Lord means coming under His ownership and finding rest in His care. And as we’ve seen all throughout Psalm 23, David already considers himself to be under the care of the Good Shepherd. He resides in the presence of the Lord, regardless of whether he lays in the green pastures or walks through the dark valleys of life. He says that no matter what my circumstances, my heart is at peace because “You are with me.”

And that means we don’t need to wait until we die to find rest in the house - or the care - of the Lord. We can rest under His loving and capable hands here and now, even in the midst of this sin-scarred world.

Now, I should mention that there are other shepherds out there, and they're not nearly as good. Peter warned us that “we are slaves to whatever has mastered us.” (2 Peter 2:19) That means some of us are slaves to our ambition, others to our appetites, and still others to our anxiety. These are just a few of the many cruel owners in whose flock we might find ourselves. They are demanding masters who are never satisfied and couldn’t care less about our well-being. Many of us have labored under their judgmental gaze far too long, and our efforts left us spiritually emaciated.

But we don’t need to live under the heavy hand of these cruel and heartless taskmasters for the rest of our lives. We don’t have to futilely search for our identity or scratch our meager sustenance from their desolate fields any longer. Jesus made a way for us to enter the care – or house – of the Good Shepherd whenever we choose. 

No, we don’t have to jump the fence. We couldn’t do that if we wanted to. Nor do we need to earn the right to become one of his sheep by doing impressive things to help us stand out from the rest of the haggard sheep. There really are no barbed-wire hoops to jump through at all. Because Jesus made a way into our Heavenly Father’s fields.

Let me rephrase that – Jesus IS the way into our Heavenly Father’s fields.

Don’t take my word for it. Jesus said so himself: “I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved. They will come in and go out, and find pasture.” (John 10:9).

That means the cross isn’t just good news for when we die; it’s good news for us here and now in this sin-scarred world. Because Jesus laid down his life to make a way for us to come back to our Father’s flock. We don’t need to earn it – that’s what makes it’s a gift.

But this invitation isn’t just for us. It’s also for every other man, woman and child on the planet. So once we enter through the grace-filled gate, once we taste and see that our Father truly is a loving and capable shepherd, then we get to spend our lives roaming the fences, looking for other sheep who desperately need to hear that they don’t need to labor under the heavy hand of their earthly masters any longer. Because His love made a way.

And the best part? No matter how bad the weather gets, no matter how dark the valleys we walk through, the brokenness of this world will never get the last word. We will reside under the loving care of our Creator for all eternity.

And that truly is good news.

What We Leave Behind 

“Surely goodness and mercy will follow me 

all the days of my life.” (Psalm 23:6) 

Psalm 23 has been a declaration of trust from the sheep to his shepherd. And that trust isn’t just arbitrarily ascribed, it’s borne out of a life full of examples of the Shepherd’s care and competency.

Consider what David has declared to be true about his shepherd, and ask yourself, can I say the same?

I have never truly been in want. Even in times of scarcity, you have given me what I need.

Though I tend to run myself ragged, you force me to lie down in green pastures.

When I am tempted to drink from the polluted puddles of life, you lead me to still waters.

Time and again when I have felt discouraged and depleted, you have restored my soul.

Though I resist at times, you have always led me down the right paths.

Even now, as I find myself walking through a dark valley shrouded in the shadow of death, I am not afraid of the evil and brokenness of this world, for I know that I don’t walk alone. You are with me.

You carry the rod to protect me from harm, even self-inflicted harm.

And your Holy Spirit, like a staff, comforts me, encourages me, and reminds me you are near.

You nourish me in the face of those things I fear, and you protect my mind from the pesky thoughts that swarm around me. 

Truly my cup runs over with examples of your goodness and mercy.

And now, as the psalm nears its end, David turns his focus to the fruit of the Good Shepherd’s care.

"Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days if my life." 

According to David, if we are under the Good Shepherd’s care, then we are not only recipients of goodness and mercy, but we get to be conduits of goodness and mercy to the world around us. It’s as if God puts so much blessing into our lives that we simply can’t contain it all; our cup overflows. 

Sounds wonderful. But is it true? I suppose that depends on whose lead we're following. 

One of the many ironies of sheep is that, left to their own devices, they can be incredibly destructive, ripping up grass by the roots and stripping an area bare. However, spread out and well shepherded, they can be incredibly beneficial for the earth. Ancient literature actually referred to sheep as “the golden hoof “ because of the beneficial effect they could have on the land.

Phillip Keller explains the impact his own flocks had on the surrounding countryside: “They left behind something worthwhile, productive, beautiful, and beneficial to both themselves, others, and me. Where they had walked there followed fertility and weed-free land. Where they had lived there remained beauty and abundance.”

Of course this begs the question, Is this true of my life as well?
It’s a worthwhile, albeit uncomfortable question to consider.

• Where I go, do I leave goodness and mercy in my wake?
• Is my life as blessing or a curse to others?
• Do I create peace or conflict?
• Do I stir up joy or anger?
• Do I leave people feeling gratitude or frustration?
• Am I known for what I’m for, or for what I’m against?

The list could go on, but you get the point. What sort of fruit is our life producing? After all, Jesus said you would be able to recognize those who are born of the Spirit by the fruit their lives produce. We're talking about fruit like love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness and self-control. The kind of stuff that is nourishing to the soul.

But this sort of fruit doesn’t just grow naturally. It’s a product of God’s Spirit working within us to become more like our Lord. It’s a lifelong process, but the outcome is so much better than anything we could ever produce on our own.

So Jesus lead on. I will follow. Thank you for the unending deluge of goodness and mercy that you pour into my life. And Spirit, do what only you can do in my heart. Nurture spiritual fruit within me so that my sphere of influence will be blessed and I will leave a trail of goodness and mercy in my wake. Amen.

**By the way, I want to share with you a tangible way you can help us spread goodness and mercy in this trying season. This Thursday, April 23, we are looking for 150 volunteers to help distribute food to 1,000 families. To find our more or to sign up to volunteer, go to www.lovecostamesa.org and look for the Project: “Costa Mesa Emergency Response Food Bank.” There is a strong chance this will be happening weekly for the next two months.

A Matter of Perspective

My wife has this saying she uses whenever my boys encounter setback: “Attitude is the difference between an ordeal and an adventure.” In other words, the way we look at something shapes what we see. Are the storms of life a blessing or a curse? It depends on your perspective.

I love my wife's saying. It's profoundly true, but like many of life's truths, it's a little too simplistic. I mean, can't a challenge be both an ordeal AND an adventure? Can't the storms of life bring both blessing AND curse? After all, I love the flowers that grow after the storms have passed, but I hate having to wash my car again.

So our perspective matters, but often what we feel when we walk through a trying time isn't black and white, positive or negative, but a confusing mixture of seemingly contradictory emotions.

Consider the statement GODISNOWHERE. 

What do you see when you read it?
God is Nowhere? How depressing.
God is Now Here? How encouraging!

Truth is, it could be read both ways, and I suspect you read it a couple times and saw both perspectives. I love this statement, because it sums up the confusing, seemingly contradictory nature of this season we find ourselves in.

• The church buildings are closed, and yet the church has been mobilized into our Spheres of Influence.
  

• Supplies are scarce, and yet it's given people opportunity to practice generosity in unique ways. Who could have anticipated that secretly putting toilet-paper on the front of someone's home would one day be seen as an act of love?!
  

• Fear is rampant, but like weights for our muscles, the fear has helped our faith grow stronger.

It’s all a matter of perspective. And our perspective might change from moment to moment. Welcome to life in God’s good, albeit sin-warped creation. In this life, joy and sorrow are close companions. Pain and hope can coexist in the same moment. Fear and faith are not mutually exclusive. And beautiful things grow in the valley of despair.

Let's turn for a moment to Psalm 23. There's an interesting line at the end of verse 5, one that can be read many different ways:

"My cup overflows."

I've often read that line and scratched my head. What do you mean, David? Overflows with what?" Trouble? Blessing? Emotions? If emotions, which ones? Sorrow? Loneliness? Joy? Gratitude?

You get the picture. Like a good poem, this part of Psalm 23 acts as a mirror to our soul, exposing us as much as it exposes David. It invites us to come out of hiding and consider what is welling up inside of us.

So what is your cup overflowing with? 
Frustration? Loneliness? Discouragement? Anger?
Peace? A sense of intimacy with God? Hope? Joy? 

Probably a confusing concoction of many of those seemingly contradictory emotions. And that's totally natural. It's just part of walking through this dark valley alongside our Shepherd. It's both an ordeal and an adventure. 

But make no mistake - we will get through this. 

Because GODISNOWHERE.

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

An Ointment for Our Anxiousness

“You anoint my head with oil” 

(Psalm 23:5)

There is a sound that can simultaneously make me squirm in discomfort and boil with frustration. It’s the shrill buzz of mosquito wings when I’m trying to drift off to sleep. It amazes me how something that small and nearly inaudible can be so deafening. It would be easier to fall asleep next to train tracks than to drift off to sleep when one of those blood suckers is dive-bombing me in the darkness, threatening to leave itchy little reminders of its nocturnal attacks. When I hear that high pitched buzz, I can forget about resting peacefully until the mosquito is resting in pieces!

This is yet another thing you and I have in common with sheep. They, too, hate the sound of the little pests that attack without remorse. It doesn’t matter how green the pasture they are in, how rich the fodder they’re surrounded by, or how big the rod their shepherd carries; to misquote a song lyric, “Ain’t no sunshine ‘til they’re gone, and there’s no rest ‘til they go away.”

It’s not just because the sound of their wings is like nails on a chalkboard. For sheep, the flying parasites pose a real danger. They love to lay their eggs in the sheep’s nose and ear cavities. And when those eggs hatch, the larva can burrow into their brains and inflict all kinds of damage and distress. Sometimes, sheep who are suffering from a larval infection will ram their heads incessantly into trees or rocks; some sheep have been driven to their death, falling from cliffs in their futile efforts to escape their internal torment.

In the same way, during this season of self-isolation the air has been full of pesky issues that not only distract us from resting, but endanger our health. News articles and graphs of the ever-increasing numbers of infected and dead swarm our televisions and our social media feeds. We can’t get away from them. Add in the growing number of unemployed, the lack of basic necessities and personal protective equipment, the closure of the places we normally frequent, and the lack of physical touch, and we’ve got ourselves a real swarm of issues that are flying around our homes and threatening to steal our ability to rest.

However, the real danger these issues pose isn’t the distractions that they cause; the real danger lies in the thoughts they implant in our minds that end up hatching all sorts of parasitic things: already two friends have been hospitalized for what they thought was a heart attack, only to learn that their chest pains were anxiety related, due to prolonged distress. I’ve spoken with a number of people who are experiencing deep sorrow at the loss of the life we knew before. And now we’re hearing reports that domestic violence, depression and suicide rates are on the rise. Truly, the pests are more than a nuisance; they are downright dangerous to our well-being. But what’s the solution?

In David’s day, when a shepherd recognized that the sheep were being antagonized by bugs, he would pour oil over the sheep’s head, making sure to get it into the ears and nose. The oil would both fend off insects and sooth the itching. Shepherds continue doing this to this day, regularly running their flocks through a “sheep dip” that coats their entire bodies in a concoction that repels insects.

In A Shepherd Looks at Psalm 23, Phillip Keller explains the effect this anointing has on the sheep: “Once the oil had been applied to the sheep’s head, there was an immediate change in behavior. Gone was the aggravation, gone the frenzy, gone the irritability and the restlessness. Instead, the sheep would start to feed quietly again, then soon lie down in peaceful contentment. “

That’s what we need: an ointment for the swarming troubles that pester us, for the thoughts that buzz around our mind and keep us up at night. But what can we use to fend them off? Some of us have our own remedies we run to in order to try and dull the aggravation. We may turn to alcohol, snacking, busyness, television, social media, or anything else we think can dull the discomfort and drown out the noise in our heads. But those solutions merely numb the pain, they don’t address the underlying issues.

What we need is an ointment that can truly repel the parasitic fears and begin to heal the mental and emotional damage they’ve inflicted. And this is where time with our shepherd comes in. There’s a reason why we pastors are always encouraging people to spend time with God, to meditate on scripture, and to pray. At the risk of sounding trite, these quiet times are a tried and true remedy for whatever aggravations the day holds in store for us.

I can tell a difference in the way I respond to disruptions and frustrations when I’ve spent time with God. There’s something so soothing about it, as if it helps me be more flexible and tolerant of the unexpected curveballs life throws at me. When I don’t get that time, I find myself being a little more impatient, a little more intolerant and a little more self-centered.

One of the reason’s I’ve invested so much effort into writing these devotionals lately is because they are like a daily anointing during a season when questions, fears and interruptions are swarming. However, these posts are a lousy substitute for time spent with God, meditating on His word and in prayer.  If you have to pick only one, please disregard my posts and open your Bibles. But my hope is that they’re like an appetizer that whets your appetite and compels you to draw near to your Shepherd so that He can care for your needs and prepare you to face the day.

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

Facing the Wrong Enemy

“You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies.”
(Psalm 23:5)

Yesterday, as I was preparing to post my morning devotional, it dawned on me that I’d been looking at the wrong enemy. Admittedly, COVID-19 is the main focus of almost every news story, and it has altered our lives in some unprecedented ways. And yet, I cannot help but feel that in all the hype, we’ve become distracted by a secondary problem. Like the crowds that lined the road into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, we’ve been crying, “Hosanna – Save Us,” but we’ve been looking to our shepherd to save us from the wrong enemy.

Those crowds were focused on Rome – a foreign scourge that had entered their land uninvited and took over. That enemy dictated how they could live and often took their lives indiscriminately. Sound familiar? And yet, we now know that the crowds were focused on the wrong foe, that Jesus hadn’t come to throw off the yoke of Rome. That’s why their cries of “Hosanna” quickly turned to shouts of “Crucify him!”

In the same way, we’re hyper-focused on COVID-19 as if it’s the greatest enemy humanity faces, but it isn’t – not by a long-shot. Sure, it’s an unwelcome intruder that is ravaging our land and stealing both our lives and our sense of security. And yet, it isn’t even the worst virus that currently plagues our world. There is a far worse one that infects every person alive, and has caused devastation throughout history. I’m talking about sin.

From the day Adam and Eve consumed a forbidden piece of fruit, it has corrupted humanity and exacted a terrible toll. It has undermined relationships between spouses, siblings, neighbors and nations. It even sent us into hiding from our Creator. Sadly, sin is remarkably contagious and resilient – it has passed from one generation to the next, and today it infects every living person on this planet. But the worst part is the mortality rate – unlike COVID-19, which kills about one out of every hundred people who are infected by it, sin kills 100% of the people who contract it. And I’m not just talking about physical death, but spiritual death as well. It actually attacks our souls first, severing our ability to commune with our creator long before it claims our lives.

It was this ancient enemy that Jesus rode a donkey into Jerusalem to conquer. This was the pandemic from which he came to save us. Because he understood that a contagion as prevalent and deadly as sin demands a cure. And he was the only person who could supply it. 

We know how the story goes, and the exceedingly high personal cost Jesus paid in order to provide us with the cure to this contagion. Since the penalty of sin is death, he paid the price himself – willingly taking our sins upon himself and dying in our place so that we could live. This is what we celebrate every Good Friday.

But what does this have to do with the Shepherd’s Psalm? What does this have to do with our shepherd setting a table for us in the presence of our enemies?

On the night before he was crucified, Jesus sat at a table with his disciples and shared a meal with them. During that meal, he took a piece of bread and used it as metaphor for his body. And he took a cup and used it as a symbol for his blood. His point to those gathered disciples, and to us, is that he was about to do exactly what those crowds lining the road into Jerusalem had been begging for on Palm Sunday – he was going to save us from the worst enemy mankind has ever encountered. And in doing so, he was setting a table for us in the presence of our mortal enemy.

The cross sounds utterly foolish to those who are still suffering from the spiritual blindness that sin causes in those who are dying. But for those of us who have tasted and seen God’s mercy and grace, it is an enduring symbol of our Shepherd’s incredible love for us. He loved us so much, he died in our place so that we could live with Him. Because let’s not forget, the tomb is empty and our hope lives.

So while we sit in our homes, surrounded by a virus that has infiltrated our lives and dictates where we can go and what we can do, remember that it pales in comparison to the enemy Jesus has already overcome. And no matter what the coming weeks and months hold, we know that this is just a blink of an eye in the grand scope of eternity. This crisis will pass, and there will be another to take its place. Jesus was right when he warned us that in this world, we will have trouble. But because of what he did for us on the cross, the enemies of this life will never get the last word – He will.

I leave you this morning with a song that has been echoing in my mind as I wrote this. It is an anthem of trust from the sheep to their shepherd, and I invite you to sing along with me. Click here to listen.

In the Presence of My Enemies

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, 

I will fear no evil for you are with me…
You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies.”

(Psalm 23:4-5)

We are journeying through a valley of desolation. All our regular rhythms are thrown off, our favorite distractions are postponed until further notice, and every time we open the news-feed we are reminded of a very real enemy that stalks us in the shadows. It is no wonder that many of us are exhausted and starving for moments of joy. Why else would we keep sharing coronavirus related memes?

But Eric, what do you expect?
How can I rest when I’m out of work?
How can I rest when there’s a virus out there killing thousands of people every day?
How can I rest when I don’t see the end in sight and we may be on lock-down indefinitely?

These are fair questions. And yet, Psalm 23 reminds us that we don’t need to carry the weight of the world on our shoulders. It’s not our responsibility to think through every contingency, to protect ourselves from every enemy, or to scrounge up enough provisions to carry us through this prolonged quarantine. That’s our Shepherd’s job, and He is fully up to the task.

We may be deep in the valley, but He’s right here with us. And His presence provides a place for us to rest and find our nourishment in the presence of our enemies.

Our minds might be screaming, “Run! Fix it! Get out of this as fast as you can!”
But our Shepherd is inviting us to “be still and know that I am God.”

Now, I will confess that resting when we are surrounded by enemies can feel impossible, bordering on irresponsible. But then I think of all the times God allowed His people to find themselves in a place where all they could do was fix their eyes on Him in the face of danger.

For instance, after that first Passover when God powerfully delivered the people of Israel from slavery in Egypt, He led them to the edge of the Red Sea. As they camped there, hemmed in by an impassible body of water, they turned and saw the Egyptian army bearing down on them. As the horizon was darkened by the dust of the most powerful military force of their day, the Israelites were understandably concerned. They began to cry, “Why would God lead us out here into the wilderness to die?”

But then Moses reminded them not to fear the enemy, for their God was with them:

“Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today you will never see again. The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.”  (Exodus 14:13-14) 

You know how the story goes. God ultimately parted the sea and led His people through on dry ground, with the Egyptian army hot on their heels. And then, once the Israelites passed through the valley of water, God decimated the enemy army without His people needing to raise a hand. Their cries of lament turned to cries of victory – and their fear gave way to faith.

We find ourselves in a similar place. We are huddled inside our homes, a deadly enemy advancing upon us, and we feel the urge to do something, anything to protect ourselves. So we try to stay busy, educate ourselves about the virus, or just distract ourselves with memes. And yet, our Shepherd is inviting us to be still and rest in His presence: to recuperate from the harried schedules we’ve been keeping; to be present with our loved ones; and to find nourishment for our souls in the midst of this dark valley. Because He has prepared a table for us in the presence of our enemies, and He’s provided us with plenty of time to partake of it.

I will close our time together with these words from Psalm 46:

God is our refuge and strength,
an ever-present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam
and the mountains quake with their surging.

He says, “Be still, and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth.”
The Lord Almighty is with us;
the God of Israel is our fortress.
(Psalm 46:1-3, 10-11)

The Resurrection of Hope

On the Road to Emmaus
A Dramatic Retelling of Luke 24:13-34

It is late morning, and two men are making the seven-mile trek from Jerusalem down to the village of Emmaus. This in itself isn’t unusual. After all, it’s the first day after the Passover feast and lots of people are returning home. But there is something a little off about these two – they look like they’re carrying the weight of the world on their backs. Their shoulders sag and feet drag, as if they’ve been walking for days on end. At times they speak to one another in hushed, anxious voices and then lapse into periods of silence as they wrestle with their thoughts.

As they walk along, they hear the footsteps of someone coming along the path behind them. They both grow silent, waiting for this stranger to pass by before continuing their conversation. But instead of walking past, the stranger speaks directly to them: “What are you talking about?” he inquires.

The men look at one another, pain and anxiety in their eyes, sharing an entire conversation in a glance. What can they say? How can they even begin to put into words the sea of emotions that churns within their hearts? Even if they could, would it safe to speak of what has happened and of their sadness? After all, the Sanhedrin has ears everywhere and the other disciples have gone into hiding, fearing that what has befallen their rabbi might happen to them, too.

Finally, one of the men named Cleopas breaks the silence. “Were you just visiting Jerusalem?
You must have heard about the things that have happened there in the last few days.”

“What things?” the stranger asks them.

“About Jesus of Nazareth,” Cleopas answers, surprised by this man’s apparent ignorance. “He was a prophet, one who spoke the words of God with authority, and he backed his words up with powerful miracles as well. Many of us had hoped he was the long-awaited Messiah, the one who would rescue God’s people from the hand of the Romans. But that hope is dead, killed along with Jesus on a Roman cross.”

Cleopas grows silent, overcome by sorrow and wrestling with how proceed, how much to share.
Finally, after a few moments of silence, he continues.

“Apparently the Chief Priests and the Sanhedrin felt he posed more of a danger to our people than he did to Roman rule, so they branded him a traitor and handed him over to the Roman authorities. That happened on Friday, but this morning some women who had gone to visit his tomb found it standing wide open and Jesus’ body was missing. They claimed that some angels met them there and told them Jesus was alive, but how can that be possible? Some of the other disciples went to check it out for themselves and found the tomb empty just as the women claimed. Jesus’ body was nowhere to be found. Honestly, we don’t know what to think.”

The stranger just shakes his head like a father towards a particularly dense child.
“Are you really so foolish? Don’t you don’t realize that this is exactly what the prophets foretold?”

The two disciples look at one another in surprise, partially because of this man’s sudden change in tone and partially because of what he’s said. What does he mean the Prophets had foretold this? They’d spoken of a conquering king who would overthrow God’s enemies, not a crucified Rabbi crushed under the heel of the Roman Empire…hadn’t they?

Their confusion is written all over their faces, so as they walk along, the stranger begins to unpack the Jewish scriptures that they’d grown up with, pointing to passage after passage that foreshadowed God’s anointed leader suffering in order to redeem His people.

Since they’ve just celebrated the Passover, he begins with the first Passover, where God commanded the Israelites to choose a pure, spotless lamb and to sacrifice it, covering their door-frames with its blood in order to cover them as the Angel of the Lord passed through the land, meting out justice upon the Egyptians who had kept them enslaved for 400 years. Anyone homes marked with the blood of the lamb would be passed over. He explains that this week, Jesus became the final Passover lamb, laying down his life to cover God’s people with his atoning blood.

Next this stranger points to the Prophet Isaiah: “Don’t you remember what the prophet Isaiah said about the Messiah,” he asks? ‘He was led like a lamb to the slaughter.’ And what else did he say about God’s anointed redeemer? That he would be "pierced for our transgressions, crushed for our sins; the punishment that brings us peace would be upon him and by his wounds we would be healed." (Is.53:5).

Don’t you see that Jesus had to die in order for us to live? But God also promised that he would not abandon him to the realm of the dead forever, nor would he allow his holy one to see decay, so even though the Messiah had to die, he wouldn’t stay dead.

As the man speaks, the hearts of these two disciples begin to beat faster and faster, as despair slowly gives way to a new hope. Could what he is saying be true? Could this have all been part of God’s plan?

As they ponder these impossible questions, the village of Emmaus rises up over the horizon. Their journey is at an end, but as they move towards the village gate, the stranger who has rekindled their hope looks as if he is planning to continue onto the next village despite the late hour. But he can’t go now, they think. He has become a ray of hope in a world of despair and they don’t want to part ways with him just yet, so they beg him to stay the evening with them. Thankfully, he accepts their invitation.

That evening, as they sit down to dinner, this stranger takes the bread, gave thanks for it and begins to pass it out in a way that is hauntingly reminiscent to the last meal they’d shared with Jesus in the upper room just a few nights before. 

Suddenly, they look at him with new eyes and realize that he’s no stranger. He’s Jesus, their Rabbi…no, their Messiah, raised from the dead and in better health than they’ve ever seen him. They stare at him with mouths agape, forgetting even to breath.

Jesus, seeing the realization dawning upon their faces, just smiles at them as if saying, “Finally, you see.” And then, in the blink of an eye, he’s gone.

For several moments, the two men sit in stunned silence, staring at the place their risen savior was sitting moments before. How could this be? How could he possibly be alive? And how did we not recognize him sooner? Weren’t our hearts burning as he spoke to us along the road, filled with a new, resurrected hope? How did we miss this?

Slowly, a grin spreads across their faces. Jesus is alive, they think. He’s alive! Our hope lives!
Wait until the other disciples hear about this. 

The two men look at one another, wild joy and excitement written across their faces, and without a word they both know what they have to do. So in a flurry of activity, they both spring up and race for the door. It doesn’t matter if the sun is setting. They’ve got to get back to Jerusalem. This good news can’t wait ‘til morning.

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. 

Why Do We Call Today Good?

I was talking with my son Ethan yesterday and told him Good Friday was coming. He got excited and said, “Oh good. Does that mean we get to buy stuff?”

“No, buddy,” I replied. “That’s Black Friday. Good Friday was the day when Jesus was killed on a cross.”

His look said it all. “Oh, so that’s what you consider good, huh? How Medieval of you.”

It seems ironic that we would call the day that our Lord and Savior was condemned, beaten, mocked, spat upon and ultimately murdered “Good.” And yet, in the grand scheme of things, when it comes to our standing with God, the argument could be made that what we celebrate on this day is actually more important than what we celebrate on Sunday. Sunday is simply the proof that what Jesus did on Friday actually meant something – that he accomplished what He’d come to do.

Good Friday is like the wedding ceremony;
Easter Sunday is the reception.

On Good Friday, we remember the greatest act of love in history – the day when Jesus willingly paid the penalty of our sins and rescued us from eternal separation from our Creator. Because Jesus was willing to walk into the jaws of death and use his own body to steal the venom from it, we have the hope that the pain of this broken world (and this current crisis) won’t get the last word. That’s why we call today Good, even though it was incredibly painful for him.

I’ll be honest, it’s painful for me as well. I don’t know about you, but when I read the gospel narratives and I get to Jesus’ crucifixion, I tend to read through it rather quickly; it’s like I’m subconsciously rushing through his suffering on Friday so that I can get to his resurrection on Sunday. However, from an eternal perspective, this is the climax of the entire Bible. From Genesis 3 on, everything has been building to this monumental moment when Jesus would do for us what we couldn’t do for ourselves. And everything that follows throughout scripture, from Acts through Revelation, is viewed in light of what happened on Golgotha that first Good Friday.

So don’t rush past this day. I suspect we need to sit in the discomfort of it more than ever given what we’re currently walking through. Here are a couple ways you could journey through Good Friday with Jesus:

·  Slowly read Mark’s account of Good Friday, imagining yourself there: Mark 15:1-19

·  Meditate on Psalm 22, which is profoundly prophetic regarding what Jesus endured on the cross. Keep in mind that when David wrote this psalm of lament, crucifixion hadn’t even been invented yet.

·  Join me online at 4PM tonight for Lighthouse’s Good Friday communion service. Just go to lighthousecommunity.com to join us. This is a BYOC communion service, so make sure to gather your communion elements beforehand (a piece of bread and a cup of juice or wine).

Finding New Life in the Valley of Despair

The Lord is my shepherd, I have everything I need... 

He leads me along the right paths for His name’s sake.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil for you are with me. 

Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

(Psalm 23:1, 3-4) 

This is a difficult, painful time, there’s no doubt about it. In fact, on Sunday, the Surgeon General of the United States stated that “this is going to be the hardest and the saddest week of most Americans’ lives.” How’s that for a Palm Sunday message?!

That’s why we’ve spent this week slowly walking through verse 4 of Psalm 23: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” It does no good to deny the painfulness of this place we find ourselves in, but it’s important to remember that we don’t walk alone, and that our Shepherd has a reason for leading us through this treacherous terrain.

We tend to focus on the cost of walking through this dark valley: the scarcity, the fear of the unknown, the feeling of helplessness to get out of it, the boredom of sitting in our homes day after day. And yet, we’ve also experienced some unexpectedly sweet fruit along the way.

One of the ironies of the dark valleys is that they are often the most fruitful places. After all, it’s where the rain water flows through after a storm, so it provides rich foraging for the sheep. And in the same way, I cannot help but acknowledge that I’ve experienced some beautiful things come out of this painful path we’ve been walking.

• I’ve spent more quality time with my family in the last two weeks than I have in months. We’ve pulled out board games and baseball gloves for the first time in years.

•  I’ve been able to take an active role in my children’s education. This has been incredibly challenging, and yet it’s also taught me so much about my sons’ personalities and work ethics. It’s also given me a newfound respect for homeschoolers who choose to do this every school year.

• I’ve seen some beautiful acts of generosity as neighbors get creative in loving one another from a safe distance. One woman in my church woke up to find a package of toilet paper and a one of paper towels on her doorstep. One of my neighbors keeps painting rocks and leaving them along the sidewalks with short messages on them like, “Smile,” “Just Breathe,” and “Be Kind.”

• Certain members of my household have learned to use less toilet paper. This may not seem like such a big deal, but it’s been a point of contention in my home for years.

•  It’s forced me to rethink what it means to be a pastor. After all, before the coronavirus, the last time I’d blogged was 2017.

• This season of scarcity has given me a greater appreciation for things I’ve always taken for granted, like having plenty of toilet paper, or the ability to walk into a grocery store at any time of the day or night to get whatever I want.

• It has provided a daily reminder of my dependence upon God’s provision.

What sort of unexpected fruit have you experienced as you’ve walked through this dark valley? I’d love to know. Please leave a comment below or on my Facebook page,

I will close with a poem that I wrote a decade ago, when I was trudging through another dark valley marred by the shadow of despair. Like now, it was a season that I couldn’t wait to get out of, and yet God used it to cultivate some beautiful fruit along the way.

Things I Left in the Valley of Despair 

I walk along a painful path I never hoped to see,
A trail of tears and sorrow, paved with insecurity.

I long to run ahead, to leave this valley that I’m in,
To find a greener pasture and forget where I have been.

The place where I have come from is so very far away,
And I can’t see the end in sight, so in the valley I must stay.

Yet I suspect this wasteland is right where I need to be,
And all this pain is healing something deep-seated in me.

For as I turn and survey the broken path which I have trod,
I see a trail of cast-off armor strewn along the dusty sod.

Over there are the boots of busyness, now worn thin from overuse,
And the breastplate of indifference that helped me stay emotionally aloof.

There’s the shield of self-sufficiency, which I always hid behind,
And the helmet plumed with puffed-up pride, which always seemed to make me blind.

A part of me wants to double back, to collect the things I’ve left below,
Those vestiges of self-reliance that I forged so long ago;

Perhaps I thought they’d make me look like the man I hoped to be,
Or protect my heart from wounds that relationships inflict so naturally.

But all they did was weigh me down with loads of anxiousness,
Not to mention fear and shame, anger and distress.

It’s true that I’m more vulnerable without my armored shell,
And I’m tempted to collect the pieces from the places where they fell,

But I’ve resolved to let them stay along the path where they now lie,
And journey onward through this valley where my false-self came to die.

The Shepherd's Staff

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, 

I will fear no evil for you are with me; 

Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” 

(Psalm 23:4) 

Yesterday, we examined the way our Shepherd defends and disciplines us. His rod of correction and protection truly is a comfort to the flock. Today, we turn our attention to the shepherd’s staff, and the way it brings comfort to the sheep.

If there is one piece of equipment that defines a shepherd, it is his staff. Shaped like an over-sized cane, the staff is like an extension of the shepherd’s hand. When a lamb gets caught in a thicket, the shepherd uses his staff to pull away the thorny branches and release it. Or when it falls in a ditch, the shepherd can use the crook at the staff to pull the sheep back up to solid ground.

But the shepherd also uses his staff to guide and direct the sheep. He doesn’t do this by hitting them with it; rather, he lays the tip of the staff on the sheep’s side, and then he can gently apply pressure in the direction he wants to lead the flock. And in this way, the sheep are comforted because they don’t have to guess which direction to go.

Other times, a shepherd may simply lay his staff against the side of one of his sheep to remind it that he is near. They may walk this way for quite some time, like a parent holding a child’s hand.

In the same way, as we journey through this dark valley covered in the shadow of the coronavirus, we need the reminder of our Shepherd’s presence more than ever. And we get that reminder through His Holy Spirit resting gently upon us. 

Our Father may be in Heaven, but He has not left to walk alone. He has given us His Spirit to walk with us. Jesus himself told us that God’s Spirit would be our comforter and guide as we journey through this sin-scarred world. 

It is God’s Spirit who guides us through the messiness of life, gently, lovingly whispering in our ear, “come this way,” or “you don’t want to go down that path.” And when our hearts get tangled in the thorns of fear and discouragement, it is God’s Spirit who reminds us that we are not alone and begins to pull the barbs away so that we can regain our footing. 

But the presence of God's Spirit does more than simply help us get through. He reminds us of our identity as God's beloved children. The Apostle Paul recognized this when he wrote:

"For those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God. The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, 'Abba, Father.' The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God's children." (Romans 8:14-16) 

We live in a world that constantly demands we prove our value in order to be accepted, that we DO something praiseworthy in order to BE loved. But God's Spirit reminds us that we ARE loved just as we are, that we already have immeasurable value, and that our Father has accepted us just as we are. 

Because of the Spirit's presence in our life, when we look to our Shepherd for help in our time of distress, we don't need to fear that He is disgusted by our weakness or disappointed by our neediness. Instead, we can take comfort in the fact that He views us as His beloved children. In fact, we can call Him our Abba, our Daddy, which is without a doubt the most intimate name of God found anywhere in scripture. And since He's our Abba, we can come just as we are and find comfort in His embrace. 

So as you stumble through this trying time, along unfamiliar and treacherous terrain, know that you are not walking alone. Your Shepherd is right beside you. Or to be more specific, His Spirit is within you, comforting and encouraging you to keep going. You can ignore His consolation and resist His guidance, but why would you want to?

Let this be your prayer:
Holy Spirit, thank you for being my comforter and guide as I walk through this painful valley. I need the constant reminder that I'm not walking alone. I pray that you would help me to hear your gentle, quiet voice above the cacophony of my circumstances. Moreover, I pray that you would give me the faith to trust what you tell me. I need you now more than ever. Amen.