“Oh, why give light to those in misery, and life to those who are bitter? 21 They long for death, and it won’t come. They search for death more eagerly than for hidden treasure.22 They’re filled with joy when they finally die, and rejoice when they find the grave.
23 Why is life given to those with no future, those God has surrounded with difficulties?”
Job 3:20-23, NLT
Job begins to curse his very existence. Life has become far too brutal. He has lost everything. At this point Job is completely undone.
There is an endless grief that even his tears can’t help.
In Job’s first speech he asks some basic questions:
Why is light given to those who are full of pain?
Why does life unfold to the one who rather not live anymore?
There is a powerful wish or desire in this three verses. He wants to die, and end the charade. He wishes for non-existence and laments that he can not die fast enough. His terrible pain has taken his life.
People with disabilities and chronic pain can understand Job’s welcome craving for any sort of release. Once they were “whole” people. Death was something to be avoided at all costs. But now it is seen as an escape.
Job simply wants out.
Hurting people will often turn to drinking and drugging as a way of coping. We’ll try anything to numb our thinking. It’s what gets us through the day. Weare bitter, and we are lost.
For Job (the patron saint of pain) finds that nothing will fix him. His friends have come, but they seem to only accuse and confuse job. Honestly he is better when they just sat with him in silence. If you read the book of Job you will understand.
“God wants us to choose to love him freely, even when that choice involves pain, because we are committed to him, not to our own good feelings and rewards. He wants us to cleave to him, as Job did, even when we have every reason to deny him hotly.”
–Philip Yancey
“Come quickly, Lord, and answer me, for my depression deepens. Don’t turn away from me, or I will die. Let me hear of your unfailing love each morning, for I am trusting you. Show me where to walk, for I give myself to you.”
Anophthalmia–the condition of being born with no eye tissue–affects about 30 out of 100,000 babies, leaving them irrevocably blind.This is the letter that a pastor wrote to a Christian couple confronted with this tragic reality.
Dear John and Diane,
Last night, as I prayed with Noel, you were heavy on my mind. I said, “Lord, O Lord, please let me be a pastor who preaches and leads and loves in a way that makes the impossibilities of life possible for your people by a miracle of sustaining grace. Help me to know the weight and pain of this life and not to be breezy when the mountains have fallen into the sea. Help me to have the aroma of Christ’s sufferings about me. Prevent shallowness and callousness to pain. O Lord make me and my people a burden bearing people.”
O John and Diane, I am so heavy with your child’s sightlessness! God is visiting Bethlehem Church with such pain these days in the birth of broken children. Randy and Ann Erickson with their baby’s broken heart; Jan and Rob Barrett with their baby’s liver outside the body; and your precious little one! Is the Lord saying, “I have a gift for your community.” This is not one or two or three couples’ burden. This is a gift and call to the whole church.
This is a word concerning the brokenness of this fallen age of futility.
This is an invitation for you all to believe that “here we have no lasting city” (Hebrews 13:14). This is an invitation for you to “count every gain as loss for the sake of Christ” (Philippians 3:7). This is a shocking test to see if you will “lose heart” when in fact God’s purpose is to show that his grace is sufficient to renew our inner person every day to deal with the “slight momentary affliction which is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, because we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen; for the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:17-18).
O Lord, open our eyes to your love in this pain. Open our eyes.
“Then Elisha prayed, and said, ‘O Lord, I pray thee, open his eyes that he may see.’ So the Lord opened the eyes of the young man, and he saw; and behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire round about Elisha” (2 Kings 6:17).
John and Diane, the mountains surrounding your lives are filled with the horses and chariots of God. Only to the eyes of unbelief does the devil have the upper hand here. God is at work in ways and for years and generations and millions of people that we cannot now imagine. This is ours to believe and to bear, no matter the cost. This is ours for this short life.
It seems to me that this life is a proving ground for the kingdom to come. Some are asked to devote forty or fifty years to caring for a handicapped child instead of breezing through life without pain. Others are asked to be blind all their lives…
But only in this life – ONLY in this life.
I want to be the kind of person who makes that “ONLY” what it really is – very short. Prelude to the infinity of joy, joy, joy. But not yet. Not entirely.
How will we ever cope with the burdens of this life if we believe this is all there is, or even the main act in this drama of reality? O Lord, give us your view of things.
May God fill you with anticipated joy.
“I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.”
My chronic pain makes my quadriplegia feel like a walk in the park.
People often ask how I manage my pain. Well, when its fangs sink deep into my hips and back, that’s my signal. I begin deep breathing, slow and steady. And when fiery pain threatens to overtake me—just as the flames threatened to consume Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in that fiery furnace found in the book of Daniel—I have a conversation with it.
I don’t say, “I can’t stand this; it’s killing me,” because words like that are fraught with anxiety. Fear only makes things worse. Instead, I calmly ask Jesus to meet me in my pain, to not let it crush me. And the Son of God never fails to meet me, just as he met those three Hebrews in that hot furnace of fire.
And what does Jesus say to me in that agonizing place of pain?
He comforts me with his own words. He will say something like, “Joni, my Spirit inspired 2 Corinthians 4:8 for a good reason. For although you are ‘hard pressed on every side,’ you will not be crushed.”
Oh, what a promise! Pain may tighten its vice grip, but it cannot crush me. As I cling to God’s promises, my pain pushes me further into Jesus’s heart. There is nothing sweeter than finding my Savior in the middle of my hellish circumstances. It helps deflect the pain and helps me to suffer well. Jesus helps me be in that unhappy place well.
All the years I’ve lived in my wheelchair, I never got delivered from pain. But I met my Deliverer in it. I didn’t get healed, but I found intimate fellowship with the Healer.
Friend, pain does not have to crush you.
As you courageously look at the stern countenance of pain and enter unafraid into its recesses, you will defang it of its terror. You’ll see that the Lord is in your pain, having transfigured it to become a place of union with him. Jesus conquered the insidious ways of pain and because of that, he is your best prescription for pain—whether it’s in your hip, your head, or your heart.
And remember, there is a glorious day coming when it says, “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” (Revelation 21:4). Until then, when pain encroaches, start deep breathing and cling to a Bible promise. There are thousands to hold onto.
Perhaps my favorite is this one uttered by almighty God to you and me, promising, “I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you” (Isaiah 46:4b).
It’s easy to romanticize physical suffering — especially when you’re not the one experiencing it.
Saints like Amy Carmichael, who spent over twenty years bedridden, and Joni Eareckson Tada, a quadriplegic who lives in constant pain, can evoke peaceful images of unbroken communion with God. We may imagine that it’s easier for them to endure pain and weakness than it is for the rest of us.
Yet the reality of physical suffering is that it’s insistent and intrusive. No one gets used to it. Pain demands our attention. Time slows to a crawl, particularly in the middle of the night, when we’re begging God for the relief of sleep. We feel alone and isolated. No one else can enter the prison that our bodies have become.
Pain Accumulates
If that weren’t enough, physical pain rarely exists in isolation — it’s usually accompanied by loss, weakness, and dependence. Often, we require help with basic daily needs, and we worry about the burden we’re putting on others. We second-guess every request, not wanting to bother someone one more time. Will people get tired and think we’re “too much”? Do they resent their lack of freedom?
We longingly remember the carefree days before our physical struggles altered our lives, when we could do what we wanted. Now we measure our energy in teaspoons rather than buckets. We weigh every decision, every action. Saying yes to one activity means saying no to many others. It is hard not to envy those with fit bodies, who seem to have no cares.
Pain, loneliness, and longing can give way to depression and despair. We cry out to the Lord for relief, but relief doesn’t come. The cancer spreads. Sleep eludes us. The pain intensifies. The medicine stops working. The side effects multiply. Our caregivers grow weary. Our friends stop checking in. Our resources run dry.
Doubt Advances
The vibrant faith we once had begins to fade — which is exactly what Satan wants to happen as we suffer. He wants us to doubt and fall away from God, convinced that he is indifferent to our cries. Satan knows that we’re susceptible to discouragement when we’re physically depleted, so that’s when he attacks. As physical needs scream for attention, Satan whispers to us, “Does God even hear you, let alone really care for you? If he does, why isn’t he delivering you?”
“If God’s greatest blessing is himself, then perhaps sustenance is a more precious gift than deliverance.”
Insidious doubts slip in, making us question beliefs we once held rock-solid: Are we deeply loved by an all-powerful Father? As soon as we recognize the mental shift, we need to stop and cry out to God, asking him to meet us in our sorrow, to deliver us from our pain, and to show us evidence of his goodness and love. Are we fixating on all that we’ve lost, on how God hasn’t delivered us, on how hopeless we feel? Or do we recognize that God is with us, working for our good, and caring for us each moment?
What we think about in the moments of our deepest pain is critical. Our mindset will determine how we approach the questions that bombard us. Here are three common questions I’ve asked:
How can God be “for me” if I’m still suffering?
How can God use my weakness for good?
What good can come in moments of overwhelming pain?
How can God be ‘for me’ if I’m still suffering?
Sometimes God miraculously delivers us when we plead for relief, like at the parting of the Red Sea. Other times he sustains us, as he did with manna in the wilderness. The Red Sea deliverance freed the Israelites, but their need for manna kept them dependent on God. In gathering manna, they had a harder time forgetting their reliance on God. And if God’s greatest blessing is himself, then perhaps sustenance is a more precious gift than deliverance, since it can keep us in constant communion with him.
Take the apostle Paul. He begged God for deliverance from his thorn in the flesh, but instead he received grace — grace to bear the thorn, grace to be content with weakness, grace that would carry him through other trials as well (2 Corinthians 12:7–10).
When we realize that we can depend on God in our weakness, we learn to trust him in everything. Anyone can thank God for quick deliverance from physical suffering, but we often forget him until the next crisis. Yet when he sustains us in our pain, we’re confident that he is with us always.
How can God use my physical weakness for good?
We may think our physical weakness is keeping us from maximum fruitfulness, but that’s impossible. Our weaknesses are a part of God’s plan for our lives; they are intertwined with our calling. Paul thought his thorn was hampering his ministry, but God knew that it was the key to his strength: it forced Paul to be wholly dependent on God. When we are depleted and exhausted, lacking any resources of our own — it is then that we fully rely on God.
And in that reliance, we discover the power of God flowing through us — the same power that raised Jesus from the dead (Ephesians 1:19–20). This power keeps us enduring when we want to give up; it showcases God’s glory and brings lasting change. Because Paul relied on God’s provision, he accomplished more for the kingdom with his thorn than he could have without it. His greatest strength lay in his submission to Christ.
Even Jesus’s greatest strength appeared in his greatest physical weakness.
Throughout his ministry, Jesus impacted others by his actions. He calmed the storm with a word. He fed five thousand with a few loaves and fish. He cast out demons, healed the sick, and raised the dead. He turned the world upside down.
But at the end of his ministry, from the Last Supper on, Jesus allowed others to act upon him: he was led away, he was whipped and mocked, he was beaten and crucified. When he submitted to his captors, the crowds saw weakness rather than what was really there: Jesus’s strength and power.
Just before these horrific events, Jesus begged God to take the cup of suffering from him. But it was through Christ’s submission to the will of the Father — to torture and humiliation, to physical abuse and carrying his own cross — that God brought about the most astonishing display of his power and grace.
Broken Believers 