Walking with God through Pain and Suffering

by Timothy J. Keller

The first thing we have to learn is what the Psalmist learned—we must learn to take ourselves in hand. . . . He is talking to himself, he is addressing himself. . . . [It is important to see that this is not the same as] morbidity and introspection. . . . We must talk to ourselves instead of allowing “ourselves” to talk to us. In spiritual depression we allow our self to talk to us instead of talking to our self. Am I being deliberately paradoxical? Far from it. This is the very essence of wisdom in this matter. Have you realized that so much of the unhappiness in your life is due to the fact you are listening to yourself instead of talking to yourself? . . . So this man stands up and says: “Self, listen for a moment. . . .” Then you must go on to remind yourself of who God is, and what God is and what God has done and what God has pledged himself to do. . . . Then end on this great note: defy yourself, and defy other people, and defy the devil and the whole world, and say with the man, “I shall yet praise Him . . . for he is my God.”

Lloyd-Jones is careful to say this is not forcing your emotions. It is the opposite. It means regularly spending time in prayer and Bible reading even when you are quite dry. John White, who was a Christian psychiatrist, wrote a book called The Masks of Melancholy. He said, Years ago when I was seriously depressed, the thing that saved my sanity was a dry as dust grappling with Hosea’s prophecy. I spent weeks, morning by morning, making meticulous notes, checking historical allusions in the text, and slowly I began to sense the ground under my feet growing steadily firmer. I knew without any doubt that healing was springing from my struggle to grasp the meaning of the passage. If sufferers have any ability to concentrate, they should do solid, inductive Bible study rather than devotional reading, because in most depressed people, devotional reading is stopped all together or degenerated into something unhealthy and unhelpful.

White knew that when you are despondent an effort to read the Bible “devotionally”—that is, looking for inspiration and uplift—is not the answer. Instead, he counsels that you should study the Bible for content. Get the truth out of the text. Remind yourself of who God is, and who you are in Christ, and what he has done for you. Simone Weil says that it is important to at least want to love God. So do what you can to pray to him and ponder the truth. And wait. Wait like Job waited.

The Son of God suffered unto the death, not that men might not suffer, but that their sufferings might be like His. —George Macdonald, Unspoken Sermons, First Series382

What is this “peace of God”? There are two things Paul tells us about it. First, it is an inner calm and equilibrium. In verses 11–12 he says, “I have learned how to be content in whatever circumstance; I have learned the secret of being content in every situation,” which is to say he is the same in one situation as in another. Realize how strong a claim this is. Remember Paul’s circumstances. We all want inner peace, but you and I are trying to get inner peace to face what? Our bills, competition at work, a difficult boss, our big date or a lack of dates. But Paul was facing torture and death. He is in prison even as he writes, and yet he is saying, “I have learned the secret of being able to smile at that.” And look carefully. Does Paul say, “I can smile in the face of torture and death because I am just that kind of guy, I am tough”? No. That would be a peace that was just a natural kind of steely temperament. It would be a talent—and talent is something that you are born with or you aren’t. It is like artistic or athletic talent—either you have it or you do not. But Paul does not say that. He says, “I have learned this.” It means it is not natural to him. And the particular kind of inner peace of which he speaks is not natural to any of the rest of us either. He is saying, “I have learned it, so that I have this equilibrium in any situation.” The second thing Paul tells us is that this peace is not merely an absence—it is a presence. It is not just an absence of fear. ...

Christian peace does not start with the ousting of negative thinking. If you do that, you may simply be refusing to face how bad things are. That is one way to calm yourself—by refusing to admit the facts. But it will be a short-lived peace! Christian peace doesn’t start that way. It is not that you stop facing the facts, but you get a living power that comes into your life and enables you to face those realities, something that lifts you up over and through them. Many believers have experienced this peace of God. It is not just positive thinking or willpower. It is a sense that no matter what happens, everything will ultimately be all right, even though it may not be at all right at the moment. In my experience, people usually break through to this kind of peace only in tragic situations, often in the valley of the shadow of death. Here is a metaphor for it. If you have ever been on a coast in a storm and seen the waves come in and hit the rocks, sometimes the waves are so large that they cover a particular rock, and you think, “That is the end of that rock.” But when the waves recede, there it is still. It hasn’t budged an inch. A person who feels the “peace that passes understanding” is like that. No matter what is thrown at you, you know it will not make you lose your footing. Paul of course is the classic example. He is beaten; he is stoned; he is flogged; he is shipwrecked; he is betrayed; his enemies are trying to kill him. There is wave after wave, and yet—there he...

He is not referring to general loftiness of mind but rather to the specific teaching of the Bible about God, sin, Christ, salvation, the world, human nature, and God’s plans for the world—the plan of salvation. And Paul also uses the word logizdomai to describe how we are to think about these things. That is an accounting word, sometimes translated “to reckon” or “to count up.”383 Paul is saying if you want peace, think hard and long about the core doctrines of the Bible. This is so completely different from what you will find if you walk into any bookstore and go to the section on anxiety, worry, and dealing with stress. Here is what you will never see: None of the books will ever say, “Are you stressed, unhappy, or anxious? Let’s start dealing with that by asking the big questions: What is the meaning of life? What are you really here for? What is life all about? Where have you come from, and where are you going? What should human beings spend their time doing?” Never! Contemporary books go right to relaxation techniques and to the work-rest balance. For example, they will say that every so often you should go sit on a beach, look at the surf, and just bracket out worrying and thinking about things. Or they will give you thought-control techniques about dealing with negative thoughts and emotions, guilt thoughts, and so forth.

Paul is saying Christian peace operates in almost exactly the opposite way. Christian peace comes not from thinking less but from thinking more, and more intensely, about the big issues of life. Paul gives a specific example of this in Romans 8:18, where he uses the same word, logizdomai, and speaks directly to sufferers. He says, “I reckon that our present sufferings are not worth comparing to the glory that shall be revealed in us.” To “reckon” is to count up accurately, not to whistle in the dark. It is not to get peace by jogging or shopping. It means “Think it out! Think about the glory coming until the joy begins to break in on you.”

Someone reading this might say, “You are talking about doctrine but what I really need is comfort.” But think! Is Jesus really the Son of God? Did he really come to earth, die for you, rise again, and pass through the heavens to the right hand of God? Did he endure infinite suffering for you, so that someday he could take you to himself and wipe away every tear from your eyes? If so, then there is all the comfort in the world. If not—if none of these things are true—then we may be stuck here living for seventy or eighty years until we perish, and the only happiness we will ever know is in this life. And if some trouble or suffering takes that happiness away, you have lost it forever. Either Jesus is on the throne ruling all things for you or this is as good as it gets.

See what Paul is doing? He is saying that if you are a Christian today and you have little or no peace, it may be because you are not thinking. Peace comes from a disciplined thinking out of the implications of what you believe. It comes from an intentional occupation of a vantage point. There is nothing more thrilling than climbing up to some high point on a mountain and then turning around and viewing from there all the terrain you have just traversed. Suddenly, you see the relationships—you see the creek you crossed, the foothills, the town from which you have journeyed. Your high vantage point gives you perspective, clarity, and a sense of beauty. Now this is what Paul is calling us to do. Think big and high. Realize who God is, what he has done, who you are in Christ, where history is going. Put your troubles in perspective by remembering Christ’s troubles on your behalf, and all his promises to you, and what he is accomplishing.

Let me put it another way. There is a “stupid peace” and then there is a “smart peace.” The stupid peace comes from refusing to think about your overall situation. If you go that way, you can pop a cork, sit under a tree or on the beach, and try not to think about the grand scheme of things. But Paul is saying that if you are a Christian, you can think about the big picture, and as you do, you are going to find peace. And if you are a Christian, and you have no peace at all, it may be that you are simply not thinking.

Why should I thank God ahead of time, as it were? It doesn’t at first make sense. But if we think about it, we can see what Paul is getting at. Paul is essentially calling on us to trust God’s sovereign rule of history and of our lives. He is telling us that we will never be content unless, as we make our heartfelt request, we also acknowledge that our lives are in his hands, and that he is wiser than we are. That is what you are doing when you thank him for whatever he is going to do with your request. This is of course the essence of those two crucial verses, one in the Old Testament and one in the New. “You meant it for evil, but God meant it for good” (Gen 50:20) and “all things work together for good for those who love God” (Rom 8:28). Romans 8 must not be read in a saccharine way. It does not say that every bad thing has a “silver lining” or that every terrible thing that can happen is somehow “actually a good thing if you learn to look at it properly.” No, Paul says in Romans 8:28 that all things—even bad things—will ultimately together be overruled by God in such a way that the intended evil will, in the end, only accomplish the opposite of its designs—a greater good and glory than would otherwise have come to pass. Only God now has that eternal perspective and vantage point from which he can see all things working together for our good and for his glory—but eventually we will occupy that place and will see it too.

There is thinking, there is thanking, and, third, there is loving. In Philippians 4:8 Paul tells his readers to think first of “whatever is true, noble, right, and pure.” These things are more traditional theological virtues that have to do with the mind and the will. But then he moves on and asks them to ponder “whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” By definition, anything that is “lovely” is something that is not merely true but also attractive.386 Here, I believe Paul is urging his readers not just to order the thoughts of their mind but to engage the affections of the heart. Paul is explaining how to get a spiritual ballast to keep you afloat in rough seas, how to keep your equilibrium in troubles and difficulties. And he says that in those times, it is not enough just to think the right things. It is also important to love the right things.

Here we must turn to St. Augustine, the great Christian thinker who lived in the third and fourth centuries. He was profoundly aware of the problem in Greek philosophy. In fact, Paul is referring to it. The great problem is: how can you live a life of contentment? The Greek word for that was autarkeia, and that is the very word Paul uses in verse 11. He says, “I have learned it, I have got the autarkeia.” It meant to be independent of circumstances. It meant to always have this poise, this power, and not to be upset, devastated, melting down over anything. The philosophers who worked hard on this—as we have seen in previous chapters—were the Stoics. The Stoics taught that the reason most people are not able to live contented, poised lives is that they love things too much. You should not love success too much, because even if you get it, you will always be anxious. You will never have peace because you will be afraid of losing it. Also, you shouldn’t set your heart primarily on your family, because even if you get a good family, you will always be worried about it. You will always be anxious that something will go wrong with them. And if something does go wrong, you will be devastated. The philosophers said the problem comes from loving things that you are not in control of. If you love something and something happens to it, you are lost. So therefore, they said, don’t truly love anything but your own virtue. Why? Because your character is something you can control. You ca...

Now, it is natural to respond to all this with a question. It goes like this: “Wait a minute. You are saying I have to love God. But I love a lot of things: I love material comforts; I love people; I love romance. Are you saying I have to love God and not these things?” No, you must reorder your loves. Your problem is not so much that you love your career or family too much, but that you love God too little in proportion to them. C. S. Lewis, following Augustine, writes: It is probably impossible to love any human being simply “too much.” We may love him too much in proportion to our love for God; but it is the smallness of our love for God, not the greatness of our love for the many, that constitutes the inordinacy.389 That is the final way to get the calm, the tranquility, the peace. It is to love him supremely.

How does David get such peace that he can sleep peacefully with enemies massing on his borders? Verse 3 tells us. To lift up the head—to walk with “head held high”—even today is a metaphor for healthy pride, a clear conscience, and confidence. Despite his people’s whispering about him, he is not weighed down by it. David says that God “lifts up his head,” but how? The verse says, “But you, Lord, are . . . my glory.” Derek Kidner writes: “‘My glory’ is an expression to ponder: it indicates . . . the comparative unimportance of earthly esteem.”390 David realizes that he has tended to let his people’s approval and praise be the cause of his self-esteem. He walked with “head held high” because of his acclaim and popularity. Now he asserts the theological truth that God is his only glory.

It is possible to read verse 3 as a kind of adoration-based repentance. David is saying, “But you are a shield around me, O Lord—not any other thing! And you are my glory and the lifter of my head—not these others! Not my record nor political power nor even my son’s love or my people’s acclaim—only you!” That is praise, but it is grounded in repentance—and it is also repentance grounded in praise. How does God actually become our glory? The only answer is: through a rediscovery of the gospel of free grace. If we hear the accusation in our heart: “God will not save you; you are unworthy!” the only answer is that God’s salvation is not for the worthy but for the humble—those who admit they are not worthy. This is directly stated in verse 8—“From the Lord comes deliverance (salvation).” This is identical to the famous declaration of Jonah: “Salvation is of the Lord” (Jonah 2:9). We do not save ourselves—it is unmerited.

David had an intuitive grasp that he was saved by grace, but we have a far greater assurance than he had. If we read verse 3 in light of the cross, we can see it. In Christ, the Lord became very literally “our shield.” A shield protects us by taking the blows that would have fallen upon us and destroyed us. It protects us through substitution. Jesus, of course, stood in our place and took the punishment we deserved. We know God won’t forsake us, because he forsook Jesus for our sin. We know that in Christ we are “holy and blameless in his sight” (Col. 1:22), despite our spotty record. Christians, then, know that Christ is literally our glory and honor before the Father (1 John 2:1–2). If we have that, then we are not overthrown by accusation. Here, then, is what we must do when we suffer. We should look around our lives to see if our suffering has not been unnecessarily intensified because there are some things that we have set our hearts and hopes upon too much. We must relocate our glory and reorder our loves. Suffering almost always shows you that some things you thought you couldn’t live without, you can live without if you lean on God. And that brings freedom. This doesn’t mean that if we loved God perfectly, we wouldn’t suffer. No—because those who love God well do and should love all sorts of other good things in this life too. Jesus loved God perfectly but he was a Man of Sorrows, largely because he loved us so much. We should not take the Stoics’ advice that we de...

One hymn that expresses this process in a vivid way is one of John Newton’s Olney Hymns often entitled “These Inward Trials.” In it, Newton speaks of “gourds,” a reference to the gourd or plant that gave Jonah so much pleasure in Jonah 4, but which God blasted in order to show Jonah his misplaced priorities. In the hymn, they symbolize things that give us joy and pleasure but which are removed by trials to our grief. The hymn needs no comment—it speaks for itself. I ask’d the Lord, that I might grow In faith, and love, and ev’ry grace, Might more of his salvation know, And seek more earnestly his face. I hop’d that in some favour’d hour, At once he’d answer my request: And by his love’s constraining pow’r, Subdue my sins, and give me rest. Instead of this he made me feel The hidden evils of my heart; And let the angry pow’rs of hell Assault my soul in ev’ry part. Yea more, with his own hand he seem’d Intent to aggravate my woe; Cross’d all the fair designs I schem’d, Blasted my gourds, and laid me low. Lord, why is this, I trembling cry’d, Wilt thou pursue thy worm to death? “’Tis in this way,” the Lord reply’d, “I answer pray’r for grace and faith. “These inward trials I employ, “From self and pride to set thee free; “And break thy schemes of earthly joy, “That thou mayst seek thy all in me.”

Jesus lost all of his peace. He cries out from the cross. In fact, we are told that he died with a cry. William Lane, commentator on the book of Mark, says, The cry of dereliction, that scream—crucified criminals ordinarily suffered complete exhaustion and for long periods were unconscious before they died. The stark realism of Mark’s account describes a sudden, violent death. The cry of dereliction expresses unfathomable pain.

On the cross Jesus got what we deserve, including this cosmic, profound pain and restlessness. He got what we deserve, 2 Corinthians 5:21 says, so we can get what he deserves. Jesus lost all of his peace so that you and I could have eternal peace. And looking at what he did and how he did it for you—that will get you through. That is what will make God lovely to you.

Let me show you how this works. Horatio Spafford was an American lawyer who lost everything he had in the Chicago fire of 1871. Only two years later, he sent his wife, Anna, and their four daughters on a ship across the Atlantic Ocean to England. The ship hit another ship and began to sink. As it was sinking, Anna got the four little girls together and prayed. The ship went under the water, and they all were scattered into the waves, and all four little girls drowned. Anna was found floating unconscious in the water by a rescue ship. They took her to England, and she cabled Horatio Spafford just two words: “saved alone.” When Spafford was on the ship on his way to England to bring his wife home, he began to write a hymn—“It is well with my soul . . . When peace, like a river . . .” Those are the words he wrote. Here is what I want you to think about: why would a man dealing with his grief, seeking the peace of God—the peace like a river—spend the entire hymn on Jesus and his work of salvation? And why would he bring up the subject of his own sin at such a time? He wrote:

My sin, oh, though the bliss of this glorious thought! My sin, not in part but the whole, Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more. Prai...

What has that got to do with his four little girls who are dead? Everything! Do you know why? When things go wrong, one of the ways you lose your peace is that you think maybe you are being punished. But look at the cross! All the punishment fell on Jesus. Another thing you may think is that maybe God doesn’t care. But look at the cross! The Bible gives you a God that says, “I have lost a child too; but not involuntarily—voluntarily, on the cross, for your sake. So that I could bring you into my family.”

story some years ago about two men who were captured and thrown into a dungeon. Just before they went into prison, one man discovered that his wife and child were dead, and the other learned that his wife and child were alive and waiting for him. In the first couple years of imprisonment the first man just wasted away, curled up and died. But the other man endured and stayed strong and walked out a free man ten years later. Notice that these two men experienced the very same circumstances but responded differently because, while they experienced the same present, they had their minds set on different futures. It was the future that determined how they handled the present.

The facts make clear that [this sung faith] did serve to deepen the capacity of endurance and the absorption of suffering. . . . It taught a people how to ride high in life, to look squarely in the face those facts that argue most dramatically against all hope and to use those facts as raw material out of which they fashioned a hope that the environment, with all its cruelty could not crush. . . . This . . . enabled them to reject annihilation and to affirm a terrible right to live.393 Thurman argued that the slaves believed the Christian faith and therefore knew about the new heavens and new earth, and about Judgment Day. They knew that eventually all their desires would be fulfilled and that no perpetrator of injustice was going to get away with anything—that all wrongdoing would be put down. And that was a hope that no amount of oppression could extinguish. Why? Because their hope was not in the present but in the future. Some argued that it would have been better for the slaves to put their hope in some kind of concrete political action—but hopes in our own achievements can be dashed so that hopelessness engulfs us. But hope in the New Jerusalem can never be snuffed out because it is a certainty—it is based in God’s action, not ours.

Thurman is completely right to reject the “symbolic only” interpretation of the Bible’s promises. Imagine you could go back in time and sit with the slaves and say, “Now, you know, I’m glad you get a lot out of your spirituals. But if you ever get the chance to go to a really good school, you will learn that this life is all there is. There really isn’t any heaven that will make up for all the suffering here. And there isn’t a Judgment Day that will put all things right and address all injustices. But I still want you to live with hope and fearlessness.” You can imagine some saying, “Let me get this straight. You tell me this life is all there is, and if we fail to achieve happiness here and now we never find it at all. And now knowing this, I am still supposed live with my head high under any circumstances? Give me my old hope back! It didn’t depend strictly on my political fortunes.”

heaven and the glory he deserved. Donald Grey Barnhouse, who was a pastor at Tenth Presbyterian Church in Philadelphia for many years, lost his wife when his daughter was still a child. Dr. Barnhouse was trying to help his little girl, and himself, process the loss of his wife and her mother. Once when they were driving, a huge moving van passed them. As it passed, the shadow of the truck swept over the car. The minister had a thought. He said something like this, “Would you rather be run over by a truck, or by its shadow?” His daughter replied, “By the shadow of course. That can’t hurt us at all.” Dr. Barnhouse replied, “Right. If the truck doesn’t hit you, but only its shadow, then you are fine. Well, it was only the shadow of death that went over your mother. She’s actually alive—more alive than we are. And that’s because two thousand years ago, the real truck of death hit Jesus. And because death crushed Jesus, and we believe in him, now the only thing that can come over us is the shadow of death, and the shadow of death is but my entrance into glory.”

We sing that song “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today,” and the last line of the last stanza is “made like him, like him we rise; ours the cross, the grave, the skies.” What does that mean? It’s almost like a taunt. It’s like saying, “Come on, crosses, the lower you lay me, the higher you will raise me! Come on, grave, kill me and all you will do is make me better than before!” If the death of Jesus Christ happened for us and he bore our hopelessness so that now we can have hope—and if the resurrection of Jesus Christ happened—then even the worst things will turn into the best things, and the greatest are yet to come.

C. S. Lewis wrote: For if we take the Scripture seriously, if we believe that God will one day give us the Morning Star and cause us to put on the splendor of the sun, then we may surmise that both the ancient myths and the modern poetry, so false as history, may be very near the truth as prophecy. At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendors we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumor that it will not always be so. Someday, God willing, we shall get in. When human souls have become as perfect in voluntary obedience as the inanimate creation is in its lifeless obedience, then they will put on its glory, or rather that greater glory of which Nature is only the first sketch. We are summoned to pass in through Nature, beyond her, into that splendor which she fitfully reflects.396

J. R. W. Stott, Confess Your Sins: The Way of Reconciliation (Westminster, 1965); Dan Hamilton, Forgiveness (Inter-Varsity Press, 1980); Judith Gundry-Volf and Miroslav Volf, A Spacious Heart: Essays on Identity and Belonging (Trinity Press, 1997). And see Timothy Keller and Kathy Keller, The Meaning of Marriage: Facing the Complexities of Commitment with the Wisdom of God (Dutton, 2011), pp. 159–69.