Prophetic Living

Then He began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” (Luke 4.21)

In Touch with God

The words “prophecy” and “prophetic” get kicked around a lot—so often that we assume we know what they mean without pausing to contemplate their true definitions. In secular terms, they’re synonymous with foresight. A prophecy is a prediction, plain and simple. In scriptural and spiritual terms, however, it’s something far more complex and urgent. When the Bible introduces prophecy—that is, words delivered by prophets—it wants us to understand God is speaking. Often it’s very specific about this. Dozens of passages are prefaced with phrases like, “The word of the Lord came to the prophet,” and what follows is framed in quotation marks. But more often the prophets speak directly, using their own words to express insight they received while communing with their Maker. And we should be very clear here. They’re not speaking for God, putting words in God’s mouth to serve their agendas. Indeed, it’s the opposite: God puts words in their mouths to serve God’s purpose. Sometimes prophecy comes in promissory form, as God makes covenants or tells the people what’s in store for them. But just as many, if not more, prophecies focus on the here and now: This is what’s happening. This is what led up to it. This is the right response. This is what you should avoid to prevent its recurrence.

So there’s a lot more to prophecy than forecasting the future. Prophecy in its truest, purest sense is God’s revealed word. We can even go so far as saying that prophecy is God’s active presence revealed to us, and in us, through Scripture. As with prophets of old, our communion with God—made possible by prayer, meditation, fellowship, and Bible study—puts us in touch with God. In return, God uses these same tools to stay in touch with the world through us. The closer we get to God, the better we see what God wants us to see, the better we hear what God wants us to hear, and the better we activate God’s presence in our lives. We are all equipped to live prophetically—to think, behave, and speak in keeping with the vision and principles first conveyed in Scripture. Thus, when we speak of “prophecy,” we’re not talking about crystal balls and psychic intuition. Prophetic living happens in the now. And constant awareness of our prophetic ability is vital to the work God calls us to do.

The Way It Always Goes

In Sunday’s Gospel (Luke 4.14-21), we watch Jesus model prophetic living. The scene is decidedly electric. After being away from Nazareth for some time to start His ministry, Jesus returns. Reports of His success precede Him. So the home crowd’s expectations are high. The synagogue is packed. Everybody’s eager to see what Jesus will do. But they’ve not been around Jesus lately and don’t understand that He doesn’t play into the star thing. It’s not about Him. It’s about the God Who sent Him and the work He’s been given. In fact, Luke is very clear that Jesus attends Sabbath services because it’s “His custom” to participate in weekly worship. (v16) There’s no mention of the disciples or an entourage of fans. Jesus enters His local synagogue as He’s always done: alone, unceremoniously, like any other worshiper. Apparently the congregation has invited Him to read a passage of Scripture and He's respectfully consented.

The big moment arrives. Jesus opens Isaiah and reads the first two verses of Chapter 61:

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because God has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

Then He sits down. He’s done. Show’s over—until Jesus notices everyone staring at Him. This is great theater. The tension is sliceable. He responds with a straightforward comment: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing,” (v21) Unfortunately, Sunday’s reading truncates the story and dilutes its point. If we read on, we get a clearer sense of what Jesus means by how He behaves. The initial reaction is what one expects from people feeling proud of a local kid who’s done well. “How nice!” they say. Then the gravity of His words sinks in. Did He just declare Himself a prophet—and not any prophet, but one on par with Isaiah? The murmuring begins and the most readily outraged in the crowd ask, “Isn’t this Joseph’s son? He’s no prophet!” In what will become a signature strategy, Jesus uses their skepticism to His advantage. He answers, “It’s not enough that I tell you this? Do I really have to work wonders here, like elsewhere, to convince you? That’s the way it always goes: no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown.” He cites two examples of prophets who were obliged to minister to strangers because their own people rejected them. Chaos breaks out. No one realizes that their reaction ratifies His prophetic bona fides. Instead, they decide to throw Him off a cliff and be done with Him. In the ensuing uproar, Jesus simply walks away, leaving them to their hostility and doubt. Now the show’s really over. As far as we know, Jesus never returns to Nazareth again.

Alive in Us

In John 14.12, Jesus tells the disciples, “The one who believes in Me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these.” Jesus’s ability to live prophetically—to know God’s vision, to accept God’s calling, and to make God’s presence known in the here and now—is also available to us. The Spirit of the Lord is upon our lives, too. The same words from Isaiah that define Jesus’s role and responsibilities also define what we must do. We too are spiritually equipped to declare God’s favor to the poor, the captive, the blind, and the oppressed. We too are qualified vessels through which God’s love, truth, and justice flow into a world of hatred, deception, and inequality. This great gift of prophetic living isn’t given to launch us to stardom. It’s not designed to exalt us above those who’ve not yet figured out that it’s possible. Prophetic living is simply allowing God’s Word to come alive in us so that all we think, say, and do activates God’s presence wherever we may be.

One final observation: When we honor our prophetic calling, those who know us best will be the least likely to accept us. They’re too focused on who we are—on our weaknesses and vanities—to believe we can become what God invites us to be. They may even question the legitimacy of our faith with such virulence they’d rather we were dead than doing the work God calls us to do. That’s the way it always goes. But the Word of God tells us differently. The Spirit of the Lord is upon us. God has anointed us to proclaim the good news of God’s love, acceptance, and freedom. Knowing that is enough to drown out the naysayers. Do God’s work. Speak God’s Word. Activate God’s presence. Leave the skeptics to their outrage. Live prophetically.

To live prophetically is to become vessels through which God’s love, truth, and justice flow into a world of hatred, deception, and inequality.

Asking for It

He said to them, “What is it you want Me to do for you?” And they said to Him, “Grant us to sit, one at Your right hand and one at Your left, in Your glory.” But Jesus said to them, “You do not know what you are asking.” (Mark 10.36-37)

Are You New?

My favorite moment in the entire “Roseanne” series came when DJ, the financially strapped homemaker’s son asked his mother for some extra spending money. With classic sarcasm, she replied, “Are you new?” The laugh comes out of everything Roseanne’s answer telegraphed. Before he asked, the boy knew it was a long shot, at best—so much so that it sounded as if he had no idea how things worked in his family.

The scene instantly came to mind when looking at Sunday’s Gospel (Mark 10.35-45). James and John step forward to ask Jesus for a most unusual favor. They want Him to reserve places beside Him in God’s kingdom. From our vantage, it’s such a ridiculous, self-serving request—an idea so antithetical to discipleship—that we almost see Jesus roll His eyes as He fires back, “Are you new?” At every opportunity in Mark’s gospel, Jesus preaches self-imposed lowliness and service to others. There is simply no room in the kingdom for ambition and seeking status. Yet here are two of His closest disciples trying to secure positions of honor in advance of the events that will bring Christ into His glory. And we need to be very clear about the error of their intentions. Three times Jesus has explained He’ll be arrested, executed, and brought back to life. Getting to glory will be a gruesome, humiliating task and anyone who expects to arrive there with Jesus will have to go through the ordeal alongside Him. That’s why Jesus constantly emphasizes the importance of lowering oneself, of focusing on intentional service that embraces crushing demands. The right request would ask Jesus’s help in summoning courage to sacrifice one’s life and strength to endure unbearable pain. James and John, clinging to the fantasy of triumphal glory, discount what it requires. All they care about is landing the best seats in house after the worst of it is over. If Jesus decided to play it for laughs, perhaps giving the so-called “sons of thunder”—as He somewhat sarcastically calls James and John—a foretaste of the meanness that awaits, He would dismiss them with ever-so-dry incredulity. Are you new?

Personal Costs

But the trials and presumptive defeat that will bring about Christ’s glory are no laughing matter. Jesus sternly tells the Thunder Boys, “You don’t know what you are asking.” He turns their request into a question for them: “Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?” (v38) Now comes the passage’s real shocker. James and John immediately reply, “We are able.” (v39) The question changes from “Are you new?” to “Are you nuts?” Strangely, Jesus goes a different route. He seems to find their confidence reassuring and reinforces the fact that they will most definitely join Him in the fear, suffering, and death that must be conquered to bring about God’s kingdom. Yet, even then, He withholds any guarantee of greatness. “To sit at My right hand or My left is not Mine to grant,” He tells them in verse 40. “But it is for those for whom it has been prepared.” And let’s look closely at this: Jesus refuses to pre-judge James and John either way, good or bad. Their place in the kingdom depends on them. If they honor its principles and endure its hardships, they will achieve the prominence they seek. What they want isn’t Christ's to give. It’s up to them.

Obviously this outbreak of status craving infuriates the rest of the disciples. Who do James and John think they are? Instead of trying to explain the sincerity of their motives—essentially apologizing for the Thunder Boys—Jesus returns to the same lesson He’s been teaching all of His followers: “Whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all.” (v43) The New Order He’s come to institute is all about giving, not getting. He makes Himself the prime example, explaining, “The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give His life a ransom for many.” (v45) Jesus is upholding the principle of selfless exchange: our sacrifice for others’ redemption, our loss for others’ restoration. It is a radically new idea that, to this day, is nearly impossible to comprehend. It is an ideal that carries tremendous personal costs that we must assess and accept if we are ever to gain access to the kingdom of God.

Ready to Serve

It’s been said the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Sunday’s Gospel tells us the path to glory is a rocky one that can only be navigated by intentional goodness. There is no express lane, no shortcut that gets us into God’s kingdom ahead of the rest—no means of arriving early to snag the best seats in the house. Nearly every step we make presents us with decisions that ask more of us than we’d ordinarily give. Every day confronts us with choices that put our comforts and desires in direct opposition to those of others. And those choices would be easy if they merely boiled down to being nice and agreeable—to acting polite.

But it’s not that simple. To be servants of all, we must seek what is right for those we serve. That means we are often called to humble ourselves in pursuit of justice and demonstrate compassion with boldness that reflects God’s righteousness. We must be willing to endure the hardships and criticism that accompany swimming against popular trends and tides—not for the sake of self-aggrandizement, but because it is our calling. As it turns out, we are new. We are new creatures in Christ. Old thinking about success and prominence doesn’t work for us. Old ideas about getting ahead don’t sway us. And whatever glory we may receive for our commitment to Christ is irrelevant. Like our Savior, we are ready to serve, not to be served. We give our lives in exchange for the lives of others. If we ask more of our faith than that, we have no idea what we’re asking for.

The path to glory is a service road—and a rocky one, at that.

Watching the Detectives

So the Pharisees and the scribes asked Him, “Why do Your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders, but eat with defiled hands?” (Mark 7.5)

Clinging to the Past

Now and then someone who knows me casually will say something like, “You’ll love this, since you were raised in the South,” or, “Can you explain such-and-such to me? I didn’t grow up down South.” They’re always surprised when I say I grew up in Chicago, raised by Alabamians who viewed their Southern heritage as a sort of ethnicity. When my brother and I were very young, our parents pointed to our neighbors—the Hogans and Leonardis and Borkowskis—and told us that, just as they followed certain customs passed down from their elders, we too behaved certain ways and believed certain things because of where we came from. We talked differently than our neighbors, not only in accent, but also in terms of what was and wasn’t said. Our family dynamic was different. Our sense of hospitality and social obligation was different. And, most obvious, our religious life was different. Nobody went to church more often than the Wolfes—twice on Sunday, twice during the week, with nearly every Saturday consumed by some sort of outreach or fellowship event. So I am a Southerner through and through with remarkably little experience of what living “down South” is actually like.

Although my parents were grateful to serve Chicago congregations and adapted very well to their urban surroundings, they mourned the slower, more genteel life they left behind. And they kept their Southern identity alive by transmitting its values and practices to us. Common courtesies—saying “please” and “thank you,” “ma’am” and “sir”—were drilled into us, along with very specific shows of gallantry and refined table manners. (To this day, I walk nearest the curb when accompanying a lady down the street.) This is not to say our neighbors didn’t raise their children do likewise. The difference was we weren’t taught to be mannerly because it was polite. Our manners grew out of who we were—or perhaps more accurately, out of the past my parents were clinging to.

In Sunday’s Gospel (Mark 7.1-8,14-15,21-23), we see a very similar situation, as a few Pharisees and scribes, desperately clinging to the past, confront Jesus about His followers’ poor table manners. The disciples don’t wash up before dinner. That deeply offends the Pharisees. To understand why they’re offended and why Jesus responds to their complaint as He does, we need to understand what they’re trying keep alive by perpetuating ancient traditions.

Ferreting Out Scofflaws

Palestine is unique among Roman conquests in that the Jews are permitted to practice their faith and customs without interference. While other conquered nations must swear allegiance to Caesar and adopt imperial beliefs, the Jews’ willingness to die for their faith tradition has resulted in a somewhat schizoid way of life. First-century Jews live under two governments and legal codes: their own religious law and Roman occupation. On the surface, life is not much changed under Caesar: temples and synagogues stay open, social customs remain intact, and civil justice is administered in Jewish courts. At the same time, however, Roman presence in Palestine is undeniable and the Jews recognize that any bold move outside the status quo could bring down Caesar’s fist. In next to no time, Israel and Judea—the Jewish twin kingdoms—could become like their neighbors: impoverished replicas of Rome. The largest Jewish sect, the Pharisees, are obsessed with preventing such a fate by safeguarding traditions of their past. Jewish identity is everything to them, and they make it their lives’ work to preserve it. In many ways, they operate like detectives, ferreting out scofflaws and confronting their non-compliance to Jewish law in public.

Word of a new, radical Rabbi’s success in the provinces compels a group of Pharisees and scribes—i.e., Temple academics—to leave Jerusalem and investigate. As a rule, people clean up their acts when they see the Pharisees coming. Jesus and His followers don’t do that. The Pharisees arrive and are appalled that this rough-and-tumble bunch ignores one of their most basic traditions: they don’t wash their hands before they eat. They challenge Jesus: “Why do Your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders, but eat with defiled hands?” (Mark 7.5) Ordinarily, that would be enough for any leader to apologize and promise to do better. Not Jesus. He disregards their complaint, and challenges their obsession: “Isaiah prophesied rightly about you hypocrites, as it is written, ‘This people honors Me with their lips, but their hearts are far from Me; in vain do they worship Me, teaching human precepts as doctrines.’” (v6-7)

Accommodating the Pharisees' tendency to feign obtuseness when it’s convenient, He breaks it down further. “You abandon the commandment of God and hold to human tradition,” He says. (v8) He does a bit of legal gymnastics to prove He’s as fit as they in manipulating the law to find fault with others. Then He addresses the crowd collecting around this brouhaha. “Listen to Me, all of you, and understand,” He says. “There is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.” (v14-15) And what might those “things that come out” be? In this context, they’re self-righteousness, slavish observance of archaic customs, and myopic judgment of others’ behavior.

Reach for the Future

Throughout His ministry, Jesus’s problem with the Pharisees springs from disgust with the political motives behind their holiness. They’ve transformed spiritual law and religious custom into a nationalist agenda and appointed themselves the keepers of all things Jewish. Their unforgiving scrutiny of others is basic to their intentions to homogenize Jewish identity in such a way that past traditions are preserved. On one level, this is a noble effort. But on a deeper one, it results in the diminution of those who don’t abide by every letter of the law and excludes anyone who doesn’t fit the Pharisees’ idealized profile. I like to think that even as Jesus challenges His Pharisee accusers, He glances around at His followers. Their hands are dirty. Their lives don’t stack up. But their hearts are close to God. They are the first fruits of God’s kingdom, a new ideal that will survive centuries of political tumult and regime change. While the Pharisees cling to their past, Jesus and His disciples reach for their future. That’s why Jesus keeps such a close eye on the Pharisees, even as they watch Him closely. His Shepherd’s heart will not permit the rude comingling of faith with a political agenda to endanger His flock. Yes, in the current circumstance, Jewish identity is important—but not to the extent that its traditions sacrifice justice and acceptance for the sake of preserving it.

In the current political climate, we can expect challenges from self-appointed keepers of Christianity. They function like a band of detectives, scrutinizing everything we do and say, eagerly hoping to catch us diverging from traditional norms. This text is particularly illuminating for faithful Americans striving to build God’s kingdom amid cries of “taking back” the nation—restoring old values and traditions that no longer promote justice and inclusion, protecting a “Christian” identity that is no longer relevant in a rapidly changing world. We cannot live in the past. We must reach for the future, looking to God to lead us to peace and compassion and equity for all. 

Watching the detectives is vital. When we see them coming, the last thing we should do is tidy up and be polite. We must own our identity as Christ's followers and demonstrate discipleship by removing all rancor and hostility from our lips, even when our non-conformity to the mythic Christian past triggers rancor and hostility. “For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come,” Jesus says in verse 21. Live from your heart. Speak peace and justice. Know that you’re being watched and use that as an opportunity to embody God’s kingdom in a culture overrun with self-appointed detectives. Leave their past behind. Reach for your future.

When we see self-appointed “faith detectives” coming our way, the last thing we should do is tidy up and be polite.

Mixologists

They sent their disciples to Him, along with the Herodians, saying, “Teacher, we know that You are sincere, and teach the way of God in accordance with truth, and show deference to no one; for You do not regard people with partiality. Tell us, then, what You think. Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?” (Matthew 22.16-17)

Taboos

Although I’m fairly sure the rule no longer applies, it’s often said three topics are taboo in polite American conversation: sex, politics, and religion. Lord knows, we should be eager and at ease to discuss all three, as they inform much of what contributes to our national distress. Meanwhile, Parisian friends confess they’re often perplexed and always amused to see how eagerly and easily we’re scandalized by subjects we should have put to rest long ago. “Here, sex and politics are the first things we talk about,” they say. (As devoutly secular people, the French seldom mention religion, which isn’t to say it’s off-limits.) It took several years, but Walt and I slowly discovered Parisians have a few taboos too, the greatest being money. What one earns or owns simply isn’t discussed. The reason may not be what you suspect. They don’t think money is too personal to talk about. It’s too impersonal. Financial worth has no bearing on friendship.

Sunday’s Gospel (Matthew 22.15-22) brings to mind American and French conversational taboos, with three of the four shaken together into a nasty cocktail contrived to do Jesus in. Only sex gets left out, and had the devious mixologists who serve up the noxious frappé—the Pharisees—found a way, they’d probably have tossed it in. They do a swell job as it is, distilling a vindictive brew of politics, religion, and money into a trick question they hope will knock Jesus senseless. Their audacity to confront Him with these topics has nothing to do with taboos, though. All three subjects are widely discussed and, in fact, routinely figure into Jesus’s sermons, parables, and conversation. The lethal scheme laced into the Pharisees’ cocktail is what makes it offensive.

This Is It

All along, the Pharisees and other sects have tried to stump Jesus with cleverly devised brainteasers. But such tests are customary in rabbinical circles, with Jesus’s adversaries employing them to refute one another as well. This one is different, because it seeks to destroy, not merely discredit, Jesus. The whole thing reeks of conspiracy; every detail is calculated to belittle Him and erase all doubts about the Pharisees’ endgame. The leaders who poison their proposition don’t even show Jesus proper respect to present it personally. They ship it via their followers, backed by a cadre of Herodians. Their sole agenda is protecting the dynasty of paranoid puppet-king, Herod the Great, whose son (and Israel’s current ruler), Herod Antipas, beheaded John the Baptist.

While the overtly displayed hostility escapes no one, least of all Jesus, the question poses the gravest insult to His intelligence. It masks politically volatile ingredients with sweet talk and tangy religiosity, as if Jesus is too thick to detect what’s really going on. Not only is He savvy to the set-up. He’s played a major role building up to this showdown. Since His triumphant arrival in Jerusalem for Passover, He’s done nothing but humiliate His detractors with lacerating criticism and stupefying challenges. The air hangs thick with “give it your best shot.” Once Jesus gets a whiff of the Pharisees’ concoction, noting they’ve arranged for plenty of loyal onlookers to testify against Him when He chokes, He knows this is it. As the Herodians lean in to catch every word, the underlings spill the question. No doubt all involved naïvely expect it to go exactly like they rehearsed: flattery first, then the fall. “Teacher, we know that You are sincere, and teach the way of God in accordance with truth, and show deference to no one; for You do not regard people with partiality. Tell us, then, what You think. Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?” (Matthew 22.16-17)

Everything they say about Jesus is true, of course. But coming from their mouths, it’s a lie that exposes the deceit swimming beneath the question’s surface. If He approves paying tribute to Caesar, He’ll be vilified as a traitor to His people; they’ll run Him out of town and that will be that. The alternative is worse. Suppose Jesus takes the popular religious stance, insisting Jewish Law forbids idolatry—which imperial taxation basically amounts to, since the Romans worship Caesar as a god. The Herodians will pounce on that, declaring Him an insurgent. The king will see He’s delivered into Roman hands by sundown; by sun-up, the Baptist’s fate will look like a cakewalk compared to what He’ll face. To His inquisitors’ amazement, Jesus refuses to swallow one drop of their venomous swill. First, He calls them on their treachery. “Why are you putting Me to the test, you hypocrites?” He replies. (v18) Then He asks for a coin. “Whose head is this, and whose title?” He demands. (v20) They answer, “The emperor’s,” to which Jesus says, “Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” (v21) Foiled once again, they walk away.

Panic

The incident speaks volumes to our duty to honor obligations as believers and citizens. And it’s often cited as clear-cut doctrine supporting separation of church and state. Most of all, it depicts the deviance people knowingly resort to when their beliefs are threatened. As long as the Pharisees call the shots, provoking Jesus is no big deal. It’s another story when He turns the tables with challenges they can’t answer. Then they put their heads together to mix up their mash of tasty controversies and make a point of lengths they’ll take to regain control. They have no business teaming up with Herodians. Pharisees are all about God’s Law. Herodians are all about placating Roman power. It makes no sense.

We observe similarly mismatched mixologists in our time. It astounds us when vehemently professing Christians join ranks with political groups that directly oppose the Gospel of compassion and peace. We can’t imagine what causes them to think we’ll swallow their toxic cocktail. We’ll never figure out why they don’t realize we smell and taste the venom in their love-the-sinner-hate-the-sin sweet talk and boldly bigoted religiosity. Not that it matters, since we’re not Who’ll ultimately demand an explanation for their treachery. What we’re asked to take from this story is a keener grasp of severe panic set off by any threat to their beliefs. We hear it in cries to “take back” America and “return to God.” We see it in resorting to sin as the only means to defeat sin. We sense it in desperate alliances forged with extremists. It’s a sad, sad sight to behold.

It only takes a penny to turn down their yeasty cocktail. What’s God’s is God’s, what’s Caesar’s is Caesar’s. But there’s a far more troubling question we have to answer. Can we follow Jesus all the way to the cross, look into the faces of those who desire our destruction, and pray, “Forgive them. They know not what they do”? That calls for selfless sacrifice at a price we must be willing to pay.

Most holy and righteous God, we’re forever grateful for spiritual discernment to detect poison laced in devious challenges to our faith. Now grant us the discipline to repay evil with good, malice with mercy, and intolerance with grace. Amen.

Like the Pharisees, many who perceive threats to their beliefs will concoct ridiculously obvious and contradictory arguments to eliminate their challengers. Dismissing their ploys is easy. Forgiving them isn’t.

After the Party's Over

These things I remember as I pour out my soul: how I went with the throng, and led them in procession to the house of God, with glad shouts and songs of thanksgiving, a multitude keeping festival. Why are you cast down, O my soul? (Psalm 42.4-5)

BFS

Have you ever reached a place in your faith where an unexpected turn knocks you off your feet? I have. A devastating event sends us reeling—a cruel tragedy, disappointment, or discovery that deflates our grandest illusions. A hidden doubt steps from the shadows to throw us off-balance. Sometimes we’re not sure why we tumble. On Monday, faith lights our way. Tuesday dawns and, for no reason, we’re in a fog that saps our energy and purpose. The God Who was everywhere yesterday seems to have checked out. Prayer loses its lift, falling with a thud from our lips. We reach for the Word, but the Word doesn’t reach us. We resort to the spiritual equivalent of pulling a blanket over our heads, where unspoken misgivings and derisive comments from non-believers preempt what we want to hear—what we need to hear.

Unforeseen lurches into despair can intimidate us many times more than looming challenges that provide no option to trusting God’s grace and guidance. When the rug gets yanked from under us—whether or not we discern what triggers it—inability to break our fall can be debilitating. Plummeting from faith’s heights into doubt’s depths raises questions we’re unable to answer. Where is God? Isn’t God looking and listening? While concerns about God’s love and care churn, self-recrimination enters the mix. What’s wrong with us? Were we crazy to imagine living by faith would be any better than living by sight? Is it crazy to think God has abandoned us? Is the whole thing crazy?

Well, my brother and my sister, though it won't spare us sudden bouts of spiritual depression, we take consolation in realizing no believer is immune to bipolar faith syndrome (BFS). Sooner or later, every believer's high-flying faith bottoms out. We’re hardly the first nor are we hardly the last to be alarmed by this. When we don’t know what to say and it seems God won’t say, we turn to what those who’ve been in our shoes say. They’re not hard to find. Psalm 42, for instance, is a first-rate study of someone totally unnerved and nearly done in by a BFS episode.

The Downcast Soul

For undisclosed reasons, the psalmist has suffered a hard fall. He feels hopelessly lost and needlessly insulted. Presently subsisting on salty tears, he aches for a refreshing taste of God’s presence. “As the deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God,” he writes. “My tears have been my food day and night, while people say to me continually, ‘Where is your God?’” (Psalm 42.1,3) Isn’t that how it always seems to go? No sooner do we hit rock bottom than the no-help crowd rushes to jump into the pit with us and gloat, “I told you so!” Explaining this is what he's up against—like God doesn’t know—the poet essentially asks, “What am I supposed to say? This is as much about You as me!” (Like God doesn’t know that, either.)

Then, in verses 5-6, we get to the crux of his problem. The poet’s thoroughly unprepared for despondency and derision that inevitably surface after the party’s over, when the soaring ends with an abrupt and rapid descent. He can’t handle where he’s at because he won’t let go of where he was. “These things I remember, as I pour out my soul,” he says, his tone tinged with resentment that what he recalls couldn't last: “How I went with the throng, and led them in procession to the house of God, with glad shouts of thanksgiving, a multitude keeping festival. Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me?” he asks, repeating the downcast soul reference in the next verse and the last (v11).

It’s an oddly revealing question that almost leads us into the same trap that snares the poet’s antagonists. We fight every impulse to fire back, “You can’t be serious! What gave you the idea life’s going to get out of the way of your happiness and peace of mind? You know why you're depressed and disturbed? Because it happens!” Before we launch our tirade, however, the poet disarms us by telling himself, “Hope in God; for I shall again praise Him, my Help and my God.” It’s the smartest thing to say—smarter than any presumably reasonable advice we might toss out, like encouraging him to look on the bright side (there isn’t one), remember the good times (that’s why he’s depressed), or hang in until better days arrive (they will, but who knows when). So we’re wise to quiet down and listen as the poet works all of this out.

Hope in God

Hope in God is the only antidote that lifts the downcast soul. Hope in God changes the conversation from “I did” to “I will.” Hope in God lets the last party go and reaches for the next one. Yet we should note activating hope after we bottom out often requires several tries to work. Once the poet settles on hope in God, the bargaining begins. He talks himself up [“By day the LORD commands his steadfast love, and at night his song is with me, a prayer to the life of my God.” (v8)] And before his amazing faith-boost takes effect, he’s down again, asking why God’s forgotten him, why adversaries oppress him and belittle his faith.

The poet’s yo-yo behavior is common when battling BFS. Convincing ourselves to hope in God while coping with dismay is emotionally and intellectually taxing. The psalmist teaches us to keep at it until we’ve worn out our resistance to the only help we know. Psalm 42 ends with a poignant note we’ve heard in our own lives. Before finally giving up on logical conclusions so he can fully place his hope in God, the psalmist can't help asking one more time: Why am I so downcast and disturbed? There’s just no reasonable answer. It is what it is. So what will it be? “Hope in God” is the safest, sanest decision. The poet sighs as he picks himself up and looks ahead. “For I shall again praise Him, my help and my God.”

When faith hoists us to giddy heights where promise fills the sky and confidence swells underfoot, by all means we should relish the experience, celebrate God’s goodness, and invite everyone to join us. But we can’t get so high on faith that we’re unprepared when the party ends. Faith isn’t a party-all-the-time proposition. It’s just not. It’s a life of learning gained from highs and lows, ups and downs. After the party’s over, it’s time to let it go and deal with what’s in front of us so we can reach for what’s ahead. When we’re prepared to do that, hope we need to pull us back up comes more quickly and easily. We say to ourselves—and anyone nervy enough to kick us while we’re down—“We’re done with what we did. Hope in God fixes our focus on what we will do after this trial passes.”

O God of highs and lows, teach us to party responsibly when our faith is up so we’re fully prepared to hope in You when it bottoms out. Amen.

Faith isn’t a party-all-the-time proposition. It’s just not. It’s a life of learning gained from highs and lows, ups and downs.