On the one hand, Jesus tells us to pray that extreme trials and testings will swerve and avoid us in their providential careening round the world (Matthew 6:13). On the other hand, we’re told in various passages that afflictions are headed our way, and we should rejoice in them. Christ says: “In this world you will have troubles, but be of good cheer: I have overcome the world.” I believe that. But what about us? How does His overcoming the world give us peace in the here and now of tribulation? And how can Paul instruct believers to rejoice — “again I will say: rejoice!” (Philippians 4:4) — when agony is stealing in the front door of our lives (if such is the case)?
Both Christ and Paul inform us that peace will follow surrender — that we will experience shalom in the deepest, fullest sense, once we give up autonomous decision-making and quit worrying. I wish I could claim that this has transpired in my own spiritual life. I intend this to be a completely honest confession, and so — to be utterly frank with you — I cannot say that all the many years of my praying for peace have yielded the desired state. I cannot stop worrying. I cannot let go and let God. I fail to find repose in knowing that “all things work together for good to those who love the Lord”. Bad things happen that cannot possibly be for my (or anyone else’s) good. These mishaps and ongoing minor tragedies are supposed to make me better: more patient, more mature, and wiser and stronger in character. I find they simply embitter me. I am far from taking the advice of Job’s wife; my loyalty to the Lord is not at issue (and loving loyalty appears to be one of His favorite things); no, I am not so far gone as that. I am merely in a sporadically bitter mood — but a mood that threatens to grow.
I know this is my fault. I am in the wrong by having this reaction. I am not availing myself of the resources of heaven. The Holy Spirit is right there beside and within me, ready to provide tranquility and insight and comfort. Instead, I am in danger of having the “thorns” of the “cares of the world” choke off my Christian life and prevent the growth of whatever spiritual fruit I might otherwise produce.
Jesus told His apostles to pray that they might not suffer a trial so severe that it would sabotage or undermine their faith (Matthew 6:13 and 26:41). That is certainly my prayer now. I can see all too clearly how troubles might eat away at the roots of my faith, fostering questions and doubts that act like cankers, nurturing anxieties inimical to the joy that lives in the hearts and souls of the pure and peaceful.
With the clear-eyed realism that characterizes all of scripture (that endlessly profound knowledge of all the crannies of the human spirit), the Bible knows how vulnerable I am to resentment and repining. It knows very well how open to the invading forces of bitterness all my poor defenses are. But it also knows how capable — how far beyond mere “capable” — the power of God is to buttress the walls of my spiritual fortress, and to shore up my flagging and lagging attitude. “Save me from myself” is the constant prayer of saints such as I am.
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