The greater part of the men, discouraged, their spirits worn by the turmoil, acted as if stunned.  They accepted the pelting of the bullets with bowed and weary heads.  It was of no purpose to strive against walls.  It was of no use to batter themselves against granite.  And from this consciousness that they had attempted to conquer an unconquerable thing there seemed to arise a feeling that they had been betrayed.

–The Red Badge of Courage, Stephen Crane

There comes in the course of every life’s story a pause from which it may not be expected to resume.  Up until then we have struggled valiantly, giving our all for the cause and lifting high the banner bearing our beloved emblem.  We have seen others go down in the heat of battle and we have attended to them faithfully, succoring the wounded and honoring the dying.  We have suffered injury ourselves, but it has always served only to spur us on to greater effort.  But there must inevitably come the moment, as unlooked-for as the cold light of dawn after a weary night’s march, when we simply cannot go on any more.

Some wishful idiot once blithely stated that hope springs eternal in the human breast.  He was either unacquainted with the relentless onset of life in this world, or he was unacquainted with the limitations of mere flesh and blood, or both.  If hope really did spring eternal within us it would serve only to keep us from realizing the severity of our condition, like a continual shot of some mind-altering emotional drug, and it would certainly not be a good thing.  Despair is one part of the spectrum of feelings with which we interpret the reality of the world around us, and while it is not a healthy place to be in over the long term, God uses it in small doses to open our eyes to truth we would never come to grips with from the vantage point of success.

I think what makes it so difficult, however, is the ruinous conclusions you cannot help but come to as you walk through that valley.  They mount up with wicked glee like never-ending echoes in the canyon, your own thoughts accusing, now even defending you:  So this is what it means to truly be alone.  You were never really one of them.  If you were, you would not be in this situation, or at least they would be here trying to help you.  How could you have done such a thing?  It’s just as well that they don’t know, or they would drop you like a hot rock.  Fools, all of them.  You are the only really smart one, and look what’s happened to you.  Can God himself even understand?  So he may have become a man; but then he was a perfect man, wasn’t he?  He didn’t know what it was like to be crushed, not only by your enemies, but by your own self.  The best thing you can do is shake them all off, curse God, and die.  If you truly were-

It is enough; enough anyway to establish that we have all been down that treacherous road.  As we saw Sunday there is something fundamentally different about Christianity relative to all other religions, and it is that God is answering the questions we ask of him, not the other way around.  And one of the most merciful aspects of his method is that he has no hesitation about reaching down and cutting the volume off when it becomes too much for us.  No person can live in that shadow forever, and if it seems that God’s estimation of the temptation we are able to bear is sometimes too great, his judgment is vindicated in mercy when we are at the brink of our ability to withstand the anguish of this vision into the recesses of our own soul.

For that is what it is.  Defeat is the moment when we take our eyes off Christ and put them on ourselves.  It is a necessary vision, but one that would not be so if we had the faith the Spirit offers us.  Faith lays hold of the covenant promises of God with a sure and certain knowledge that they have already been accomplished in Christ, and that we must needs participate in his sufferings if we will taste of his victory.  Faith perceives the heart of God as he desires redemption for a broken people in a broken world, and it beats with the same fervor.  Faith accepts that what is sown perishable is raised imperishable; that what is sown in dishonor is raised in glory; that what is sown in weakness, is raised in power.  So believing, faith ventures everything it has for the glory of the Father and the good of those it loves, and even in its death it conquers.

I do not have this kind of faith.  In my pride I am fundamentally convinced that my abilities are the solution to every problem that happens to come my way (arrogant not only because I am manifestly insufficient for the task, but also in supposing that God would relegate the world to such a pitiful salvation).  I am confident in my fortress of demonstrable accomplishment.  I am committed to the unswerving presentation to all those I am close to that everything actually is OK.  I have met the enemy, and it is I; and I cannot even begin to reckon the desolation that has come about because of my unbelief.

But God…  Rick could have uttered no sweeter phrase this Sunday.  Here are words that care not a whit either for the direness of my situation or the depths of the self-pity into which I have further slipped.  These words are not slowed by the impossibility of the tasks I am looking up at, nor are they daunted by the vicious onslaught of the Adversary.  They pick me up out of the shapeless heap I have begun to be accustomed to and they stand me on my feet, heralding more words that breathe into me the very breath of life:  But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ – by grace you have been saved – and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus.  And all this not of my own doing, but a gift of God.

God’s gift is for much more than just the consolation of my sorrows, however.  He has chiefly in mind the fulfillment of his covenant promises.  My vanquishment has affected others too, and it is for love of them that he now calls me to action.  Like Gad and Reuben I would sit in my sheepfolds (safe from the Canaanites, I might add) and not only let my brothers go alone to war across the Jordan, but even try to discourage them from doing so.  From this apathy he calls me to a new zealousness, to take up arms and go before the people of Israel, until they are brought into their place.  If it is by grace I am saved, then it is only a life of service that can reflect the glory of such a great salvation.  Knowing then that I am one of little faith, I accept that the weariness of defeat will come across me at times, but also that I have kept his Word and have not denied his Name.  And in the power of that Word (creating new life within me ex nihilo) and the splendor of that Name (identifying me as baptized, and as one of God’s children) I will continue.

Jesus dealt gently with the bruised reeds of Israel, and did not snuff out her smoldering wicks.  He did so because he desired to show his people a greater reality than our own failings.  And the reality is this: that in answer to the accusations of our soul, the Son of Man does indeed know what it is like to be crushed by his enemies, and not only so, but that he also knows what it is like to be crushed by his own self.  For as his people are we not made one with him?  And has the prophet not said that ours were the transgressions he bore, that ours were the iniquities for which he was crushed, that the Lord has laid on him the chastisement that brought us peace?  Yet we considered him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted.  It was the falling away of his closest friends, more so than any flogging or torture could have done, that grieved the heart of Jesus at his death.

But it was after the suffering of his soul that he saw the light of life and was satisfied.  This light, this assurance that those who are in him will surely live forever, is the hope that springs eternal for us.  We know all too well that we have attempted to conquer an unconquerable thing; but we also know that the victory over it has already been won.  In that hope – brothers and sisters at Holy Cross – in that hope let us arise, and keep on rising, till the day when pain and sorrow are no more.

JV

Author: Jeremy Vogan

My name is Jeremy Vogan. I live in Staunton, VA with my wife and four kids. I love to write, and seek to honestly explore the intellectual and emotional implications of following Jesus as a deeply broken person in a twisted, cruel world that is full of veiled beauty and meaning. Writing is part of how I faithfully look for Jesus Christ to someday make all things new. I'd enjoy hearing your feedback! JV