The terrible battle to be fought by the seeker of God is against unbelief. One moment, we can be so full of belief, of joy and excitement, assurance and boldness. Then, as little as it takes to slam a door, so quickly and surely have saints of God known the onslaught of unbelief in all its terrible power.
Our fight is the fight of faith. Our faith is the victory. Nor is it a faith concocted, a matter of will power. It is rather, a surrender to God, an acceptance of things as they are, an acknowledgment of things as they are and entrusting them entirely out of our control to His. Thus we come out of our valleys, our clouds of darkness and into the light.
Wave after wave,
Billow after billow,
No rest, no peace, except for a time,
A short time, a breather so to speak,
From the unrelenting pressures which increase.
Darkness all around us,
Blind alleys at every turn,
Clouds obscure the light of day
And leave us damp and cold.
When will we be free?
When will the storm cease?
Has it no end? Has it no bounds?
Can we go on with our hopes
Dashed to pieces at every turn,
Like cardboard huts in a hurricane?
Is it sin in our lives that causes this state?
Is the wrath of God kindled against us?
Have we no hope, no reason to expect
An end to intermittent turmoil?
“There is no peace to the wicked,” the Scriptures say,
Yet we have searched and searched ourselves again.
And though we know that in our flesh dwells no good thing,
We still find ourselves without an answer.
The sky is as brass, His voice we don’t hear,
Our steps we seek counsel for, to no avail.
When will He come and show Himself?
When will we be clean to receive our King?
When can we have our hopes fulfilled?
Why does He hide His face from us?
How is it that curses seem to haunt us still?
Is our faith so small
That we do not enter in
To that which He has in store for us?
Or is this nothing more and nothing less
Than a process of refinement,
A must like the seasonal pruning of trees
To bear more fruit?
But where is the fruit?
I have my seasons of sorrow and humiliation,
But where are my seasons of harvest?
I despair from knowing the answer.
I thought I had it;
I do not.
I hoped I would receive it;
I haven’t.
Will I ever?
Have I confessed my unbelief
In asking if I’ll have an answer
When I ought to ask for it
Believing I have received it?
Lord, help my unbelief!
I am like one up to my nose in quicksand;
My perishing seems so sure.
I surely cannot help myself,
Nor can any man
or number of men
In anything they can do.
My only hope is that my God
Will come and lift me from the quagmire
In which I have fallen and sunk so deep.
I thought I was out, never to return.
Many times I thought I was out,
Only to find myself enveloped again.
How can these things be?
Do the Scriptures not tell us
Of a life of victory and of power?
Are only a chosen few
Given to be as Stephen and Samuel?
Or have they too had such lives
Of trial and loss and failure
Before the dawning of their day
To shine as lights much brighter than the day?
Am I to believe
That this is a preparation,
That all goes according to plan?
Or must I fear
That all is almost lost,
That I have failed,
That there is no base for hope any more
That God will not deliver
A sinner such as I?
Yet a faint glimmer of hope lives on
Even as I enquire.
I know my God is able;
I know I want His will
At any cost there is.
And so I wait
And wait
And wait
And faint
And hope
That He will save
And manifest Himself
Once more forever more,
Never to leave again,
His presence ever there
For me to enjoy.
Hear me, Lord, and hear my cry,
I have no one but You.
If all this cloud and quiet
Is for our very best
Then can I accept it, assured
That You will come and be to us
What You have promised
In Your appointed time.
Must I also be in the dark
About this as well?
How much harder it is to live
With uncertainty upon uncertainty!
But if You are faithful
And if You choose,
You are able
To cleanse me and deliver me
To be with You
And You with Me.
Come Lord, please come.
Lethbridge, Sept. 1984
Related posts:
Fear of Man
What torment we put ourselves through because of the value we place on the attitudes and opinions of others toward us.Realizing the effect of that grievous burden, we throw it off and are greatly relieved until a day comes when we find it had somehow grown on our backs once more to torment us, increasingly so. We must make a choice between praise of man and praise of God.
How sweet the deliverance from chains that bind
A man to many lords,
As peace and rest come to his soul
Which he has not known before!
The disquieted mind beleaguered with questions,
Bedraggled with doubt and confusion,
Struggles to know the answer at hand
Which seems to be but an illusion.
How fruitless the concentration on
Opinions of other people!
How taxing the consternation
About all their thoughts and actions!
To the extent one values their words
And seeks to be praised of men,
To this extent are they his lords
And idols are they within.
Seek not to prove that the wrong are wrong;
Seek not to prove you are right,
But speak the truth both gently and wisely
And leave it without a fight.
Fear no man but fear only God,
For once all is said and done,
To God will we answer
And He is the Judge
Of all things under the sun.
All things that are hidden
Will come to the light
In due time, whether good or bad,
And when His plan is fully complete,
Then all will receive praise of God.
Dauphin, 1978, 79
The Call
Little did I know when the Lord told me He would show me His people through His eyes that I was one of those people, that I would be shown not only by seeing as an observer but as partaker as well. And He too is a partaker of the sufferings of His people. “I am hurting, I am hurting!” He said to me. I know too well the pain, the death and hell we must all face, the iniquity we must be shown in ourselves and be purged of by fires. I have identified and do identify with His people. I just did not think, though I surely believed I was His, that I was, by nature, a partaker of all the sins and vanities of His people and therefore a partaker of the fruits of them as well.
When the Lord shows one something, He shows him not by mere observation but subjection. Only then do we know and understand and relate.
One day while praying quite dignified, I was forced to be relieved,
And in an old cabin the Lord signified what in me He had conceived.
I will show you My people by My eyes, their suffering and sorrow you’ll see;
They live in weeping and gnashing and cries but proclaim that they are free.
In their stoves burns no fire to give them heat, the wind blows through the walls;
From broken glasses and plates they eat, and off its hinges the front door falls.
Their power is void while idols abound; vain professions are on their tongue;
No floor ‘neath their feet covers the ground, their possessions are no more than dung.
These are His people the Lord lets me see,...
My Boy
If and when financial blessings come, one comes into danger of straying after mammon. Mammon has a way of creating and whetting the appetite for more. More accurately, it has a way of rousing the carnal nature with what is already there.I began to be dissatisfied with what my money was doing in the bank at terrible interest rates, thinking I was a coward or a poor steward by not working the money to get better returns. I ended up in the stock market. Fear and Greed, two robust bullies, caught me in the back alley on my way to the bank and beat me severely. I lost two years of peace with my family and God knows how much more. My faith was greatly battered. One cannot play with fire and not get burned. A bitter lesson indeed. My boy had been such a joy to me and I missed him for a part of our lives. If you value life, flee mammon; don't rationalize; don't compromise; don't even think it...flee to God for your life.I wrote this during a fast a couple of years later, when I was expected to die.
I've missed my boy since '93;
Money was all that I could see;
Even robbed him of maternity;
Without my boy since '93.
Hung a plaque up on the wall
The words of which would say it all
And failed my duty to heed that call
Now all I can do is bawl and bawl.
Son, don't ever cry, the fault's not yours;
I'm persuaded the Lord will even scores.
How does He do it? by the blood He pours,
Reuniting us on better shores.
Mom, please don't spoil ou...