"Have we come to the point where God can withdraw His blessings from us without our trust in Him being affected? God will give you the very things you ask for if you refuse to go any further without them, but His silence is the sign that He is bringing you into an even more wonderful understanding of Himself."
[Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest]
I read John 11 the other day, spurred by Oswald's talk about what real trust looks like. Do you know what John 11 is about? People who failed in fully trusting Jesus. It's not a power-hour story about how great Mary and Martha and the disciples are, and how they are rewarded for being so good at life. It's a perfect display of Jesus' love and power in his followers' darkest moments.
When Lazarus became ill, Mary and Martha sent word to Jesus, fully believing (I'm sure) he would rush to them and heal Lazarus is a hot second. But Jesus didn't. He waited where he was, and only when word came Lazarus had died did Jesus go back to Judea. I think Mary and Martha felt a little bit abandoned by their friend in that terribly dark hour. Both of them had expected Jesus to come when they asked, and he didn't. They accused him, with heavy hearts, "If you had just been there, this would not have happened. Jesus, where were you?!"
How often have I done the same? Have you? God's silence feels like the ultimate betrayal. When God refuses to show up when I want Him to, my gut reaction is to assume He isn't coming at all. That He really has just left me hanging, alone, to figure it out in whatever dark place I find myself. Whether it's a break up, or singleness, or loneliness, or finding someone to sublease my apartment, I'm noticing this horrible tendency to jump to the conclusion that God is not in control of my circumstances, and that He is letting me down. When I can't see tangible evidence of His presence, I panic faster than anything.
Back to John 11. The story ends in a straight-up miracle. A four-days-dead Lazarus gets up and walks out of the grave at the sound of Jesus' voice. LIKE WHAT. And here is the most beautiful thing: Jesus knew what everyone else didn't; that the fullness of the miracle could not have been experienced in any other way. Sure, Mary and Martha wanted Lazarus healed from illness. But Jesus saw the opportunity for a miracle far greater than the one that would have been had he rushed back to Judea when he was called. "For your sake, I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe." At the beginning of the story, those words seem harsh. But they are full of beauty, too. If Mary and Martha had gotten what they asked for when they asked for it, the result would have been a healed Lazarus and not much else. Because Jesus waited, the sisters saw life come from death. They saw even more fully the power of their Lord, and their faith was strengthened tenfold. They got to witness the impossible.
There was also room for Jesus to be in the midst of the suffering. He felt it, too. He was there, hugging his sisters, feeling their hurt. "He was deeply moved in spirit and troubled." He didn't just swoop in with a quick fix to the problem, he entered into the pain and said, "I get it. I miss him, too. I know how this feels, and I hate it with you." God is never far away when we hurt. He is right there, right in the middle of it, and He knows the feeling. No, listen. He actually knows the feeling. Jesus was human, too. But more than that, he created you. He knows how he knit you together and he knows how your heart aches. I think he did it on purpose.
If there is one thing I have learned in the last year, it's that God loves to bring glory to Himself by working in the lives of His most beloved ones. He asks us to cry out to Him, then sometimes He makes us wait. Not because He's mad, or because we messed up, or because He's doesn't care. God's silence is never an indicator that He doesn't care. Rather, it is a hint that something greater is at work, and it is still becoming its fullest expression. Can I handle that? Can I handle the silence, and trust it is a promise of something better than I could possibly fathom? Saying yes is the weightiest, scariest thing imaginable. But also maybe the greatest victory and joy.
If He is silent, just wait. Hang on. Be patient, friend. Trust me when I say I understand that patience is the hardest, stupidest, most gut-wrenching lesson to learn. I'm still learning it. I am still figuring out what it means to wait in the silence, without panicking. And I'm really, really bad at it. But I am the beloved of a God who doesn't treat me based on my performance or failures. And so, my friend, are you. We have assurance that allows us to stand firm on the promise that He has never, and will never, abandon those He loves the most dearly. And you know who He loves the most dearly? You.
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