Rubbish or resurrection?

Grumpy, that’s the only word for it. Tired of the world and all the burdens I can’t carry and all the people I fail. Tired of trying.

I said the wrong thing to a grieving friend. I yelled at my children. I burned dinner. I forgot to pray. I did the things I swore I wouldn’t do and didn’t do the things I should have. I couldn’t keep up. I didn’t want to.

I grip coffee and sigh. I try to tune out the distractions within and without, open my Bible as an act of faith. Philippians 3.

“Yet every advantage that I had gained I considered lost for Christ’s sake. Yes, and I look upon everything as loss compared with the overwhelming gain of knowing Jesus Christ my Lord. For his sake I did in actual fact suffer the loss of everything, but I considered it useless rubbish compared with being able to win Christ. For now my place is in him, and I am not dependent upon any of the self-achieved righteousness of the Law. God has given me that genuine righteousness which comes from faith in Christ. How changed are my ambitions! Now I long to know Christ and the power shown by his resurrection: now I long to share his sufferings, even to die as he died, so that I may perhaps attain as he did, the resurrection from the dead” (vv. 7-11).

Inspiring words when held at arm’s length. But let them in and their full weight settles like all the grief and rage and frustration of all the suffering world. And like the psalmist, I beg God, “Be gracious to me, O Lord!  See my affliction . . .” (Psalm 9:13)

The truth is that we lose all things whether we want to or not. The truth is that it is all rubbish, whether or not we consider it so.

But Paul sounds so joyful, so jubilant, even. “Yes, I actually did suffer a lot. I lost everything, in fact. But all that stuff is rubbish, worthless, useless!”

How is this possible? I’m a little miffed.

I suppose it all depends on what we compare our stuff to. And Paul was convinced that knowing Christ was the only thing worth having. He lost, and then he won.

And winning Him is worth it.

His one goal was to know Christ. He called it an “overwhelming gain.” He wanted it so much that he sought to suffer, in order that he might die, in order that he might be resurrected.

Resurrected!

Reborn.

Remade.

What does it take to know Christ that way? So deeply that loss leads to rejoicing and every death births new life?

The same psalmist who begged God to see him started out by praising:

“I will give thanks to you, Lord, with all my heart;
    I will tell of all your wonderful deeds.
I will be glad and rejoice in you;
    I will sing the praises of your name, O Most High” (Psalm 9:1-2).

In spite of—or because of?—his sufferings, he was confident enough to say,

“Those who know your name trust in you,
    for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you.”

Those who know your name.

Doesn’t His name call out to us every day in the thousand ways He loves us? Are we so accustomed to His love that we forget it is there?

Why is it so much easier to blame than to give thanks?

Instead of listing complaints, the psalmist listed all the ways God had saved him already. He had been brought to the “gates of death” but asked God to resurrect him so he could declare His praises (v. 13).

Paul longed to “come to know the power outflowing from His resurrection” (Phil. 3:10), a power that is not is not simply a past event in history, but ongoing and eternal. And we know it when we “are made like Him in His death.”

Suffering leads to death, and there are many kinds of death. But death brings resurrection, and the power behind resurrection is love.

This is the love that satisfies, that swallows up all the empty places, that wraps around and lifts up and runs within and over and beyond.

“Now my place is in him.”

It is the one thing we all long for.

It is home.

Those who are resurrected, I think, understand that the griefs and failures only point us to God if we let them, and when our hearts yearn upward rather than inward, we see the amazing demonstrations of love quietly bursting all around us.

The toddler who squeals and runs to me, throwing her arms around my neck.

The kitten purring in my lap.

The dust on the floor left by a husband who is working hard to make our home beautiful.

The friend who forgave me, the kids smiling at me anyway, the dinner I got to burn and still eat, the God who waits patiently for me to come but who doesn’t wait to love me.

Outside the window the aspen leaves are dying, making way for winter’s sleep and spring’s rebirth. They have turned to brightest gold, and their glory fills the window with shining joy.