What kind of puny faith rests on the flimsy legs of health, wealth, and happiness?
It's the faith of a Job's wife, who curses God as an answer to pain,
for whom every new trial brings on a good wallow in the muddle of self-pity.
"Curse God, and die," she sobs in anger, for my faith has blown itself to shreds.
I've seen too much of it.
Oh where is that man or woman who bases faith on something deeper than personal comfort, something impervious to suffering, who even in calamity, can bless the Creator, knowing a love that is deeper than this mortal life, a strength that is an eternal sustenance, a hope that carries us far beyond the circle of this earth?
What petty petulances, spats, tiffs, and temporary tragedies should be enough to make us leap into the dank abyss of damnation? What horrors in this life should be enough to drive us into the arms of fearful demons in the next? What secretly nourished bitterness is worth our soul?
Satan is a utilitarian attacker--whatever works to drive a man or woman from God's arms, that he will use again and again. So if you would conquer, grab the assaulting stones and build a tower. Then, perhaps they will not fall so frequently into your life.
But even if they do...even if the dying world itself should crumble under you, and ravenous snakes send shivers into your very spirit, why kick against the only way out. No. Crushing the light will never alleviate darkness and slamming the door still leaves you stuck in the cell.
Oh Lord, whenever I suffer tragedy--and I've no illusions about its inevitability--spare me the comfort of self-coddling! Be with me in my deepest agonies for I cannot abide them alone. Let the tears that wash my face only serve to cleanse the tainted glass that would keep me from seeing you clearly. Keep me brave, but if I should run...I'm running toward you.