Day 38 - Friday, April 3
Rung #29: CONCERNING HEAVEN ON EARTH, A GODLIKE DISPASSION & PERFECTION
Scriptures: Matthew 5:48; 1 Peter 1: 15-16; 1 John 2:29; James 1:4
Therefore you are to be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect. Like the Holy One who called you, be holy yourselves also in all your behavior; because it is written, “You shall be holy, for I am holy.” If you know that [Christ] is righteous, you know that everyone also who practices righteousness is born of Him. Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children; and walk in love, just as Christ also loved you and gave Himself up for us, an offering and a sacrifice to God as a fragrant aroma. And let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.

Poetry: 
[A dreadful darkness closes in]
by Anne Brontë

A dreadful darkness closes in
             On my bewildered mind;
O let me suffer and not sin, 
                   Be tortured yet resigned.

Through all this world of whelming mist
                    Still let me look to Thee,
And give me courage to resist
                    The Tempter till he flee.

Weary I am — O give me strength
                    And leave me not to faint;
Say Thou wilt comfort me at length
                   And pity my complaint.

I've begged to serve Thee heart and soul,
                    To sacrifice to Thee
No niggard portion, but the whole
                    Of my identity.

I hoped amid the brave and strong
                    My portioned task might lie,
To toil amid the labouring throng
                    With purpose pure and high.

But Thou hast fixed another part,
                    And Thou hast fixed it well;
I said so with my bleeding heart
                    When first the anguish fell.

For Thou hast taken my delight,
                   And hope of life away,
And bid me watch the painful night
                    And wait the weary day.

The hope and delight were Thine;
                    I bless Thee for their loan;
I gave Thee while I deemed them mine
                    Too little thanks, I own.

Shall I with joy Thy blessings share
                    And not endure their loss?
Or hope the martyr's crown to wear|
                  And cast away the cross?

These weary hours will not be lost,
                    These days of passive misery,
These nights of darkness anguish tost
                    If I can fix my heart on Thee.

Weak and weary though I lie,
                  Crushed with sorrow, worn with pain,
Still I may lift to Heaven mine eye,
                    And strive and labour not in vain,

That inward strife against the sins
                    That ever wait on suffering;
To watch and strike where first begins
                  Each ill that would corruption bring,

That secret labour to sustain
                    With humble patience every blow,
To gather fortitude from pain,
                    And hope and holiness from woe.

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,
                   Whatever be my written fate,
Whether thus early to depart
                    Or yet a while to wait.

If Thou shouldst bring me back to life
                    More humbled I should be;
More wise, more strengthened for the strife,
                    More apt to lean on Thee.

Should Death be standing at the gate
                    Thus should I keep my vow;
But, Lord, whate'er my future fate
                    So let me serve Thee now.

FRAILTY IS A FRIEND

At the time when I chose today’s passages—a few months ago—I felt their appeals largely in the abstract.  I appreciated their merits and looked forward to considering the spiritual, theological, and artistic resonances between them.  But now, as I write, the timeliness of my choice has passed from the abstract to the urgent and pressing.  Coronavirus, and the fear of it, sweeps the globe; schools have banned face-to-face meetings and even my own church with its small congregation has planned to suspend Sunday meetings until the worst has passed.  My wife and I just yesterday drafted our wills so that in the event of our demise, our kids will have the provisions and care they need.  We’d intended to do this for years—as so many intend to do—and just “never gotten around to it.”  We find ourselves facing a future more uncertain with crucial stakes.  I’m unaccustomed to my everyday actions, which often seem so trivial, being charged with newfound significance.  I’m accustomed to trusting the relative cleanliness of countless public surfaces and the safety of my interactions. 

Anne Bronte’s poem meets me—meets us—in a similar posture of anxiety, supplication, and resignation.  This is, in fact, the last poem she ever wrote, and it documents the aspirations, wisdom, and faith of a woman whose enormous literary talents seemed to promise a life full of achievement.  She died of tuberculosis at the age of 29.  I invite you to read this poem out loud, making her poem’s prayer your own.  The discipline of the structure and musicality of the poem belie the poet’s condition.  She struggles to secure her faith and offer to God that rare gift of gratitude and surrender in the midst of fear and genuine suffering.  She prays, as I should hope to pray, “Shall I with joy Thy blessings share / And not endure their loss? / Or hope the martyr's crown to wear / And cast away the cross?”  These more revealing, piercing questions come after the attempts to negotiate and bargain for a longer lease and different terms; bargains we often try to strike with God when crisis looms.

In the poem’s resolution, Bronte steels her conviction: “But, Lord, whate’er my future fate / So let me serve thee now,” and surrenders the right to define the terms of her life or the ways that God might be served by her life, sickness, or death.  Similar resonances appear in

Lauren Tilden’s painting, “Wind on Her Face.”  We see a woman in the midst of a country landscape—perhaps in the middle of a field.  No trees or hills rise near her, and her vision is cast into the distance to the place where, it seems, she must travel.  The landscape and sky seem calm enough, but the woman’s outlines and features all seem a bit blurred.  The edges of her shirt and the wisps of her hair seem to merge seamlessly with the sky and the field, whose features are themselves windswept and indistinct.  She seems on the verge of being erased or blown away, but her eyes, like Bronte’s, gaze with a calm determination ultimately indifferent to the difficulties of her condition. 

In her we see something like the endurance that James commends from our Scripture reading today: “let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.”  In juxtaposition to the Gospel readings, this perfection follows a life in which we take up the sacrificial holiness and love of Christ—one that led him to the cross.  Today’s musical artist, Lowland Hum, enjoins us with a similar if still surprising refrain: “frailty is a friend.”  My strength fails, even unto death.  And in the midst of these failures, the Lord reveals his strength, love, and kindness in ways we cannot comprehend and often do not expect or even, initially, desire. 

Take heart.  The Lord Christ is sovereign and shall meet you in your frailty.  It is through this frailty, submitted to his Spirit, that the church is renewed and endures to advance his kingdom.

Prayer:
Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly,
While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is high.
Hide me, O my Savior, hide,
Till the storm of life is past;
Safe into the haven guide;
Oh, receive my soul at last.

Other refuge have I none,
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;
Leave, ah! leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me.
All my trust on Thee is stayed,
All my help from Thee I bring;
Cover my defenseless head
With the shadow of Thy wing.
 ----Charles Wesley

Dr. Phillip Aijian
Adjunct Professor
Torrey Honors Institute
Biola University

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