In the past couple of years I have learned more about cemeteries than I would ever have cared to know. I have learned about purchasing plots and commissioning monuments. I have learned about proper etiquette and how different cultures relate to their dearly departed in very different ways. I have learned that a grave offers a place to go to grieve and, as importantly, a place to leave grief behind for a time.

One thing we learned quickly is that while a cemetery will take great care in burying a loved one, raising a monument, and sodding over the stark, bare earth, they will take very little care in watering that grass or ensuring that it grows and thrives. Once the grave is closed and the grass replaced, they will offer only the barest maintenance. That’s true, at least, of the cemetery we chose for our son.
We cannot tolerate the thought of Nick’s grave being covered in dry, brown grass. We cannot tolerate the thought of it becoming overgrown with weeds. We cannot tolerate the thought of it looking overlooked and abandoned. And so we tend to it with great care. We visit it regularly. We water it diligently. We maintain a tiny garden that sits up against the gravestone, adapting it to the seasons.
I might have been tempted to believe that grass would grow best if was only ever sunny and that flowers would thrive best under the constant glare of the sun. I might have been tempted to believe that days of gloom and cloud would slow progress and inhibit growth. But I have come to observe that this is not the case, for clouds bring rain and rain brings life. Meanwhile, unbroken sun quickly dries the ground and leaves it parched. We have come to look forward to dark skies and brooding clouds, for we know the grass will soon be greener, the flowers brighter and straighter, all of it more colorful and more beautiful.
You and I are not too different from grass and flowers, for as God sees fit to have them grow through sun and rain, he sees fit to have us grow through joy and grief. As it is his will that they display their beauty through good weather and bad, it is his will that we display our beauty through easy times and difficult. The beauty he wishes for us to display is the beauty of character that is heavenly rather than worldly, that is divine rather than so naturally human.
Such character does not come easily to us, for we enter the Christian life with long-established patterns of sinfulness and selfishness, of caring much for ourselves and little for others. For our lives to display godly beauty, we must be changed, we must be transformed. And this kind of transformation needs more than ease, more than merely good times.
For this reason God leads us into times of grief and sorrow, times of sickness and loss, times of pain and persecution. He knows that for us to truly thrive in this world and for us to truly be fit for what lies beyond it, we need both sun and rain, both joy and sorrow. In the bright sun of the best of times we may grow in love and joy and peace and patience, for these virtues tend to be the ones that spring up first and bloom fastest. But it is often only in the dark gloom of the worst of times that we grow in kindness and gentleness and self-control, for virtues like these tend to grow slowly and only under specific conditions. If we are to be the Christians God wishes us to be, we must have sun and rain, clear days and cloudy.
And so, as we approach times of sorrow and suffering, when they sweep over us with all their pain and all their tears, all their agony and all their uncertainty, we never need fear that God has forgotten us or forsaken us. We never need fear that we will emerge worse than we entered in. For God has ordained that these times are necessary for our growth, necessary for us to take on the beauty of godly character. God has ordained that we will be like flowers—flowers that spring up in the rain.

There is a sense in which we are less familiar with death than our forebears, more insulated from its horrors. Of course the death rate in the twenty-first century is identical to every century before and every century to come—“it is appointed for [each and every] man to die once, and after that comes judgment.” So perhaps it is better to say we are less familiar with what we consider premature death—the death of infants, children, and young adults.

Because we are less familiar with death, we tend to prepare less for its inevitable encroachment. With the average lifespan now extending well past the promised threescore and ten, it is easy enough to set death alongside retirement, pensions, and inheritances as matters that should concern us sometime in the future, but certainly not right now.
But it was not always so and there are lessons we can and should learn from previous generations of Christians, for they had a heightened understanding of the importance of being ready. They had to. Like first responders, they had to be in a state of constant preparation, ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice. Like servants, they had to be dressed and ready for the moment they were summoned into the presence of the king. They did not have the luxury of associating death with a life well-lived to a ripe old age. Death could come quickly and at any time. It commonly did.
In reading the Puritans and their successors, I’ve often come across a captivating little phrase: “knocking at the gates of the grave.” Jeremy Taylor wrote a whole book about Christian dying and said, “He that would die well must always look for death, every day knocking at the gates of the grave; and then the gates of the grave shall never prevail against him to do him mischief.” Theodore Cuyler sometimes recounted strolling through Greenwood cemetery where three of his children had been laid to rest—two as infants and one as a young adult—and using his time there to metaphorically knock at the gates of the grave, “to listen whether any painful echo comes back from within.”
We, too, should make it our habit to knock at the gates of the grave. To knock at the gates of the grave is to ponder the positive marks of grace that are associated with those who love the Lord and will depart this life to be with him forever. It is to ponder the marks of depravity and hypocrisy that are associated with those who hate the Lord and will depart this life to be separated from him forever. It is to heed the admonition of the Apostle who implored Christians to “examine yourselves, to see whether you are in the faith. Test yourselves. Or do you not realize this about yourselves, that Jesus Christ is in you?—unless indeed you fail to meet the test!”
We knock when we pray, “Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts! And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting” (Psalm 139:23-24)! We knock when we cry to God, “Prove me, O LORD, and try me; test my heart and my mind. For your steadfast love is before my eyes, and I walk in your faithfulness” (Psalm 26:2–3). We knock when we prepare to celebrate the Lord’s Supper and examine ourselves, and so eat of the bread and drink of the cup (1 Corinthians 11:28). We knock when we consider whether our lives are increasingly marked by those precious evidences of God’s saving and sanctifying grace.
When we knock at the gates of the grave in these ways and many others, we meditatively listen to hear the distant echoes of the choir of angels or the distant echoes of the gavel of judgment. We knock and then listen for echoes that are encouraging or concerning, delightful or painful. We knock and listen so we are prepared for the day—the inevitable day—when the gates will open to receive us to new life or a second death, to the bliss of heaven or the horrors of hell. We knock to ensure we are waiting, to ensure we are ready, to ensure we will go to be with the Lord we love.

The Christian faith is counterintuitive in any number of ways, but perhaps none so much as in its perspective on suffering and, particularly, its perspective on suffering persecution. We may see this most clearly in the actions of the apostles who, after being imprisoned and beaten, “left the presence of the council rejoicing that they were counted worthy to suffer dishonor for the name” (Acts 5:41).

Of course they must not have been surprised to suffer persecution because, as I’ve pointed out in a couple of recent articles, Jesus had told them to expect it and evaluate it. But he did more than that, and he does more than that to us. Jesus tells us to embrace persecution.
I thought of softening “embrace” to “endure.” It’s certainly true that we need to face persecution with patience and perseverance. But Jesus seems to calls us to even more than this. He says we should go so far as to embrace persecution. That’s not to say we should never pray for it to be lifted, or that we should never flee from it, or that we should never turn to the courts where we can appeal for justice, for these may all be good and honorable actions to take. But it does mean that as long as we face true persecution, we should rejoice in it. Jesus says “blessed (or happy) are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake.” He says even to “rejoice and be glad” in persecution. (Matthew 5:10-12).
Is this really possible? Is this really reasonable? It is! It is because we know that our God is sovereign and that nothing happens apart from his plan, which means that in some way our suffering is God’s will. It’s not a mistake. It’s not meaningless. It’s not nothing. It’s an opportunity to respond to God’s sovereignty with hope, with trust, and with godly character. It’s an opportunity to shine God’s light in the midst of darkness.
6 Reasons to Rejoice in Persecution
We need to consider: How is it possible to rejoice even during something as painful as persecution? Let me offer six reasons you can rejoice and be glad even when persecuted.
The first is this: persecution proves your citizenship. You are a follower of a Savior who was persecuted. Even though he lived a life that was perfect and unblemished, still the religious authorities, the civil authorities, and the common people all turned against him and put him to death. If that was his story, why wouldn’t it be yours? He told you it would be yours. He said, “Take up your cross and follow me.” We should expect to suffer like our Savior suffered. In that way persecution is proof of your citizenship in his kingdom, proof of your alignment with Jesus.
And then there’s this: persecution displays your faith. Passing through the test of persecution proves the validity and the strength of your faith. You’ll never know how strong your arms are until you have to lift something heavy, and you’ll never know what your faith is made of until it is put to the test. James says “Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life” (James 1:12). Many fall away when their faith is tested; but those who truly love the Lord will persevere and emerge with their faith tested, proven, strengthened. They can rejoice!
Also, persecution shapes your character. In Romans 5 Paul says, “we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope” (Romans 5:3-4). It takes tremendous heat and pressure to form a diamond deep in the ground and it takes suffering and even persecution to form Christian character deep in your heart. Persecution is a means God uses to conform you to the image of Christ.
There is another reason: persecution equips you for service. Through persecution God is equipping you for deeper service to him. As he writes 2 Corinthians Paul has suffered deeply and this is what he says: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction…” Why does God offer this comfort? He goes on, “so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” He knows that in his suffering he has been comforted so that he can now extend that comfort to others. He has been made more useful to God’s purposes because of this persecution. And that’s true of you as well.
And then there’s a fifth reason: persecution produces communion. In your suffering you experience a deep fellowship with Christ because you are actually joining in his suffering. In the very next verse Paul says this: “For as we share abundantly in Christ’s sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too” (2 Corinthians 1:5). You are being persecuted because you are united to Christ. You are suffering in him and for him and with him. And God meets you in your sorrows, he draws close, and he ministers his comfort to you.
And then there’s still another reason you can rejoice in persecution: persecution provokes longing. It causes you to look forward, to elevate your gaze beyond this world. There is nothing that more clearly shows that this world is not your home than persecution. There is nothing that makes it more obvious that you don’t belong here. And so there is nothing more likely to shift your gaze from the kingdom of this world to the kingdom of heaven. When everything in your life is great, when everyone around you loves and affirms you, it’s easy to say “this world isn’t so bad.” But when you are hated and mocked, you understand: These are not my people. This is not my place.
And if this isn’t, then what is? The kingdom of heaven. Persecution makes you exercise your faith to believe that the kingdom is real and the kingdom is coming and the kingdom is your true and final home. You rejoice that your heart is being uprooted from this kingdom and planted in the kingdom still to come. You rejoice and are glad in all that God has promised and will very soon fulfill.
For these six reasons and many more you can rejoice even when you are being persecuted. God gives you your suffering in trust that you will embrace it and honor him through it—that you will steward it well, that you will pass through it in such a way that you hear him say, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
We have just come through a time of suffering that extended across almost the entire globe. Through the pandemic some lost their jobs or had to battle troubling matters of conscience; many got ill or lost loved ones; many had friends or family members turn on them for their decision to accept or reject a vaccine; many were forced into isolation for extended periods of time; some went to prison. We all suffered. I have spoken to some Christians from around the world who are convinced there was an element of persecution in this suffering and to others who are convinced there was not. But whatever your conviction, I think this is worth asking: Did you pass through that time of suffering with joy in your heart? Can you say “in my suffering” or even “in my persecution (if that’s your conviction) I rejoiced and was glad, just like Jesus said?” In this suffering or any other you’ve gone through, can you say you imitated Jesus who: “When he was reviled, he did not revile in return; when he suffered, he did not threaten, but continued entrusting himself to him who judges justly?” Or did your joy go into a tailspin? Did you suffer with bitterness, with grumbling, with complaining?
It sure seems likely that there will be more suffering and even persecution in the years ahead. How will you meet it? I know how God tells you to meet it—you are to meet any suffering with confident submission and even the fiercest persecution with rejoicing and gladness. God means for you to emerge from it with your faith not only intact, but strengthened, your joy not only present but amplified. He means for you to marvel like the apostles that “I have been counted worthy to suffer dishonor for the name of Jesus.” And to rejoice.
Even in your worst suffering, even in your darkest valley, even in the most agonizing persecution, you can rejoice and be glad because God is with you, because God is accomplishing his purposes, because this light and momentary affliction—even if it leads all the way to death—is preparing you for an eternal weight of glory that is far beyond all comparison. And so expect to be persecuted; when it appears to have come, honestly evaluate your persecution; and if you are convinced this is, indeed, suffering for righteousness’ sake, then embrace your persecution as a means through which God is at work for the furthering of his kingdom, the good of his people, and the glory of his name. And rejoice that you have been counted worthy to suffer dishonor, or even death, for his sake.