The phone call came at nearly 9:00 at night. When I answered, I was caught off guard by a voice full of concern. “Jon! Where were you tonight? Are you okay?” It was Monty. Suddenly, I felt like a kid caught skipping school.

Monty Sholund had been a classmate of Jim Elliot’s at Wheaton College in the late 1940s and had gone on to spend 35 years on the mission field in South Africa and Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of the Congo). When he “retired” and moved back to the United States, he founded Village Schools of the Bible in 1982 “to assist newly converted Christians and older Christians in their growth and maturity in Jesus Christ” and to “help [them] know and apply God’s Word to their lives.”

I was enrolled in one of his classes, a yearlong Bible survey that met one evening each week at our church. Monty required us to complete an assigned reading and a paper for each class, and he made it clear that if we didn’t complete an assignment, we shouldn’t come to class.

That particular week, I hadn’t completed the paper. I don’t remember why. But being a 23-year-old newlywed with no kids and a light responsibility load, the reason wasn’t a good one. And I knew it.

Dose of Firm Encouragement

I’m sure Monty knew it too, though he was kind enough to give me the benefit of the doubt. When my fumbling explanation confirmed that the benefit was unwarranted, he extended me another kindness: a good dose of firm encouragement. “Oh, well, yes,” he said. “If you didn’t complete the assignment, you were right not to come. But honestly, Jon, my impression of you is different. I expect more from you than that. I hope I haven’t been mistaken.”

Now, Monty’s words may not strike you as encouraging. I can tell you that when I hung up the phone, I didn’t feel encouraged. Monty had exposed my negligence and lack of self-control, so I felt exposed and deflated. And rightly so.

“Sometimes, the encouragement we need most is the firm kind.”

The encouragement set in only later, as I reflected on Monty’s words and on the simple fact that he spoke them. I was one of about thirty students in his class, yet he personally sought me out because he wanted me to grow and mature in Jesus Christ; he wanted to apply God’s word to my life. He cared enough about the outcome of my faith to exhort me not to continue falling short — not merely of my potential, but of the glory of God (Romans 3:23) — by squandering the precious time God gave me.

Monty’s call that night pushed me to do some needed self-examination and soul-searching. He was right: I wasn’t heeding the command to make the best use of my time (Ephesians 5:16). Seeing this more clearly encouraged me to exercise greater diligence, not only in my assignments, but in my responsibilities in general.

Taken by the Shoulders

We all need regular doses of encouragement because we all face regular battles with discouraging weaknesses and fears. Of course, we all prefer the more tender kinds of encouragement, like being affirmed when we do something well or receiving sympathetic consolation when we’re suffering.

But sometimes, the encouragement we need most is the firm kind — the kind that confronts a harmful blind spot of weakness or a sinful form of unbelief that has a controlling grip on us. In such cases, we don’t need to be affirmed or consoled. We need to be exhorted to “lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, [so we can] run with endurance the race that is set before us” (Hebrews 12:1).

This is what makes an exhortation a form of encouragement, though it’s not so much a shoulder to cry on as being taken by the shoulders and given a firm appeal to exercise faith-filled courage. Some exhortations cause us to feel our courage rise right away. But others don’t, especially if they contain elements of reproof or rebuke (2 Timothy 4:2), like the one Monty gave me. But when given in love by someone who really cares about the outcome of our faith, an exhortation is a priceless gift.

Priceless Gift of Perseverance

That’s why we Christians are commanded to exhort one another, as the author of Hebrews makes clear:

Take care, brothers, lest there be in any of you an evil, unbelieving heart, leading you to fall away from the living God. But exhort one another every day, as long as it is called “today,” that none of you may be hardened by the deceitfulness of sin. (Hebrews 3:12–13)

“When given in love by someone who really cares about the outcome of our faith, an exhortation is a priceless gift.”

The way this text is worded tells us that exhortations are not always pleasant. Being exhorted to avoid or stop indulging in heart-hardening sin might not feel immediately encouraging. But the reason exhortations are priceless gifts is because of the fruit they bear in our lives, if we’re humble enough to heed them. If received faithfully, they become means of grace that help us persevere in the faith — grace-gifts from God himself, delivered through our loving brothers or sisters. Which is why, later in his letter, the author of Hebrews reminds us of Proverbs 3:11–12:

My son, do not regard lightly the discipline of the Lord,     nor be weary when reproved by him.For the Lord disciplines the one he loves,     and chastises every son whom he receives. (Hebrews 12:5–6)

Every disciple requires discipline. And though “for the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, . . . later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it” (Hebrews 12:11).

Courage to Exhort

Giving the firm encouragement of an exhortation requires courage. And often, the more personal the exhortation, the more courage it requires. I’ve typically found it easier to issue a general exhortation to a group than to exhort a friend face-to-face (or voice-to-voice, as Monty did with me).

Once, having observed one of my oldest and dearest friends taking steps that I believed would lead him deeper into a sinful pattern, I knew I had to say something. So, I arranged to meet him for dinner. But as I faced him across the restaurant table, I remembered the strong internal resistance. If I said what I wanted to say, it might mark the end of our friendship. But I loved him. So, taking a deep breath, I spoke words that were hard for me to say and hard for him to hear. At first, he was indignant and defensive. But thankfully, as we talked, he heard my words in the context of my love and took them to heart. Later, he told me how grateful he was for that pivotal conversation, because it encouraged him to change course.

It takes courage to offer the kind of firm encouragement that exposes another’s weakness to sin. But “better is open rebuke than hidden love,” for “faithful are the wounds of a friend” (Proverbs 27:5–6). And in the case of my friend, the proverb proved true: “Whoever rebukes a man will afterward find more favor than he who flatters with his tongue” (Proverbs 28:23).

Model of Encouragement

Monty Sholund passed away in the spring of 2007, “an old man and full of years” (Genesis 25:8), having spent his life faithfully in service to Christ. His eulogy stated that he “was always a great encourager.” As one whose friendship with him extended long past that Bible-survey class, I find that statement to be very accurate. He was one of the most lavish encouragers I’ve ever met. And his encouragement was always sincere, never flattery.

But Monty was a model of full-orbed encouragement in the biblical sense. His encouragement always aimed at helping saints grow and mature in Jesus Christ. So, he was lovingly generous with affirming and consoling encouragement, and he was lovingly courageous with firm and exhorting encouragement — the latter proving the credibility of the former.

So, as I remember this loving leader and “consider the outcome of [his] way of life,” it makes me want to “imitate [his] faith” (Hebrews 13:7). I want to be more like him. And I bless his memory.

I have a story I want to share with you, based on another you likely know. Jesus tells the original in the fifteenth chapter of Luke’s Gospel, and many have called it “the parable of the prodigal son,” though it’s actually about two rebellious sons.

Jesus’s parable requires no literary embellishments. The more I’ve meditated on this story over the decades, the more of Jesus’s brilliance I’ve seen in the parable exactly as Luke records it. I wasn’t moved to write my story by some delusion of self-grandeur, but as an attempt to enter into the parable, something I believe Jesus invites all of us to do.

As we age and our roles and relationships evolve, we are likely to see ourselves and others in the parable’s different characters. Whether we see ourselves more in the younger brother or the older brother, Jesus is calling us to think deeply about what it means for God to be “merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love” (Psalm 103:8) — not only as it relates to us, but as it relates to how we judge other younger or older brothers.

A lot of teaching is contained in this one parable. It is part of what makes the parable of the two sons, in its profound simplicity, a work of genius. I wouldn’t want to change a word. That said, I’d like to share with you the way I’ve sought to engage my imagination as a means of meditation by putting myself in the parable. In the following story, I imagine myself primarily as the older brother, who is trying to come to terms with the seriousness of his own sin.

The story takes place the day after the younger brother’s homecoming, sometime in the early afternoon. The older brother (whom I’ve named Judah) is standing on a small rise at the edge of the family property, gazing down the road that had guided his younger brother (whom I’ve named Benjamin) back home the day before. Ben has kept his distance from Jude, knowing how angry his older brother had been the night before. But wishing to somehow own up to his disastrous sin, Ben seeks Jude out and tentatively approaches him.

Prodigal’s Point

“Hey, Jude,” Ben said. “Am I interrupting anything?”

Judah glanced at his brother, then returned his eyes to the road. “Just my thoughts,” he said.

Ben was trying to get a read on his brother. “I can connect with you later, if this isn’t a good time,” he said. “I’d like to talk for a few minutes — if you’re willing.”

Judah shifted his gaze to the ground. “I guess this is as good a time as any,” he said.

Ben had rehearsed this moment many times in his mind. But now, nerves and the palpable tension muddled his thoughts. “I . . . um . . . I’m sure I’m not going to say this right, but I’m going to try. I know how angry you must be with me, and God knows you have good reason to be angry with me. And I know that nothing I could say will ever undo what I’ve done. I should be kicked out of the family. So, if you want to disown me, I understand. But I still . . . somehow . . .” Ben paused to quiet the sobs that wanted to come. “I want you to know how sorry I am for what I’ve done to you and to Dad and to the family’s honor through my . . . my terrible selfishness.”

For a few moments, Judah said nothing. Then, looking back down the road, he said, “The day you left, this is where Dad stood, watching you till you were out of sight. And he came back here so often that I started calling this place ‘Prodigal’s Point.’ If someone couldn’t find Dad, I’d say, ‘Check Prodigal’s Point.’ He never stopped hoping he’d see you coming back home.”

Ben squeezed his eyes, but still had to wipe the tears.

Judah glanced at him again. “Yeah, I know. Our poor father and his prodigal sons.”

“Prodigal son, you mean,” replied Ben quietly. “Only one of us fits that bill.”

“A few weeks ago, I would have agreed. Yesterday morning, I would have at least pretended to agree,” said Judah. “But not today.”

Disoriented, Ben asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Dad has two prodigal sons,” said Judah. “One who sailed off down that road to sow his wild oats in worldly fields, and one who stayed home to sow his wild oats in more respectable fields.”

“I’m not following you,” said Ben.

Sinful Secret

“You just apologized for all the damage you did to me, right?” said Judah.

Ben gave him a perplexed nod.

“Well, the truth is, I didn’t feel damaged by what you did; I felt vindicated,” said Judah. “I thought I was so much like Dad. He worked hard; I worked hard. He was careful with his money; I was careful with my money. When you took off to blow your inheritance on whatever your heart desired, you didn’t damage me; you made me look good. You were a scandal. But me? I was the upstanding, responsible, faithful, diligent son — a chip off the old block. You didn’t damage me. You embellished me.”

“Well, it was deserved,” said Ben. “I mean, obviously you’ve been a better son to Dad than I’ve been.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” said Judah. “At least at first.” Then, looking at Ben, he said, “But here’s the secret: it wasn’t true. It started to dawn on me before you came home. I started noticing how not like Dad I was. I’d have my hand to the plough, and then I’d see him up here gazing into the distance, hoping to see you. It used to really irritate me. You know why?”

Ben shook his head.

“If you had asked me at the time, I would have said it was because Dad staring down the road wasn’t going to bring you back. That he was wasting valuable time. But that wasn’t the real reason. It made me angry because when I saw Dad longing for you, it felt to me like he missed you more than he appreciated me. Like he didn’t value all I was doing for him. Like he didn’t think our relationship was special, like I did.” Judah paused, looking at the ground.

Ben said, “Jude, there’s no doubt that Dad valued —” Judah cut him off. “No, let me finish. It’s just embarrassing to say out loud. You know, Dad asked me a few times to join him up here so we could pray for you together. That irritated me in the same way. At first, I made convenient excuses, but finally I told him what I really thought. I told him he could pray for you if he wanted, but I wasn’t going to waste another minute on you. And that if you had squandered all that hard-earned money, I never wanted to see you again.” Judah closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “God . . . have mercy. What a horrible thing to say.”

Loveless Anger Can’t Be Righteous

“I can understand why you felt that way,” said Ben.

“Well, Dad couldn’t,” said Judah. “What I said grieved him deeply — because he loved you. And his grief made me angrier, because — I’m ashamed to admit it — because I didn’t love you.” Judah paused and dropped his eyes. “In fact, I don’t think I loved Dad, at least not like I should have loved him. I loved me, though it still took a while for me to see this. I still thought my anger toward you was justified, righteous even.”

“I’m sure it was, at least in part,” said Ben.

Judah shook his head. “I’m pretty sure none of it was. You know, I asked Dad once why he wasn’t more angry with you. He said it was because ‘the Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love’ (Psalm 103:8). I took this as Dad avoiding coming to terms with what you did and trying to use Scripture to make it look holy. So I reminded him that other Scriptures clearly show that God gets angry over sin, and so should we. To which he said something like, ‘When men get angry, God’s righteousness is rarely seen.’

“I said to him, ‘So, we’re never supposed to get angry. Ben can walk off to only God knows where with all that money you worked so hard for, blow it on whores and whatever else, and we’re not supposed to get angry? We’re just supposed to bow our heads and meekly pray that God brings him back home? I don’t think so!’

“Dad said, ‘I’m not saying we shouldn’t be angry. But the Scriptures say, “Be angry, and do not sin”’ (Psalm 4:4). I wanted to pull my hair out. ‘Tell me what you think that’s supposed to mean, Dad!’ I don’t think I’ll ever forget his answer. He said, ‘Jude, I’ve been trying to figure that out for decades. And, honestly, I don’t know if I’m getting the balance right with Ben. But what I do know is this: if God’s mercy and grace and steadfast love make him slow to anger toward his sinful children — of which I am one — then when my children sin, that’s what I want them to experience from me.’”

Both men were quiet for a moment. Then Judah said, “That’s when I realized loveless anger cannot be righteous anger. It’s also when I realized just how not like Dad I was, not to mention just how not like God I was.”

The Other Prodigal

After another pause, Judah said, “But you know, at least I hadn’t blown my inheritance and ruined my reputation, right? That was something! Maybe I wasn’t as godly as Dad, but I was still better than you! Or so I thought . . . till you came home. Then Dad threw you your big party and invited everyone, and everybody was celebrating the dead brother who came back to life. Everybody except me. I was angry — at you, at Dad, at God, at everyone at the party. I knew my anger wasn’t righteous, and I didn’t care. When Dad came out and pleaded with me to join the party, I lashed out at him. I was mean. No way was I going into that house. I wasn’t happy to see you. And I wanted to make Dad feel bad.”

Ben couldn’t help but cringe at these words. They were hard to hear. But they were harder for Judah to say.

Judah went on. “It wasn’t until Dad had gone back in the house and I was alone with myself that I saw the whole ugly truth: all my efforts over the years to please Dad, all my hard work, all the time I was pouring into everything I did — none of it was really for Dad’s sake. Or for God’s sake. It was all for my sake. My anger toward you and toward Dad, it was all about me — me not getting the recognition I craved and me having my shameful selfishness exposed. And it suddenly hit me: I was as much a prodigal as you had been. I was blowing my inheritance on myself as I chased my heart’s desires. I was doing it in more socially commendable ways, but they were just as selfish at the core. And I was as distant from Dad as you had been.”

Returning Home

Ben wanted to say something, but no words came. This conversation had gone wildly different from the ones he’d rehearsed.

Judah wasn’t quite done though. “Now look at us, you and me. How fitting: two prodigals standing here on Prodigal’s Point. But how ironic: the wandering prodigal has come home, while the homebound prodigal has not. That’s why you found me here, Ben. I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to return home.”

Ben, simultaneously laughing and crying, said, “Well, Jude, if you’re looking for an experienced guide, I’m your man — having recently become something of an expert in returning home. But I should warn you: when you speak to Dad, you won’t get more than a few words out before you find yourself swept away in a current of fatherly affection.”

“Yeah, I know,” Judah said, smiling. “Our father and his prodigal sons. But before you so expertly guide me home, I need to say something to you, and I’m probably not going to say it right. But forgive me, Ben, for what I’ve done to you through my terrible, sinful selfishness.”

Ben’s wordless bear hug was all the response Judah needed.

Most earnest Christians have a deep longing to see and experience a spiritual revival. Many regularly pray for it. But ask a hundred such Christians to describe what they’re longing and praying for, and you’re likely to get dozens of different answers, depending on how their cultural backgrounds, church traditions, theological paradigms, and personal experiences have formed their concept of what a revival is.

Some think of revivals primarily as large-scale historical events that result in many people converting to the Christian faith, leaving notable effects on the wider society (like the early chapters of Acts or the “Great Awakenings”).
Some think of revivals primarily as what happens when Christians in a local church or school experience renewed spiritual vitality and earnestness together (like what took place at Asbury University in early 2023).
Some think of revivals primarily as strategically designed and scheduled events that aim to evangelize unbelievers and/or exhort believers to pursue a deeper life of personal holiness and Christian service (like Billy Graham’s evangelistic crusades).
And some think of revivals primarily as what happens whenever an individual Christian experiences a transformative, renewing encounter with the Holy Spirit.

Now, apart from some debates over definitions (like what differentiates revival from renewal), most earnest Christians would agree that when the Holy Spirit moves in power to give new life to unregenerate people and renewed life to regenerate people, the results can look like all those descriptions — and certainly more.

But when earnest Christians long for revival, despite whatever concept and phenomena they associate with that term, they’re not really longing for that concept or those phenomena. If you were to ask those hypothetical hundred Christians to press deeper and describe what they most deeply long for when they long for revival, I believe the nature of their answers would be very similar.

‘It’s You’

To illustrate what I mean, let me describe a touching scene that occurs at the end of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the third book C.S. Lewis wrote in his seven-part Chronicles of Narnia series. After another wonderful Narnian adventure, just before Aslan sends Lucy and Edmund back to our world, Lucy says,

“Please, Aslan, . . . before we go, will you tell us when we can come back to Narnia again? Please. And oh, do, do, do make it soon.”

“Dearest,” said Aslan very gently, “you and your brother will never come back to Narnia.”

“Oh, Aslan!” said Edmund and Lucy both together in despairing voices.

“You are too old, children,” said Aslan, “and you must begin to come close to your own world now.”

“It isn’t Narnia, you know,” sobbed Lucy. “It’s you. We shan’t meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?”

“But you shall meet me, dear one,” said Aslan.

“Are — are you there too, Sir?” said Edmund.

“I am,” said Aslan. “But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name.” (247)

If you haven’t read the Narnia books, it’s important to understand that Lucy and Edmund hadn’t enjoyed merely a few childish, holiday-like adventures in Narnia. They, along with their two older siblings, had been Narnian kings and queens for decades. They had fought in fierce battles, and shed their blood and tears for its defense. They had loved and cared for its citizens. And their encounters with the great lion, Aslan, had transformed their lives. Narnia felt more like home to them than any place they’d ever been, and when they weren’t in Narnia, they longed to be there.

So, when Lucy says, “It isn’t Narnia, you know,” she’s saying something profound. There’s a deeper longing inside her than her longing for Narnia. It’s a longing that fuels her longing for Narnia. And she names it for Aslan in two words: “It’s you.”

Those two words reveal what makes everything about Narnia so wonderful to Lucy — in fact, makes Narnia Narnia for her: Aslan. Take Aslan out of Narnia, and would she still want to return? We can hear her answer when she says, “How can we live, never meeting you?” For Lucy, an Aslan-less Narnia is a lifeless Narnia.

It’s Him

The real reason earnest Christians long for revival is similar to the real reason Lucy longed to return to Narnia. Lucy longed to experience being close to Aslan; Christians long to experience being close to Jesus. It isn’t the manifestations of revival we most deeply long for, as wonderful as those manifestations might be. It’s the Source of revival we really want. We long for the Life that gives us life, sustains our life, and renews our life — that in Christ, by his Spirit, we might “be filled with all the fullness of God” (Ephesians 3:19). If Jesus were to ask us what it is about revival that we want, we might paraphrase Lucy in our reply: “It isn’t revival, you know. It’s you.”

In saying it’s Jesus we most deeply long for in revival, we mean that we desire a more profound experiential knowledge (Philippians 3:8) of his refreshing presence (Act 3:20), his incomprehensible love (Ephesians 3:19), his all-surpassing peace (Philippians 4:7), and his immeasurable power (Ephesians 1:19). We desire all that the triune God, “the fountain of life” (Psalm 36:9), promises to be for us in Jesus. For Jesus is our great Fountainhead. For us “to live is Christ” (Philippians 1:21), because Christ himself is our life (John 1:4; 14:6).

And in saying it’s Jesus we most deeply long for in revival, we mean that we desire his kingdom to come (Matthew 6:10) and for all who are appointed to eternal life to believe (Acts 13:48) — all those whom Jesus had in mind when he said, “I must bring them also” (John 10:16).

That’s why our longings for revival are not focused on our personal experience. In Christ, we are members of a larger body (1 Corinthians 12:27) of whom Christ is the life-giving head (Ephesians 1:22). Our life is bound up with our fellow members of Christ’s body, and we will not experience the fullness of Christ apart from the other members (Ephesians 4:11–13). So, we can’t help but desire revival both in the conversions of others whom Jesus must bring and in the renewal of all believers (including us) whose spiritual strength has weakened and whose spiritual senses have dulled.

It isn’t our imagined revival that we desire most. It’s Jesus and all God promises to be for us in him. Take Christ out of the event of revival, even if it had all the amazing, adrenaline-inducing phenomena we might associate with it, and would we still want it? No, because a Christless revival is lifeless revival. And would we be content if we were the only revived Christian in our church or community? No, because “if one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together” (1 Corinthians 12:26).

Echo of Jesus’s Desire

As Lucy and Edmund speak with Aslan, they realize they are near the border of Aslan’s country — a land they’ve only heard about, never seen, yet the one place in all the worlds, including Narnia, they most deeply long to be. But Aslan tells them that they can enter his country only from their own world (our world).

“What!” said Edmund. “Is there a way into [your] country from our world too?”

“There is a way into my country from all the worlds,” said [Aslan]. . . .

“Oh, Aslan,” said Lucy. “Will you tell us how to get into your country from our world?”

“I shall be telling you all the time,” said Aslan. “But I will not tell you how long or short the way will be; only that it lies across a river. But do not fear that, for I am the great Bridge Builder.” (246–47)

Reading this fictional conversation now, in my late fifties, stirs up the aching longing it did when I read it in my late childhood, nearly half a century ago. It was this painfully pleasurable longing that drew me back again and again to the Narnian chronicles as a boy (I don’t know how many times I read those books). I learned whom Aslan represented, and I wanted to meet him face to face. I shared Lucy and Edmund’s desire to actually be in his promised land and finally, as Lewis puts it in another book, to “find the place where all the beauty came from” (86). I still do.

So does everyone who encounters the real “Aslan” and comes to love and trust him. How can we not? For that deep longing is an echo in our souls of the deep longing Jesus has, which he expressed to his Father when he prayed,

Father, I desire that they also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory that you have given me because you loved me before the foundation of the world. (John 17:24)

It is this aching longing that fuels our recurring (we might say continual) desire to experience revival. But it’s not the mere experience of spiritual refreshment we desire; we long for the Place, the Person, where all the refreshment comes from. We long for what Jesus longs for: that we would be with him where he is, to see his glory.

To know that this is the core of our revival longings can help sustain our prayers for it. It can also protect us from disillusionment should we experience revival and all the confusing messiness that tends to accompany it. Because at the end of the day, it isn’t revival, you know. It’s Jesus.

I’ve recently had some conversations with younger Christian friends who have been reeling from experiences and observations of confounding evil. And as a man more than double the age of the friends I have in mind, I can vouch that comprehending what appears to be senseless evil doesn’t get easier the longer you live.

Perhaps that sounds discouraging, especially since I remember as a younger Christian hoping that I’d have greater wisdom in my golden years. After all, isn’t sagacity part of “the splendor of . . . gray hair” (Proverbs 20:29)?

I hope this is true of me to some extent. But as I grow older, I’m discovering that the greater part of wisdom isn’t accumulating a greater knowledge of good and evil so much as learning how to deal more faithfully with my deficit of such knowledge. So, if I have any wisdom worth imparting to Christians struggling with incomprehensible evil, it lies in cultivating the spiritual discipline of handing back the fruit.

Problem of Evil

Theologians and philosophers call it “the problem of evil” — how horrific evil and suffering can exist in a world created and providentially governed by an almighty, all-good, all-knowing God. But calling evil a “problem” hardly begins to describe our existential experiences of it in this fallen world.

An apparently buoyant friend unexpectedly takes his life. Every member of a missionary family on home assignment is killed in a car accident. A beloved young child dies of cancer. A trusted pastor’s adultery is suddenly exposed. A spouse who vowed lifelong faithfulness demands a divorce. Sexual abuse leaves a young girl soiled with shame and psychological damage for decades. Palestinian terrorists rape and murder more than 1,500 unsuspecting noncombatant Israeli citizens. The Israeli military then wipes out more than 15,000 noncombatant Palestinians. An oceanic earthquake near Sumatra, Indonesia, produces tsunamis that sweep away over two hundred thousand souls. Such traumatic suffering, tragedies, and sins almost never make sense to us. And the closer we are to the destruction, the more chaotic and senseless it often appears.

In such experiences and observations, we glimpse the real nature of evil. And it’s almost always worse than we could have imagined. The evil events themselves, and God’s good providence in choosing not to prevent them (especially when we know he has chosen to prevent others), exceed the bounds of our rational capacities, leaving us with anguished, perplexing questions only God can answer. And most of the time, he doesn’t — not specifically. God rarely reveals his specific purposes for allowing specific tragedies and their resulting wreckage.

We find that we simply aren’t able to bear the weight of the knowledge of good and evil. It exceeds our strength to comprehend on both sides: we cannot comprehend the full breadth and length and height and depth of the goodness of what is good (though we rarely perceive this a “problem”) or of the evilness of what is evil. And mercifully, God does not ask us to bear it. He asks us to trust him with it. He asks us to hand him back the fruit.

Whence This Unbearable Weight?

Some mysteries are great mercies for finite creatures not to know. Great, great mercies.

The fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil contained a secret — one that God said should remain a mystery. God warned the man and woman that it would be better for them not to eat it. It would be the death of them if they did. He wanted them to trust him with the mystery of this knowledge and his administration of it (Genesis 2:17).

However, the ancient serpent told them this fruit would not kill them but would open their eyes to the heights and depths and lengths and breadths of God’s knowledge, making them wise like God (Genesis 3:4–5). Our ancestral parents believed him, and so they ate. Then the eyes of both were indeed opened to good and evil in ways they had not yet known — ways they were not at all equipped to deal with. And we, their descendants, have been languishing under this knowledge ever since.

Mercy Forfeited

As a result of that first sin, God subjected the world to futility (Romans 8:20), and the evil one was granted governing power (1 John 5:19). Sin infected us profoundly. Not only were our eyes opened to more knowledge than we have the capacity to comprehend, but we also became very susceptible to evil deception.

Our indwelling sin nature has also distorted our ability to comprehend and appreciate good. That’s one reason we need “strength to comprehend . . . the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge” (Ephesians 3:18–19). And it’s why we must pursue through intentional prayer “the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding” (Philippians 4:7). It’s why we need “the Spirit of wisdom and of revelation” to enlighten “the eyes of [our] hearts . . . that [we] may know what is the hope to which he has called [us]” (Ephesians 1:17–18). The goodness of God would stretch far beyond our imagination even if we were sinless, but it does so all the more in our fallenness (1 Corinthians 2:9).

We forfeited a great mercy when we believed we could be wise like God — when we opened the Pandora’s box of the mystery of the knowledge of good and evil.

Case Study in Inexplicable Evil

Mystery refers to what exists beyond the edges of our perception (things we can’t see) or comprehension (things we can’t grasp). Some things are mysteries because we are unaware of them until God chooses to reveal them to us. Other mysteries we might be aware of, but they exceed our ability to comprehend, at least in this age.

This is one of the great revelations contained in the book of Job. God inspired this great piece of ancient literature to illustrate how we experience these mysteries and how the restoring of our souls begins as we hand God back the fruit. The purposes behind Job’s tragedies were mysterious to him and his friends because of what they could not see and could not know.

Job’s friends thought they had sufficient grasp on the knowledge of good and evil to diagnose Job’s suffering. They were wrong (Job 42:7). And in the end, God does not explain his providential purposes to Job, but challenges Job’s assumption that he could comprehend the wisdom of God. When Job understands this, he responds by putting his hand over his mouth and saying,

I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me, which I did not know. . . . Therefore I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes. (Job 42:3, 6)

Job handed the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil back to God — things too wonderful for him to comprehend.

Mercy Regained

The point of Job’s story is not that God hates when his people cry out with anguished bewilderment over their incomprehensible suffering and tragedies. Indeed, God the Son, when he became flesh and dwelt among us, cried out in the depth of his agony, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46). Rather, God’s message in Job — a message woven throughout the Bible — is “trust me.” God has merciful reasons for whatever he does not grant his children to see or know. Our freedom — not from the pain evil causes us, but from the unbearable weight of our inability to comprehend it — comes not from God giving us the ability to comprehend evil, but from our giving back to God our demand for the wisdom he alone can bear.

That’s the crucial dimension of the gospel we glimpse in the book of Job. In fact, it’s one helpful way to understand what the gospel is about. God has designed the gospel and the Christian life to require us to hand back, and keep handing back, the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Approaching the throne of grace, regaining the mercy that leads to life, requires us to surrender back to God the desire for God’s wisdom — wisdom that was never meant to be ours.

Hand Back the Fruit

When the realities of good and evil exceed our limited perceptions, overwhelm our limited comprehension, and threaten to override our psychological and emotional circuitry, there is a reason for this. We may be fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14), but we are also fearfully finite. There are things too wonderful for us to know. The peace that surpasses our understanding (Philippians 4:7), which we need so much, is available to us if we are willing to trust in the Lord with all our heart and not lean on our own understanding (Proverbs 3:5).

In the face of devastating tragedy, we find that we simply aren’t suited to bear the weight of the knowledge of good and evil. And mercifully, God does not ask us to bear it. He asks us to trust him with it. He asks us to hand him back the fruit.

A late middle-aged father is standing next to his boat and a pile of partly mended fishing nets, watching his two sons. He has always assumed that his sons would someday take over his fishing business and help provide for him and his wife when they grew too old to work. But now he watches them do something he never expected: they walk down the shoreline with a young rabbi who has called them to leave their fishing vocation — and their father — in order to follow him.

Suddenly, his envisioned future for him and his sons has become a swirl of uncertainty. What is he feeling? What are his sons feeling?

You may recognize this scene. It comes from Matthew 4:21–22:

Going on from there [Jesus] saw two other brothers, James the son of Zebedee and John his brother, in the boat with Zebedee their father, mending their nets, and he called them. Immediately they left the boat and their father and followed him.

When I read this story as a younger man, I didn’t give much thought to Zebedee. I tended to put myself in the place of James and John, following Jesus into a future of fishing for men. The uncertainty of it all felt adventurous and exciting. But now, as a late middle-aged father of adult children, I can’t help but put myself in Zebedee’s place.

Recently, I was discussing with my twentysomething son and daughter-in-law the possible call they’re discerning to follow Jesus to another country for the sake of the gospel. I do feel excited for them, but it’s significantly different when the cost is not leaving to follow Jesus, but being left as my son follows Jesus. I find myself wanting to talk to Zebedee about his experience and get his counsel.

Unless You Hate Your Father

Zebedee’s experience casts these words of Jesus in a whole different light:

If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple. (Luke 14:26–27)

As a younger man, I mainly heard these words pertaining to my father and mother and siblings and friends. Now, I hear them significantly pertaining to me as a father. In order to follow Jesus faithfully, my children must “hate” me for his sake.

Of course, when Jesus says “hate” here, he’s not talking about the kind of affectional hatred we usually mean when we use that word. He’s talking about treasuring, as he does in this text:

No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and money. (Matthew 6:24)

Jesus doesn’t mean here that we should feel revulsive animosity toward money. He’s saying we can’t treasure God and treasure money, because “where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” (Matthew 6:21). The hatred Jesus is talking about looks like this:

The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up. Then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field. (Matthew 13:44)

The man in this parable doesn’t feel revulsive animosity toward “all that he has.” He just values the treasure he’s found more than all that he has. So, he “hates” his former possessions by selling them. He knows what’s most valuable and important.

To be a Christian father or mother means not only that we must treasure Jesus more than we treasure our earthly loved ones; it means we must joyfully accept being the object of our Christian child’s “hatred” in this sense. We are part of the “all” that our child is willing to “sell” for the joy of discovering the treasure that is Jesus.

Willing to Be ‘Hated’

As you probably know, we at Desiring God want you (and everyone) to be a Christian Hedonist. We believe the Bible clearly teaches that God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in him. But there’s another side to Christian Hedonism. As we pursue our highest joy in God, we also help others pursue their highest joy in God. Which naturally means we want them to treasure God far above the way they treasure us.

The rubber meets the road most when it comes to fathers and mothers and other dear loved ones. There’s a real felt cost when we actively make difficult, even painful choices to treasure Jesus and his call on our lives more than those precious relationships.

But there’s also a real felt cost when we are on the passive side of such an equation — when we are the father or mother or loved one whom a Christian must “hate” (in the treasuring sense) in order to follow Jesus’s call on their lives. It’s a different experience to count ourselves among the earthly treasures someone must “sell” in order to pursue the joy of the supreme Treasure. It’s a different experience to be sacrificed than it is to sacrifice.

But it’s not any less Christian Hedonistic — not when we truly treasure our children’s pursuit of the greatest Treasure. As Jesus’s disciples, we too must “hate” lesser treasures we truly love (like our children’s nearness) in order to have him. Our willingness to be sacrificed is what this paradoxical hatred looks like from the passive side of the call, when we are not the ones leaving, but the ones who are left. At such a moment, we must keep in mind the whole nature of Jesus’s call:

If anyone comes to me and does not hate . . . even his own life, he cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple. (Luke 14:26–27)

Fellowship of the Left Behind

Releasing our children to follow Jesus’s kingdom call is part of how we, as parents, hate our own lives and bear our own cross for Jesus’s sake. And part of what makes his call paradoxical is that this “hating” is not affectional hatred at all. In fact, it’s what love looks like. For as my friend John Piper says,

Love is the overflow of joy in God that meets the needs of others. The overflow is experienced consciously as the pursuit of our joy in the joy of another. (Desiring God, 141)

So, in being left by our children as they pursue their highest joy in the greatest Treasure, we pursue the same prize by hating our own lives in this earthly age. It’s one way we join Jesus on the Calvary road of self-sacrifice for the joy set before us (Hebrews 12:2).

The Calvary road is not an easy road. Jesus told us that “the way is hard that leads to life” (Matthew 7:14). And one of the hard moments on this road is when we’re called to join Zebedee in the fellowship of the left behind, the lesser treasures who release loved ones to pursue their highest joy in the greatest Treasure.

But as it turns out, being left behind isn’t merely, or even mainly, passive — not when we turn this painful experience into an active pursuit of our own highest joy in our greatest Treasure.

If you were to ask me to name my favorite hymn, I’d probably hem and haw, then list a bunch of favorites, and end up saying, “It depends.” I mean, how do you choose a single favorite hymn? But if you were to ask me what hymn I sing most often when I’m alone with God, that would be easy: “Be Thou My Vision.” If that makes it my favorite, so be it.

For me, it’s become a love song, kind of like the familiar phrases I default to when telling my wife how much I love her, which over time have become infused with great depths of emotional meaning. The verses of this hymn give voice to my intimate delight in and longing for the Lover of my soul. When I sing it in private, just me and my piano, it’s rare when I can sing it without tears.

Typically, when a song touches me deeply, I’m curious to know more about who wrote it and why. I guess it’s easier to take hymns somewhat for granted. I’ve loved “Be Thou My Vision” for decades, but I never thought to look up its backstory until recently.

I discovered that this hymn’s origin is veiled in the misty past of ancient Ireland. We do know that the hymn’s progenitor is a poem that’s more than a millennium old, composed in Old Gaelic and consisting of sixteen couplets. Irish tradition claims its author was a beloved sixth-century Celtic poet named St. Dallán Forgaill, but scholars have linguistic reasons to doubt this claim. All we know is that the writer certainly was a poet and sure seems to have been a saint.

Thank God for Scholars and Editors

My search wasn’t in vain, because it revealed people God used to turn that ancient poem into the precious song we have today. Thank God for Mary Byrne (1880–1931), who dragged the poem out of academic obscurity by translating the ancient Gaelic into English. And thank God for Eleanor Hull (1860–1935), who chose twelve of the sixteen couplets from Byrne’s literal translation, and then skillfully crafted them into rhymes.

And thank God for the editors of the Irish Church Hymnal, who selected ten of Hull’s couplets, combined them into five four-line verses, and then, with a stroke of inspired genius, paired those deeply moving verses with an achingly beautiful Irish folk tune they named “Slane” (in honor of St. Patrick’s famous Easter festival fire on Slane Hill, which he burned in defiance of a pagan Irish king).

The hymn was first published in the 1919 edition of that Irish hymnal, and the rest, as they say, is history. “Be Thou My Vision” soon appeared in hymnals around the world, many of which trimmed it down to the four verses most of us know and love today.

Why do so many, like me, love this hymn so much? Because it gives poetic voice to our deep love and longing for the triune God, who is the Light of our lives (John 8:12), our ever-present, indwelling Word of life (1 John 1:1), the great Treasure of our hearts (Luke 12:34), and soon the Heaven of heaven for us forever (Psalm 73:25–26).

Thy Presence My Light

If the ancient author ever titled the poem, that too has been lost to the mists of time. For centuries it was known simply as “A Prayer.” But it’s hard to imagine a better title than the poem’s first four words, “Be thou my vision,” which in Old Gaelic read, “Rop tú mo bhoile.”

Verse 1, in my view, begins just where it should: a prayer for God to enlighten the eyes of our hearts that we may be filled with his hope (Ephesians 1:18). Listen to how beautifully the lyrics convey the biblical metaphor of light as understanding:

Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart;Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art;Thou my best thought, by day or by night;Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Implicitly woven into this verse are the New Testament references of Jesus as “the light of the world” and “the light of life” (John 8:12). But the words also carry an echo of one of my favorite verses from the Psalms:

With you is the fountain of life;     in your light do we see light. (Psalm 36:9)

Everyone who has known deep darkness of any kind — the darkness of sin or grief or pain or depression or loneliness or spiritual oppression — and has seen, however dimly, the Light of life shining in their darkness, understands how meaningful this verse can be. It resonates with the hope that this light will not ultimately be overcome by our darkness.

Be thou my vision, O Lord, for you are the light of my life.

Thou My True Word

The prayer of verse 2 builds on the prayer of verse 1, asking that God would fill us with the riches of his wisdom and knowledge (Romans 11:33):

Be Thou my wisdom, and Thou my true Word;I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;Thou my great Father; I Thy true son;Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

Notice how simply this verse expresses the profound and mysterious New Testament teaching that requires pages to unpack in prose: that Christian wisdom comes from the Father and Son (our true Word) dwelling inside us through the Holy Spirit (John 14:23, 26), a gift we receive through our adoption as sons (Ephesians 1:5). The wisdom we’re praying for here is clearly not “a wisdom of this age,” but a wisdom that can only be “spiritually discerned” (1 Corinthians 2:6, 14).

Be thou my wisdom, O Lord, for you are the ultimate Truth.

My Treasure Thou Art

Now we come to my favorite verse of this great hymn, the one most likely to prompt tears:

Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise;Thou mine inheritance, now and always;Thou and Thou only first in my heart;High King of heaven, my treasure Thou art.

Verse 3 is my favorite — not because the other verses are less true or less hope-giving or less precious, but because Jesus said, “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also” (Luke 12:34). Our treasure is whatever we love and long for most — what most satisfies, enthralls, and therefore captivates our hearts. And in this fallen age, where even our best love for our great Treasure is defective and lacking, our love is almost always accompanied by a desire to love him more perfectly, more completely. Hence, my tears, a sweet, melancholic mixture of love and longing.

So, I love this verse, the heart of the hymn, the Love Song within the love song. Because God, as the next verse will say, is the Heart of our hearts — the Treasure that makes his light beautiful, his wisdom desirable, and his heaven so heavenly.

Be thou my Treasure, O Lord, first in my heart now and always.

O Bright Heaven’s Sun

Verse 4 ends the hymn just where it should: with the great “blessed hope” of the Christian life (Titus 2:13), when “we will always be with the Lord” (1 Thessalonians 4:17).

High King of heaven, my victory won,May I reach heaven’s joys, O bright heaven’s Sun;Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,Still be my vision, O Ruler of all.

If our heart is always with our treasure, and if God is our Treasure, then the Heaven of heaven will be the Heart of our heart. And the Sun of heaven will enable us to see more light than we’ve ever seen, “for the glory of God gives it light, and its lamp is the Lamb” (Revelation 21:23). And so it will be, always and forever. To which we say, “Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!” (Revelation 22:20).

What a priceless gift, this hymn. Thank you, Lord, for that ancient Celtic poet whose God-entranced heart overflowed so eloquently through his quill. And thank you for those throughout history whose collective labors have made this great song of love and longing available to us. And thank you for the gifted Celtic folk musicians whose sweet, haunting melody makes it so wonderful to sing.

But most of all, thank you, Lord, for being the Light of our lives, our ever-present, indwelling Word of life, the great Treasure of our hearts, and someday the Heaven of heaven.

Yes, O Lord, be thou our vision, now in this darkened age, and soon — may it be soon! — in unveiled, eternal glory with unclouded eyes.