Audio Transcript

Welcome back to the podcast with longtime author and pastor John Piper. There’s an atheistic tendency in every heart — my heart and even in your heart, Pastor John. You said so when we looked at this “powerful atheistic tendency in every human heart” about a year ago in APJ 1980, a sobering episode. So, it’s no surprise that we frequently get emails from listeners struggling with doubt and unbelief — like James, a listener who writes us this: “Dear John, I remember listening to your biography of William Cowper some years ago. It has stayed with me all these years later. There’s something about his dark struggle that, in my own way, I can relate to.

“For about ten years now, it looks as though I’ve lost my faith. But I haven’t been successful in completely shutting out the nagging questions and doubts. The struggle appears to be in believing there’s a true narrative of how things are while also believing that there’s no way of little old me figuring that all out, especially when the best of the best within various academic disciplines disagree on these matters. I find myself in this agnostic no-man’s-land. It feels like an intellectually honest position, just not an overly satisfying one. The questions and doubts remain. So, I’m a little stuck on how to make any progress and would love to listen to any advice you might have for me.”

Perhaps God will use a few prayerful observations that I make from Scripture to awaken some new perspective that may help James get unstuck. That’s my prayer as we begin.

Root of Unbelief

James, you say, “For about ten years now, it looks as though I’ve lost my faith.” To this let me respond with 2 Peter 3:17. It says, “Take care that you are not carried away with the error of lawless people and lose your own stability.” Now, here’s a warning to take care; that is, to guard against. Strikingly, the danger is lawlessness leading to deception, leading to loss of stability — that is, loss of faith. It goes back to lawlessness. What is that? A disposition of heart that chafes under authority and then comes up with authority-denying ideas that don’t fit reality. That is, they are deceptive.

James, you say that you struggle with believing that there’s a true narrative of how things are. That’s amazing. That is a classic manifestation of lawlessness — doubting that truth even exists. There is no true narrative. Nothing can be more lawless than carving out a place to live where there is no such thing as reality outside yourself that you have to deal with. You doubt, you say, that there is any true narrative of what is. In that world of lawlessness, the ego is totally untethered from reality. Peter calls this a great deception. And he says it’s the cause of losing our stability, our faith.

Indeed, what could be more unstable than a world where nothing is real? There’s no true narrative. So, consider, James, and be motivated to regain your stability.

How to Regain Your Stability

The writer to the Hebrews would say to you, “Here’s how you regain your stability in the fog of lawless deceptions.” He says this in Hebrews 12:3: “Consider him [Jesus] who endured from sinners such hostility against himself, so that you may not grow weary or fainthearted.” It is so easy and dangerous to become intellectually and spiritually weary, just exhausted at trying to consider hundreds of ideas that blow like leaves around our ears and make us feel disoriented and hopeless ever to regain any stability or faith at all. And Hebrews pleads with us: Consider Jesus. Consider the sufferings of Jesus. Consider the hostilities against Jesus. Rivet your attention on this. This is where you can find stability. Jesus authenticates himself through his sufferings.

Then, James, you add this to your doubt that any true narrative exists: you say, “There’s no way of little old me figuring all that out, especially when the best of the best within the various academic disciplines disagree on these matters.” To this I would say, “Be careful that in the name of humility — ‘little old me’ — you don’t find yourself actually mocking God.” The whole Bible is predicated on the decision of God, the Creator of the universe, to make himself known to ordinary people to such a degree that he holds them accountable to be willing to die for him.

So, if we say we’re just too little, too insignificant, too confused, too humble to understand or believe what God has revealed about the true narrative of what is, we have decided that either God made a bad decision to communicate, or he pulled it off very poorly. He has not done what he said he would do — namely, communicate himself and his salvation compellingly to ordinary people. That’s a very dangerous thing to say. It is an understatement when James describes his position as not an overly satisfying one. No, indeed. There is unwitting mockery of God built into it.

We Can See the Sun

If the sun is shining brightly at midday, and you see it, and there is a debate going on around you as to whether the sun is shining — and these are very smart people compared to little old you — will you surrender your eyes and your joy to the debaters? Would you give them that kind of power over you? To which James might say to me, “I’m not sure that’s a fair analogy, to say that I’m looking at the sun when I’m considering the truth of Christianity.” In communicating his truth to ordinary people, God does hold them accountable, not to become philosophers, but he holds them accountable to see the sun. And if they don’t see it, his explanation is that they’re blind, and the solution he offers is precisely a sight of the sun.

Here’s what he says in 2 Corinthians 4:4: “The god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from seeing the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God.” I would dare anyone to claim that the light of the gospel of the glory of the Son of God is less compelling than the sun shining at midday. Then Paul adds, “God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ” (2 Corinthians 4:6). How bright is that? Here’s what the apostle John says: “His face was like the sun shining in full strength” (Revelation 1:16).

James, God is pursuing you. You would not have written to me if he were not. So, as you seek him in fresh ways now, consider one last exhortation from the Lord Jesus in John 7:17: “If anyone’s will is to do God’s will, he will know whether the teaching is from God.” In other words, he will see the sun.

What if we recorded talk in the pews one Sunday morning? The sermon ends, the preacher descends, we sing in response, the benediction is given, voices break out, and the recording begins. As people speak to one another, what does one overhear?

Men talk of recent house projects, that afternoon’s football game, the weather, global news, politics, a sore knee, irritations at work, retirement. Women discuss kids, homeschooling, upcoming events, anxieties.

Ask an impartial judge: Is this a group of Christians? It might be hard to tell. Are we overhearing talk from a food court, a bus stop, or a church? Did these people just meet with the God of heaven and earth? The almighty Creator has just spoken to us through his preached word. Yet what if it has little to no consequence on our conversations directly afterward?

The contrast may be obvious with how happily we discuss other interests — for example, our entertainments. When you see a great movie or show, do you not make a point to discuss the plot twist at the end, the heartbreak of that character’s death, or the glory of this character’s redemption? Isn’t the experience somehow incomplete until you express what you think and feel and how deeply this or that moved you? Well, what about the sermon?

I am not giving a rule but questioning a culture. The problem is not that we talk about lunch or the game or earthly concerns, but that we lack deliberate conversation about the best things we just heard. Do we redeem the time? Would the recording detect much edifying, thoughtful, beautiful conversations about the soul and the Lord Jesus, or something closer to saltless, unspiritual, and rather idle conversation?

Consider how John Owen describes our blessed duty:

Believers, in their ordinary daily discourse, ought to be continually mentioning the Lord in helpful, profitable conversation, and not waste opportunities with foolish, light, frothy words that are out of place [especially on a Sunday]. (Duties of Christian Fellowship, 54)

A culture of frothy conversations seems to me the result of a more foundational assumption: that we really gather to hear the preacher speak, and not to further the grace in each other’s lives by our own speaking.

That All Were Prophets

What if we prayerfully arrived ready to speak words that “give grace to those who [need to] hear,” words the Spirit has equipped us to speak (Ephesians 4:29)? What if the culture of our churches were more potluck than single dish from the head chef?

I believe Paul has this in mind when he teaches the church that God gave us evangelists, shepherds, and teachers “to equip the saints for the work of ministry.” Note what ministry: “for building up the body of Christ, until we all attain to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to mature manhood, to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ” (Ephesians 4:12–13). Pastors equip the saints not just to make disciples from the world out there, but to make mature disciples of each other in here. We are equipped by sermons, classes, and pastoral care not just to arrive the next week to receive again, but to use what we hear to speak into each other’s lives.

Thus, Paul continues,

Speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and held together by every joint with which it is equipped, when each part is working properly, makes the body grow so that it builds itself up in love. (Ephesians 4:15–16)

How many members of the body are not working properly because they consider themselves mere consumers? While speaking is not the only way we build others up, it is the means Paul mentions here. The community that builds itself up in love is built not merely by the pastor with the microphone. Instead, that pastor equips us to take the truth of Christ and echo it into each other’s lives during the rest of Sunday and throughout the week.

Very practically, what should we say when the service ends?

1. Discuss the Sermon

As book clubs discuss books, saints should discuss sermons. Ask how God met them; be ready to share how God met you.

I remember being taught that when God’s word is faithfully preached, the responsibility to steward that word shifts from the preacher to the hearer. You now hold a duty to love, meditate upon, apply, share, and further speak the truth preached (including with those next to you).

Consider how we can influence each other — positively and negatively — by our worldward or Godward conversation.

God is convicting or uplifting or correcting a brother’s heart with the word — I interrupt to get his take on the Vikings game. Jesus teaches that Satan steals sermons from hearts; how often are we his unwitting accomplices? The seed was sinking into the soil; I blew it away. His spirit burned just now — I doused the flame. His heart was being pierced; I parried the blade.

“Just be a humble, simple lover of God and souls, and the good you can do is unspeakable.”

But imagine if I discerned his unspoken heaviness, asked the Lord if I should go speak to him, and, going over, said, “Brother, tell me how God met your soul this morning.” You can do so much good by joining the preacher in ministry, seeking to further impress the truth upon souls by simple conversations about Christ after the service. Here is an idea: take sermon notes for yourself first and then also for others. You don’t need to be another pastor. Just be a humble, simple lover of God and souls, and the good you can do is unspeakable.

2. Care for the Soul

Thomas Watson gave his assessment after listening in on Christian conversations:

It is the fault of Christians that they do not in company provoke themselves to good discourse. It is a sinful modesty; there is much visiting, but they do not give one another’s souls a visit. In worldly things their tongue is a ready writer, but in things of religion it is as if their tongue did cleave to the roof of their mouth. (Heaven Taken by Storm, 38)

Consider how we rewrite Hebrews 10:24–25 by our Sunday conduct: “Let the pastors alone consider how to stir us up to love and good works, and let us not neglect to meet together to receive their words, as is the habit of some, but be encouraged by the pastors, and all the more as the Day draws near.”

Now the actual passage: “Let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near” (Hebrews 10:24–25). We consider others, stir them up to love and good works. “Meeting together” is linked with “encouraging one another.”

So we ask questions about each other, we check in on each other’s souls, we stir each other up, and we “exhort one another every day, as long as it is called ‘today,’ that none of [us] may be hardened by the deceitfulness of sin” (Hebrews 3:13). “Teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom,” we form each other’s souls (Colossians 3:16).

3. Pray for One Another

It is written, “My house shall be called a house of prayer.” (Matthew 21:13)

You may not possess many words of wisdom. You may not think well on your feet. You may get nervous and awkward and unsure of what to say in response to other’s questions. Here is one thing that eloquent and plain, wise and simple, young and old in Christ can do for one another: pray.

God’s house should be called a house of prayer. Intercession should fill the place before the service, during the service, and after. Ask others how they are doing. Ask how you can pray for them. And then bless yourself and them and the church by asking, “Can I pray for you right now?” “Right now” — two words that (when consistently added) can transform a stagnant culture.

Heaven’s Microphone

Some of the most shaping words spoken in the Christian assembly come not from the pulpit above but from the pew below. A church taught to make the most of the time together, to come to speak and not just to listen, to fill the building with holy conversation, experiences a foretaste of that country where we shall speak forever of all that God has done.

The pew is a powerful place. Marriages are saved there; sermons get engraved forever; souls pass from death to life. The pew or aisle or foyer is a grand place to “let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer each person” (Colossians 4:6).

The illustration I began with is not entirely hypothetical. Recording devices may never catch our conversations, but be sure that God does. He hears and remembers the holy speech of his people then and now:

Then those who feared the Lord spoke with one another. The Lord paid attention and heard them, and a book of remembrance was written before him of those who feared the Lord and esteemed his name. (Malachi 3:16)

When we who fear the Lord speak to one another this Sunday, what will the Lord overhear?

Bad mirrors disturb me. FaceTime clearly lies. That box in the corner reflects a fish-eye view of my bulbous nose. Surely I don’t look like this! The mirror in an airplane bathroom reveals scales and blotches I’ve never seen before. Is this reality? The disdain in the eyes of someone who opposes me reflects only my failures. My deficiencies are all he shows me. I walk away from these mirrors with a deflating lack of confidence. Surely no one could be drawn to this visage! I need a better mirror.

We have one in the Bible. The seventeenth-century pastor and poet George Herbert delighted in the word of God. He opens his poem “The Holy Scriptures (1)” with ardent affection: “Oh Book! infinite sweetnesse! . . . Precious for any grief in any part; . . . Thou art all health.” Herbert goes on to compare Scripture to a mirror that does more than reflect. True, we see ourselves clearly in the word; it reveals more flaws than we can imagine. But at the same time, Scripture changes us. This mirror makes us better the more we look. Herbert writes,

. . . look here; this is the thankfull glasse,

That mends the lookers’ eyes: this is the well     That washes what it shows.

The truth-telling mirror of Scripture exposes and composes us. Imagine a mirror that would make you as appealing as you could hope to be. Imagine a well of clear water that not only reflected but washed you clean of dirt and blemishes. When we read Scripture with open hearts and in reliance on the Spirit, that’s what happens.

Let’s look at three ways this encounter with Scripture becomes a transforming mirror.

1. Mirror of Conviction

The flaws revealed by those wretched airplane mirrors are nothing compared to what we see of ourselves in the Bible. It takes a lot of courage to peer into this looking glass of truth. Hebrews describes how Scripture works: “The word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart” (Hebrews 4:12).

There’s a good reason we avoid reading the Bible when we know we’re not living according to our calling in Christ. The word fillets the soul. Full light shines on the ugly truth of my motives. I’m caught worshiping false gods. My double heart cannot be hidden under a Christian facade. Everything comes to light in Scripture’s truth.

For instance, this verse regularly nails me in traffic: “The anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God” (James 1:20). Or, amid the busyness of all I want to get done, these words of Jesus stop me in my tracks: “As you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me” (Matthew 25:45). The mirror of Scripture peels away pretense and shows us the truth about ourselves.

“Scripture changes us. This mirror makes us better the more we look.”

Hebrews goes on, “No creature is hidden from his sight, but all are naked and exposed to the eyes of him to whom we must give account” (Hebrews 4:13). There’s no more realistic sight of the human condition than what we get in the looking glass of God’s word. We might well be tempted to keep this mirror draped with a sheet, or at least under a stack of magazines. But the mirror of Scripture also shows me in a light I desperately need.

2. Mirror of Redemption

The Spirit uses the sight of my reflection in Scripture to strip away my prideful self-sufficiency. When I see myself in the prodigal or the angry elder brother, in the faithless disciple or the judgmental Pharisee, I know that I cannot live a God-pleasing life on my own. The word peels away the illusion that I am in control and reveals my helplessness, all so that Christ can show me what I look like united to him.

If you’ve ever worked your way through the book of Romans, you know this movement from conviction to redemption. The first three chapters show me as a suppresser of reality, foolishly exchanging the truth of God for a lie (Romans 1:18, 25). In this mirror, we all look pretty much the same, “for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (3:23). I see myself truly in the word, an enemy of God and his purposes for humanity. But as I keep looking, I see Jesus reconciling me to God through his death: “God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (5:8). There’s no cleaning up my image with a divine Zoom background. Rather, there is a costly, realistic atonement.

When I look in the mirror of Scripture, I get re-visioned. The image of me transfers from a lonely sinner, isolated by my own choices, to someone joyfully in communion with Christ in all his righteousness. I see myself incorporated into Jesus. I am a member of his body, connected to all the others who are also in him (12:4–5). This new sight of myself fills me “with all joy and peace in believing” (15:13).

3. Mirror of Transformation

The mirror of Scripture also propels us on the journey of being made more and more like Christ, our sanctification. We become like what we look at. For instance, I love being around joyful people. Their laughter and dancing eyes and constant hope make me view life that way. I smile more and love more when I see a face that reflects such love. So when I look at Jesus prayerfully through the word, I see what we were meant to be. He shows me more than I am in myself, but in such a way that I can participate in all that he is.

Here’s how John describes it:

See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are. . . . Beloved, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is. (1 John 3:1–2)

When I read these words, I see the image of a beloved child held by the Father. Scripture reflects back to me that I belong to God. It also shows me that more is coming. One day, I will see Jesus in all his glory — power and humility, meekness and majesty. “Now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face” (1 Corinthians 13:12). Gazing at him with clear sight, I will become like him. Similarly, Paul expresses elsewhere,

We all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit. . . . For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. (2 Corinthians 3:18; 4:6)

In Scripture, we look upon Jesus. As we look away from ourselves to all that Jesus is and does, we get changed from the inside out. Jesus is a mirror for what we are meant to be and all we will be in him.

Scripture’s Glass

We look in the glass of Scripture and see ourselves with terrifying accuracy. But if we keep gazing in faith, we see ourselves taken into Christ. He is mending us as we look at him in his word. We are being made into his likeness.

Herbert concludes his poem with one more metaphor. He says about Scripture, “Heav’n lies flat in thee.” The heights of Christ’s heavenly glory are contained in the flat pages of a Bible. We go up to Christ in Scripture only when we go down before him in humility. The mirror that mends is “subject to ev’ry mounters bended knee.” In repentance, I let the first reflection from the word move me to cry out for grace. Then I discover how my image gets cleansed and taken into the glory of the Savior’s face I see revealed in Scripture.

C.S. Lewis describes it as the cheerful hallmark of humility. Tim Keller calls it the doorway into freedom. John Piper names it as the best friend of deep wonder. And we know it as one of earth’s most elusive gifts: self-forgetfulness.

Joy, true joy, does not live in the land of mirrors. Peace of mind is not found in our inner wells, no matter how deep we lower the pail of introspection. No personality test can usher the soul into contentment. Yes, we must know something of ourselves to live well in this world. But the healthiest people hardly consider what psychological categories they belong to, hardly care how they compare to others. They mainly forget about themselves and live.

I write these words less like Joshua in the promised land and more like Moses on Mount Nebo. I can see this Canaan of self-forgetfulness, but I do not yet dwell there. I have tasted the joys of that country like manna from heaven, like honey from the rock, and I long to leave this wilderness and join the saints whose joys are many and whose thoughts of self are few.

God alone can give this gift; he alone can mend a soul curved in on itself. But as we pray for him to lift us upward and outward, we can do something. To use an acronym, we can remember to FORGET.

Fill your mind with Jesus.
Obey more than you analyze.
Repent and confess quickly.
Get lost in something good.
Embrace your God-given callings.
Thank God always and for everything.

If you find yourself too focused on yourself, consider with me these six modest steps toward joyful self-forgetfulness.

1. Fill your mind with Jesus.

If you have ever told yourself to forget yourself, to stop thinking about yourself, you have also discovered the powerlessness of such a command. Self-forgetfulness happens indirectly: we don’t so much forget ourselves as remember something better. To tweak a phrase from Thomas Chalmers, we need the expulsive power of a new attention. And nothing warrants our attention more than Jesus Christ.

The Father commands us to listen to him (Matthew 17:5). The Spirit is given to glorify him (John 16:14). The apostles bid us to behold him (2 Corinthians 3:18; Hebrews 12:2). The angels never cease to worship him (Revelation 5:6–14). His riches are unsearchable; his glories, incomparable; the joys of those who love him, inexpressible (Ephesians 3:8; Hebrews 3:3; 1 Peter 1:8).

How, then, shall we fill our minds with him? In any of a hundred ways. An unsearchable Christ invites creative exploration — and the more we seek, the more we’ll find. Perhaps make Gospel reading a regular habit; consider always keeping a bookmark in these blessed stories. Or find rich, doxological books about the person and work of Jesus. Or get to know the loveliness of Christ through the meditations of Christ-saturated saints. Or become the kind of friend or spouse who frequently turns the conversation toward the Savior. However you do it, seek to make him your morning sun and evening star, your afternoon oasis, the joy of every hour.

“I am sure,” writes Samuel Rutherford, “the saints at their best are but strangers to the weight and worth of the incomparable sweetness of Christ.” And so, with him, make it your happiness “to win new ground daily in Christ’s love” (The Loveliness of Christ, 22, 27), to catch a new sight of him, to enjoy a new glory in him.

2. Obey more than you analyze.

Consider some familiar scenarios for the introspective. You just finished leading a Bible study, and now, on the drive home with your roommate, your mind replays half a dozen comments you made. Or while singing in corporate worship, you keep gauging your own emotions and comparing your demeanor to those around you. Or during dinner with your family, you go over a work project you just turned in, wondering if you should have done it differently.

In moments like these (and many others), self-analysis can feel so right, even so responsible. We don’t want to miss our mistakes and sins; we don’t want to remain strangers to ourselves. At the same time, however, we would do well to consider how self-analysis can lead us into subtle disobedience.

“Peace of mind is not found in our inner wells, no matter how deep we lower the pail of introspection.”

As long as you replay moments from the Bible study, you fail to love the roommate in the car with you. As long as you consider your own heart in worship, you fail to behold the Lord of the song. And as long as you critique and mentally redo the work project, you fail to offer your family your undivided presence. Even in solitude, when self-analysis doesn’t keep us from loving our neighbors, it often still distracts us from other kinds of obedience: doing our work, saying our prayers, getting our sleep, or thinking of the honorable and excellent and lovely (Philippians 4:8).

There is a place for self-analysis — for paying attention to ourselves, watching ourselves, and confessing our sins (Luke 17:3; 21:34; 1 John 1:9). But that place is not the dinner table or our kids’ bedside or our work desks or any other sphere where God has made our duty plain. There, he calls us to “look . . . to the interests of others” (Philippians 2:4), speak a grace-filled word (Ephesians 4:29), work heartily as for him (Colossians 3:23).

So, when introspective thoughts intrude upon your mind, don’t assume that God expects you to heed them. Instead, ask, “Are these thoughts distracting me from more important obedience?” If so, tell your inner self, “I should perhaps think about that sometime soon, but right now I have a different job to do.” And then ask God for grace to do it.

3. Repent and confess quickly.

Imagine that you have spilled a bowl of cereal in your living room. But instead of cleaning it up right away, you go about your day with the milky mess on the floor. You keep catching glimpses of it; in the back of your head, you know it’s there. You have a vague sense that it might be damaging the floorboards, but still you carry on.

As ridiculous as this scenario sounds, many of us respond to sin similarly. Sometime in the morning, say, we made a thoughtless comment, or we shirked a plain duty, or we welcomed a twisted thought. We sinned. But instead of cleaning up the mess right away, instead of confessing the sin quickly, we linger. We keep stepping around the sin. And so we walk through a haze of vague guilt, background accusation, stumbling self-consciousness.

“Oh, what peace we often forfeit; oh, what needless pain we bear; all because we do not carry everything to God in prayer!” Do we not have an advocate in heaven (1 John 2:1)? Do we not have a Father whose heart grows warm toward his returning children (Luke 15:20)? Do we not have a gospel big enough for every sin we could bring?

Harboring guilt has no atoning power. Nor does God tell us to confess only after feeling awful through the afternoon. No, everything in him, everything in the gospel, everything in his word bids us to come now, right away. Respond to the first pang of guilt by saying, “I will go to my Father.” You really can sit down, confess your sin outright, receive forgiveness in Christ, and move on.

God promises that he forgets the sins he forgives (Hebrews 8:12). Surely that means we can forget them too. And in forgetting our sins, we might just forget ourselves.

4. Get lost in something good.

When was the last time you were rapt? The word refers to one of the most self-forgetful, and most pleasurable, experiences God gives. Those who are rapt, writes Winifred Gallagher, are “completely absorbed, engrossed, fascinated, perhaps even ‘carried away’ . . . from the scholar’s study to the carpenter’s craft to the lover’s obsession” (The Pleasures of Reading in an Age of Distraction, 86). When we become rapt before some beauty, some hobby, some person, we lose ourselves — even if only for a few moments — and then find ourselves all the better for it.

Scripture gives us many examples of such holy fascination. Often, they come in the context of worship, as when David breathes after his “one thing” (Psalm 27:4) or Moses beholds the back of Glory (Exodus 33:21–23). Other times, however, the saints lose themselves in something God has made — from the four wonders of the wise man (Proverbs 30:18–19) to our Savior’s bird watching (Matthew 6:26) to the raucous song of Psalm 104.

When was the last time you were so engrossed, so blissfully lost? When was the last time you even found yourself in a context where you could be? Too many of us have gone far too long without a walk in the woods, without taking our seat at a true feast, without reading a book far more beautiful than it is “useful.” I know, as a father of three young boys, that life does not always allow much time for hobbies. But can we not embrace, at a minimum, the resolve of Clyde Kilby?

I shall open my eyes and ears. Once every day I shall simply stare at a tree, a flower, a cloud, or a person. I shall not then be concerned at all to ask what they are but simply be glad that they are. I shall joyfully allow them the mystery of what Lewis calls their “divine, magical, terrifying and ecstatic” existence.

However busy you may be, find a way — some way — to regularly get lost in something good. We cannot simply manufacture such experiences; they are gifts. But we can place ourselves before the goodness of God in his good world. We can open our eyes. We can walk on some path of pleasure long enough to get lost.

5. Embrace your God-given callings.

For as self-reflective as I can be, I used to spend much more time poring over my soul. Look through my journals from former days, and you would find page upon page of agonizing introspection. But then you would see the entries slowly taper off until page after page of blank. Why? For several reasons, but one of the more significant is simply that I got busy. I found more friends. I took more (and harder) classes. I started working more hours. Empty evenings and solitary days gave way to good, God-given callings — a blessed kind of busyness, a friend of self-forgetfulness.

When dark thoughts lure us inward, when we feel ourselves falling into the vortex of self, what a gift to have a spouse to love, an infant to console, friends to serve, dishes to wash, neighbors to help, churches to build, work projects to accomplish, and other needs to meet. Such callings give a glorious objectivity to our days. As one introspective man, a new father, told me recently, “When my daughter needs me, God doesn’t expect me to be doing anything else.”

“Seek to make Christ your morning sun and evening star, your afternoon oasis, the joy of every hour.”

By all means, avoid the kind of devilish hurry that leaves no room for quiet mornings before God, calm moments through the day, leisurely Sabbath-like rests. But by all means, get a few big callings in life — and then hear in them the voice of God saying, “Husband, love your wife” (Ephesians 5:25), “Mother, train up your toddler” (Proverbs 22:6), “Friend, stir up your brother” (Hebrews 10:24), “Christian, meet the needs of the saints” (Romans 12:13). In short, hear in them the voice of God calling you out of yourself.

6. Thank God always and for everything.

Finally, however self-conscious and inward you feel, resolve to thank God “in all circumstances” (1 Thessalonians 5:18), “always and for everything” (Ephesians 5:20).

Morbid introspection and Godward gratitude work against each other. The one takes us deep underground; the other lifts our eyes to a big and bright sky. The one curves us inward; the other bends us outward. The one sends us into a hall of mirrors, where we see ourselves and yet so often become deceived about ourselves; the other fills our thoughts with the Father of lights, our good and giving God (James 1:17).

Philippians 4:6–7 traces the way from anxious introspection to a mind and heart at peace:

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

We turn from inward anxiety not only by casting our cares on God, but by doing so “with thanksgiving.” For thanksgiving puts us in a place far broader than our burdens, where we see a past filled with God’s faithfulness and a future alive with his promises — the cross behind us and heaven before us. Thanksgiving snaps us back to reality, speaking a gospel louder than our inward thoughts.

Under the old covenant, the Levites “were to stand every morning, thanking and praising the Lord, and likewise at evening” (1 Chronicles 23:30). As children of the new covenant, can we not (at least) match this godly practice? What if we hailed the morning and crowned the evening with gratitude? What if, at least twice a day, we turned around to notice the many gifts God has given, the goodness and mercy chasing us home (Psalm 23:6)? We might find that thanksgiving can become a stairway out of our inward cellar, a remembrance of God that helps us forget ourselves.

So, seek to fill your mind with Jesus. Obey more than you analyze. Repent and confess quickly. Get lost in something good. Embrace your God-given callings. And however stuck you feel inside yourself, thank God always and for everything.