You know the old adage, I’m sure: To whom much is given much will be required. Or, to express it in the words of Jesus, “Everyone to whom much was given, of him much will be required, and from him to whom they entrusted much, they will demand the more.” The point is clear: God holds us responsible for all that we have. Said otherwise, God holds us responsible for all that he bestows upon us.

We tend to think of this principle when we consider all the good gifts we receive. We are to be faithful stewards of our money, acknowledging that those who have an abundance are particularly responsible to give with liberal generosity. We are to be faithful parents to our children, acknowledging that they are God’s children before our own. We are to be faithful pastors, keeping watch over all the flock as those who will have to give an account to the true Shepherd. It’s a principle that acknowledges God’s sovereignty over all the blessings we receive and our responsibility to discharge our duty faithfully.
But while we tend to consider this principle when it comes to the good things we receive, who’s to say that it doesn’t apply every bit as much to the difficult things? After all, just as God’s providence directs the sun it also directs the rain, and just as it directs times of laughter it also directs times of weeping. If prosperity comes from his hand so does poverty and if health can be his plan for us so may be sickness. It is not merely the good that we are responsible for, but also the difficulties. For they, too, are within his will.
And so as we encounter times of pain and illness, times of sorrow and loss, times of poverty and want, we should not merely ask, “How can I endure this?” or “How can I get out from under this?”, though certainly those questions may be appropriate. We should also ask, “How can I steward this? What is my duty in this? What does God meant to accomplish through this?”
What if Joni Eareckson Tada had chosen to live a life of despondency rather than embracing her disability as God’s will and as her particular ministry to God’s people? What if Susannah Spurgeon had pined away in self-pity rather than allowing her bed to become her office, the means through which she would send books to so many needy pastors? What if Amy Carmichael had allowed the poor health that forced her to leave Japan to end her missionary career rather than accepting it instead as God’s will to divert her to her ordained mission? What if Job had given up after the loss of all he held dear, what if David had dropped out after the death of his son, what if Paul had quit the field after being beaten the first time, or even the second or third?
All of these, and so many more, accepted their suffering as stewardship. They accepted it as something precious and meaningful and understood that it had called them to new duty, new obedience, new ways to be useful to God. And we have all benefited. We have learned more from how they endured their times of suffering than their times of joy, from their times of lack than their times of abundance, from their times of illness than their times of health. For while we may have learned what they professed to believe in days of sunshine, we have learned what they really believe in days of rain. And it has been a blessing and inspiration to us all.
Each of these did what we are all called to do—to embrace our sorrows as somehow consistent with God’s will, and to turn that sorrow outward in love for others and service to God. To whom much is given—even much sorrow, much pain, much suffering—, much will be required, for these give us unique opportunities to serve God’s people and showcase his glory.

“In the beginning there were no canyons,” he told me. “There were no canyons in the Great Plains, but instead only broad, open spaces where rich grasses waved in the winds.” Intrigued, I sat and listened as he told his tale.

He told me of a day when the Master of the Earth walked all over the broad land and asked the Prairie, “Where are your flowers?” The Prairie replied simply, “I have no seeds.” So the Master gave his orders to the birds of the air until they flocked from north, south, east and west, each bearing a seed to drop upon the fertile ground. Soon enough the Prairie bloomed with the bright colors of crocuses and sunflowers, of lillies and roses, of aster and clover.
When the flowers had grown and their rich colors had brightened the land, the Master returned to the Prairie and was well pleased. Yet even in his pleasure he observed that some of his favorite flowers were still missing. Once again he spoke to the Prairie and asked, “Where are the clematis and the columbine? Where are the violets and ferns? Where are the flowering shrubs I love so much?” “Master,” replied the Prairie with sorrow, “I have tried, but I cannot keep those flowers, for the sun beats hot upon them and scorches them before they can grow. The wind blows hard upon them and drives them away before they can put down roots. I have tried, my Master. Won’t you help me?”
So the Master spoke to the Skies and in an instant a great bolt of lightning leapt from the heavens to the earth, striking the Prairie with a heavy blow. The Prairie cried out in agony and for a long while mourned the gaping, jagged gash that had been left upon it—a deep, charred scar that contrasted sharply with the bright grasses and vivid flowers around. “Why, Master?” it sobbed in bewildered sorrow.
But soon enough the gentle rains began to pour their cleansing waters into the wound, washing away all that had been seared and scorched. The birds returned once more and dropped their seeds into the depths. And before long, brilliant green mosses sprang up within it, long vines covered in wondrous flowers trailed down it, and every nook was hung with clematis and columbine. Great elms and willows took up their place and stretched their branches toward the heavens high above. Ferns and violets grew in bright clusters along the banks of the river that ran gently through its deepest parts.
This canyon became the Master’s place of special delight, the place where he found peace, rest, and joy, the place where he was most content to dwell. And as the Prairie gazed at all its newfound beauty, all this fresh evidence of life and grace, it could only conclude that the Master of the Earth had been wise and good. It knew now that the brightest of the blooms grow only in the places that have been prepared by the heavy hand of the Master. It knew now that the most beautiful of the flowers grow only in the deep canyons.
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I prefer to end the tale there. But for those who would like to know more, here is the rest of what happened that day.
“Won’t you tell me, I asked, what the flowers represent?” “They are the evidences of God’s grace in a life,” he replied, “—the flowers (or fruit if you prefer) that God’s Spirit grants to those he indwells: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Each of these is as beautiful and as wondrous as the finest flower.” “And which of these grow only in the canyons,” I asked, “only in the dark places?” “Kindness, gentleness, and self-control,” he said. “Love, joy, peace and the others grow well in the wide open sunshine and in the days of ease. But kindness, gentleness, and self-control grow best in the deep canyons, in those places specially prepared by the hand of the Master. If you wish to see these displayed in your life, you must be willing to have your Master prepare you.”

Inspired by Gwen’s Canyon by Ralph Connor.

No one who has ever listened to Beethoven’s 9th symphony has thought to himself, “I think each of these musicians is just making it up as they go.” No one who has ever listened to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons has thought to herself, “I am pretty sure no one is leading this orchestra.” No one who has ever listened to Handel’s Messiah and heard the swells and strains of the Hallelujah chorus has thought “I detect no sign of a composer or a conductor.” No, where we glimpse such order, where we hear such unified orchestration, we know there is someone who has created it and we know there is someone who is directing it. We know that each of the people in the orchestra is following some kind of a score and responding to the lead of some kind of a director.

In the Bible we read of a God who is sovereign—a God who created this world, a God who is unfolding a plan for this world, a God who is directing all the events of this world toward a great and glorious purpose. The Apostle Paul expresses it in this way: “We know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” As all the instruments in an orchestra work together, so too all the circumstances in our lives. The instruments combine to express the artist’s composition and the circumstances to express the Maker’s providence.
God’s sovereignty is a wonderful doctrine to discuss in a classroom or conference, but a very difficult one to believe in a hospital bed or funeral home. We love God’s providence when it is perfectly aligned with our desires, but struggle with it when it opposes them. We find it easy to believe “all things work for good” when we experience times of joy and brightness, but difficult in times of trouble and confusion.
Yet “all things work together for good” necessarily assumes that some things won’t feel good, that some things won’t look good, that some things won’t strike us as immediately and obviously good. It assumes that we will sometimes wonder how a particular circumstance could possibly prove anything other than evil.
This promise, after all, comes neither in the Garden of Eden nor in the New Jerusalem. God had little need to give this promise to Adam and Eve when they were still unblemished in the Garden. The promise would have meant little to them when they enjoyed unbroken fellowship with God and with one another, when all of creation was arrayed toward them in sweet submission. Of course all things work for good because all things are good! Likewise, God will have little need to reiterate it when we are standing on streets of gold and all pain, evil, and sorrow has been vanquished.
It was only when Adam and Eve were pushed through the gates and into the stark wilderness beyond that such promises became important, for it was only then that they began to experience circumstances that seemed to all the world to be bad and only bad. It’s in a world like this one—a world of suffering and sorrow, of grief and loss, of pain and confusion—that they (and we) need the precious assurance that all things are working together for good. And that’s true even when they don’t feel the least bit good, even when we can’t see even the slightest glimmer of light.
“All things for good” is a promise God’s people must take by faith and cling to with tenacity in times of great difficulty. We need to believe that God has the ability to work all things for good and to trust that he actually is working all things for good. We need to have confidence that he is doing what’s right and best according to his inscrutable wisdom, that he is doing what most conforms his people to the image of his Son and what most honors and glorifies his holy name. We need to depend upon it, bank all we’ve got on it, go all-in on it. We need to set aside our feelings and, by faith, submit them to truth of God’s promises.
Through every circumstance, this promise calls us to believe that a day will come when we will affirm his every decision and marvel at his wisdom in our every trial. It calls us to trust that our sovereign God is the good composer and skilled conductor who is orchestrating all events so they lead ultimately to his glory and our good.