When I’m crying out, “How long, O Lord?” my pain has already outlasted my patience. I want deliverance — now. Today. To me, “How long, O Lord?” means “Lord, this trial has outstayed its welcome. Please fix it and restore me right away.”

Maybe you’ve felt that way too.

Yet even when our suffering feels endless, God knows exactly how long it will really last. It has an end date, an exact day and time predetermined by God. My pain will not last forever; it is not random or indeterminate. God has fixed all the details of this trial and will give me everything I need to endure it.

No Longer Than Necessary

The truth that all my suffering has an end date buoyed me years ago, when my life was in turmoil. Every day, the weight of my problems seemed heavier; tears would well up without warning. I saw no way out, and I wondered how much longer the pain would continue — and whether I could hold out until then.

Then one day I heard a speaker on the radio quote Warren Wiersbe, who said, “When God puts his own people into the furnace, he keeps his eye on the clock and his hand on the thermostat. He knows how long and how much” (Bible Exposition Commentary, 3:51).

God knows how long and how much. Those words brought indescribable relief. He knew how intense the furnace was, and he knew when relief would come. The furnace wouldn’t be hotter or longer than was necessary.

Every Minute Is His

Throughout Scripture, we see God predetermine the length of his people’s suffering. Before Abraham had children, God told him that his offspring would be enslaved in a foreign land, “afflicted for four hundred years” (Genesis 15:13), after which we know God delivered the Israelites through Moses. God told Jeremiah that the Israelites would serve the king of Babylon for seventy years (Jeremiah 25:11), and then a remnant was brought back. Jesus told the church of Smyrna that they would have ten days of tribulation, but not to fear their suffering (Revelation 2:10). In each case, the adversity was both necessary and purposeful.

We often think of time so differently, certain that if God has promised to deliver us, it should happen right away. Perhaps people in the Bible felt that way too: Abraham waited 25 years for Isaac, Moses waited 40 years in the wilderness, David waited 15 years before becoming king. God’s timetable rarely coincides with ours.

Yet even when our deliverance seems slow, we can be certain that it is not delayed. Our rescue will not and cannot be too late, for every minute of our suffering has been appointed (Habakkuk 2:3).

In Pain on Purpose

Recognizing that our suffering is for a limited time, and that it is necessary, has radically shifted my perspective while in pain. Knowing there is a purpose, a purpose intended for my good (Romans 8:28), has helped me to endure the hardest of days. My faith will be purer, stronger, and more genuine after going through the fire, and that benefit will carry into heaven, resulting in praise, honor, and glory (1 Peter 1:6–7; 2 Corinthians 4:17; Romans 8:18). My suffering will not be wasted.

And every detail is known to God, who has predetermined how far each trial will go and every blessing I will gain as a result. As Charles Spurgeon said,

In all sickness, the Lord saith to the waves of pain, “Hitherto shall ye go, but no further.” His fixed purpose is not the destruction, but the instruction of his people.

The limit is encouragingly comprehensive. The God of providence has limited the time, manner, intensity, repetition, and effects of all our sicknesses; each throb is decreed, each sleepless hour predestinated, each relapse ordained, each depression of spirit foreknown, and each sanctifying result eternally purposed. Nothing great or small escapes the ordaining hand of him who numbers the hairs of our head.

This limit is wisely adjusted to our strength, to the end designed, and to the grace apportioned. . . . The limit is tenderly appointed. The knife of the heavenly Surgeon never cuts deeper than is absolutely necessary. (Morning and Evening, August 17)

In Christ, the waves of our pain have a limit, a boundary that God has set. And the pain itself is purposed for our gain, to teach us and to bless us. While suffering hardly feels anything like a blessing in the moment, knowing that every ounce of my pain has been predetermined and weighed, adjusted to my strength, tenderly appointed and absolutely necessary, has helped me withstand it. Though I do not and cannot know all the reasons that my suffering has been necessary, I can trust that every trial is working for my benefit.

There Is Still Today

Though we know that the end is already determined, and each morning brings us one day closer to that end, there is still today, looming ahead with pain and suffering. How do we make it through today?

First, we can remember that God will prove himself far better than we fear; he will do far more in this trial than we can imagine. There will be blessings along the way — every single day, without exception — and God will give us comfort and signs of his love. We just need to look for them.

Then we can resolve to live one day at a time — to stop thinking about tomorrow and the difficulties it may bring, to stop anticipating tomorrow’s struggles, wondering how we will manage. Today’s troubles are enough. Tomorrow may bring incredible deliverance, a reversal of our pain and loss. Our fears and worries could be needless, as God may give us miraculous rescue.

“Even when our deliverance seems slow, we can be certain that it is not delayed.”

Or tomorrow may bring deeper suffering and, with it, deeper grace. Either could be true, as none of us knows what tomorrow will bring. What we have is today. God gives us grace for today. God provides for our needs today. God grants strength for today. And he will continue to give us the strength that we need, just as he has promised: “As your days, so shall your strength be” (Deuteronomy 33:25). Nothing we endure can outlast or outstrip the grace of God.

Hunt for Grace

After all, his grace surrounds us even now, even as we suffer. Philip B. Power, a pastor in the 1800s whose public ministry was cut short due to ill health, said,

God will not send trial without the intention of blessing; therefore, where the trial is great, we may be sure that the blessing intended is great also. If the trial were to be allowed to lengthen itself out beyond the possibility of fruit bearing, it would become simply an evil, an objectless infliction. Therefore, say to yourself, “This day’s trial could not be spared. God has still further blessing in store for me.” (A Book of Comfort for Those in Sickness, 80)

Look for the blessing. Look for God’s hand. Look for his comfort. They are all there. We can be certain that even when we’re overwhelmed and crying out for relief, God has something wonderful in store for us. He will not leave us desolate in our suffering — ever. He brings new mercies every morning (Lamentations 3:22–23). We may not know what the day will bring, but we do know that it will bring God’s comfort and presence. It cannot but be so.

So, if you are feeling overwhelmed by your suffering, crying out to God, “How long, O Lord?” be assured that he knows exactly how long. He will not let you suffer one minute beyond what is necessary and never delays his deliverance for you. God is never cruel.

And today, in your suffering, God’s grace will give you everything you need to endure it, as well as perfectly timed blessings in your endurance. You may not know when your pain will end, but you can be assured that the end has already been appointed, and the result will always be for your good.

Ever since I was a kid, worshiping on Christmas Eve has been a given. I didn’t always want to do it, of course, because it made time slow down and, thus, delayed the long-awaited gift opening. Indeed, one year I may have opened a gift, played with it, and rewrapped it before the Christmas Eve church service without my parents’ knowledge! But the habit of worship imprinted on me immeasurably important lessons about Christmas.

We worship at Christmas because Jesus is the “reason for the season.” We worship because he is the coming Messiah. We worship because of the beauty of the story of a humble virgin Mary, a humble man Joseph, and a humble Christ-child who comes to save, yet lies in a manger. We worship because the fullness of time has arrived (Galatians 4:4).

But theoretically, you can reflect on all those wonderful aspects of Christmas at home in your pajamas. Thus, gathering for public worship is particularly fitting for one other reason. The birth of Jesus is the advent of the consummate place of worship: not a temple, but a person. The incarnation of the Son of God fulfills a human longing to enjoy the presence of and offer worship to the living God.

Universal Longing

All humans are wired to worship their Creator. Eden and its garden were symbolically configured as a sanctuary. God made his presence manifest there (Genesis 3:8). Adam was charged with working and keeping it (Genesis 2:15) and was even adorned, it seems, as a priest (Ezekiel 28:13–14). The tree of the knowledge of good and evil and the tree of life stood at the center of the garden and were, in due course, guarded by cherubim (Genesis 3:24), just as they guarded the ark at the center of the temple’s Most Holy Place. Men and women were, in other words, created to worship God in his place, and after our expulsion from Eden we have longed for a way back into the divine presence.

“The birth of Jesus is the advent of the consummate place of worship: not a temple, but a person.”

History, thus, is divided into two paths of worship. The false path runs through every pagan religion that strives to please its god(s) through rituals and sacred shrines. For instance, the Canaanites directed zeal toward Baal’s altars and Asherah’s groves (Judges 6:25); Philistines oriented worship around the sanctuary of Dagon (1 Samuel 5:2); Lystra hosted a temple and priesthood of Zeus (Acts 14:13); a plethora of gods, even “unknown” ones, were venerated with altars and statues in Athens (Acts 17:24); and the temple of the Ephesian Artemis was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world (Acts 19:35). Not much has changed in two millennia, as pagan shrines exist in every corner of the world, representing the universal longing for the divine.

The true path of worship winds through the people of Israel. The patriarchs worshiped Yahweh via temporary altars (Genesis 8:20; 12:7; 26:25; 28:18; 35:1). His glory appeared in terrifying fire and cloud upon Mount Sinai, where he was worshiped from afar (Exodus 19:16–25). The Israelites constructed a movable tent, the ark of the covenant, and other furnishings whereby sacrifices could be offered to their Lord, who filled it with his glorious presence (Exodus 40:16–38). Under King David, the ark of the covenant made its way to Jerusalem (2 Samuel 6:2). At long last King Solomon constructed a (seemingly) permanent and wondrous temple to Yahweh in Jerusalem, whose glorious presence again filled it magnificently — leading all Israelites to respond with effusive worship (2 Chronicles 7:1–4).

All seemed right in Israel. But the situation did not last for long.

Longing Forestalled

After Solomon’s death, God’s people split up. The northern tribes built competing shrines and worshiped golden calves in Dan and Bethel (1 Kings 12:25–29). In time, God judged them for this sin through conquest by the Assyrians (2 Kings 15:29).

The southern tribes likewise polluted the worship of Yahweh in the Jerusalem temple but still ironically pinned their hopes on its survival (Jeremiah 7:1–4). In a painful act of judgment, God withdrew his glorious presence from the temple (Ezekiel 11:22–23) and permitted the Babylonians to raze it, steal its ark, and scatter the people (2 Chronicles 36:15–21).

All was not right in Israel.

The temple was eventually rebuilt (Ezra 6:14–15) but never filled by God’s glory. The Old Testament ends with the forestalled longing for God to return to his temple (Malachi 3:1).

Longing Fulfilled

That is where Christmas comes into play. In at least four ways, the coming of Jesus Christ is the joyful fulfillment of the longing to worship God fully and truly.

Permanent Dwelling

When the Fourth Gospel describes how the eternally existent divine Son stunningly takes on a body at Christmas, John uses a particularly weighty word to describe it: “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). The italicized verb (Greek eskēnōsen) can simply mean “to settle,” but almost certainly for the original reader it would evoke how the tabernacle (skēnē) was God’s means of dwelling among his people of old. The God who once dwelled as fire and cloud in a movable tent has now tented in the bodily flesh of God the Son.

“The coming of Jesus Christ is the joyful fulfillment of the longing to worship God fully and truly.”

Not only this, but Jesus speaks of himself as the new place where heaven meets earth, with the angels ascending and descending upon him as they once did at Bethel (John 1:51; Genesis 28:12). And Jesus’s body is described as the true temple that, though destroyed, will be raised in three days (John 2:21–22). Whereas no one could fully gaze upon God’s radiant glory in the original temple, now we behold it in the face of Jesus Christ (2 Corinthians 3:18; 4:6).

The people of God long recognized that the fullness of God could not really be confined to fabricated structures of wood and gold (1 Kings 8:27; Acts 7:48), so it is altogether fitting that the fullness of God dwells bodily in God the incarnate Son (Colossians 2:9). He is the place of true worship.

Effective Sacrifice

If Jesus is the true temple, then naturally he is also the true sacrifice. A striking truth about Christmas is that Jesus was born to die: he took on a body with the specific purpose of being a perfect sacrifice (Hebrews 10:5). He is the Passover (1 Corinthians 5:7), the sacrifice of atonement (Romans 3:25), and the sin offering (Romans 8:3) — the entire sacrificial system — rolled into one. His blood cleanses us far more than that of bulls and goats (Hebrews 9:13–14).

In short, not only is Jesus the manifest presence of God; he is also the one whose blood makes it possible to be in God’s presence in the first place. Christmas, then, arcs to Good Friday.

Heavenly Priest

Perhaps surprisingly, Jesus never takes on priestly garments in his earthly ministry or attempts to enter the sanctuary to perform ritual duties. He only cleanses the outer courts. Why? He is a better kind of priest.

Drawing his earthly sojourn to a close, he raises his hands in a priestly manner to bless his disciples (Luke 24:50; see Leviticus 9:22) and ascends to heaven. It is there — in the true heavenly temple of which the earthly tabernacle was but a vague shadow (Hebrews 8:5) — that priest Jesus offers his blood before the Father (Hebrews 9:11–14). It is there that priest Jesus intercedes for his people (Hebrews 8:34). And it is there that the souls of departed saints worship before a heavenly altar (Revelation 6:9).

At Christmas the heavenly Son descends to earth so that he might make a way for the sons and daughters of God to be brought into the real, permanent, heavenly temple.

Consecrated People

Christmas reminds us that Jesus is the true temple, true sacrifice, and true priest. Yet those who are united to him by faith are, strikingly, formed by God to be the same things: in Jesus we are a spiritual temple in which the Holy Spirit dwells (1 Corinthians 3:16), spiritual sacrifices offered in worship to the living God (Romans 12:1–2), and a spiritual priesthood consecrated to God (1 Peter 2:4–5).

Thus, at Christmas we worship because by faith we are, at long last, enabled through the birth of Jesus to fulfill our creational longing: to be conformed to him as temple, sacrifice, and priests.

More Than Eden

The destiny of all creation is not merely to return to Eden. It will be more than Eden. All the heavens and earth will be transformed into an all-encompassing, grand, indescribably amazing dwelling place of the triune God, who will abide with believers of every tribe and nation forever (Revelation 21:1–4, 22). The universal longing will be richly satisfied.

So let us, like the magi of old, relish this hope at Christmas and together worship baby Jesus (Matthew 2:11) — the newborn temple, the newborn sacrifice, the newborn priest.

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a lost child wandering in a wood, who stumbled across a path lined with signposts. Strange and wonderful names adorned these signs, names like Phantastes, Beowulf, Harry Potter, The Odyssey, Pilgrim’s Progress, and The Return of the King. The child, guided by the posts, set out along the path. By way of many adventures, they led him through the Dragon’s Den, into the foggy Foothills of Longing, and finally up to the Peaks of Joy, where he caught a glimpse of a far green country under a swift sunrise. He now lives happily ever after, pursuing that path to the heights he was made to explore.

This is the tale of many men and many women — those who have heeded the signposts of story on the path of life. Followed faithfully, this path can lead to the heights of happiness, what the poet calls “fullness of joy” and “pleasures forevermore” (Psalm 16:11). C.S. Lewis perhaps best articulated his adventures on this road. He began the trek as a hardened atheist, but along this path of good stories, God led him to Jesus. And though he has long since passed beyond our vision, happily heeding the invitation of Aslan to come further up and further in, we can glean much from his journey.

Lewis champions all kinds of stories — fairy tales, myths, fantasies, biblical narratives, allegories, even histories — as God-given means of leading men and women Godward. And other Christians, like Tolkien and Chesterton, heartily agree, attesting to the enduring value of stories for both believers and unbelievers. So, how exactly do good stories serve as signposts, guiding us to the God we were made for?

Through the Dragon’s Den

First, good stories can guide us through the dragon’s den. Lewis once said that he wrote fairy tales because they allowed him to steal past the watchful dragons that stand guard over our hearts (On Stories, 70). Tolkien took the image one step further and argued that stories can also steal from those dragons. Tolkien recognized that, often, the more we see things, the less we see them; our eyes become hooded with the film of familiarity. For Tolkien, this leads to a kind of draconic possessiveness. We lay hold of things, claim them as our own, lock them in our hoard, and then cease to look at them. We become unwatchful dragons.

Thus, we need what Tolkien calls recovery — a renewed sense of wonder at the world. We need someone to raid our “hoard and let all the locked things fly away like caged birds” (On Fairy-Stories, 68). As it turns out, stories make excellent burglars. Like the warm breath of Aslan, good stories restore life to things that inattention has long since turned to stone.

Good stories, especially good fiction, create opportunities for us to come to grips with reality. As Chesterton might say, myths parade before us sheep with golden coats to astonish us that ours wear robes of white. Fairy tales brandish wooden wands sprouting magic spells so that they might land on us with wonderful weight that our branches cast leaves. Stories conjure up hoary Ents to remind us that our trees too are giants, telling ancient tales of earth and sky. Good stories signpost the riches of creation.

When all these gigantic treasures are dragged back into the Light, foiled by fantasy, they can awaken in us what Chesterton calls the ancient instinct of astonishment and dazzle us into gratitude. This impulse to give thanks acted as a signpost for the unbelieving Chesterton, causing him to realize that thanks must be given to someone. Gifts need a Giver. Magic needs a Magician. Creation needs a Creator.

“Like the warm breath of Aslan, good stories restore life to things that inattention has long since turned to stone.”

Stories can also recover things from the shadowy prison of abstraction. Through narrative, imagination can incarnate what reason excarnates. When you have stood beside Aragorn before the black gates of Mordor and seen the innumerable hosts of Sauron swarming like ants, good and evil cease to be simply ideas. When you’ve basked in the golden goodness of Aslan, you’ve seen a glimmer of the beauty of Jesus. In this way, stories can be radically iconoclastic, ridding our hoard of the little idols of God that we construct and creating imaginative space for the immense God of the Bible.

In short, stories help undragon us. They enable us to taste and see the goodness of good, and so fuel our desire for the God who is Good.

Into the Hills

Thus, good stories can cultivate holy longing. In his autobiography, Lewis recounts how stories often gave him a stab of desire, and in doing so, they served as signposts and foretastes of something “other and outer” (Surprised by Joy, 238).

Lewis knew by experience that the heart of man is haunted by a sense of homesickness — which Lewis terms Joy symbolized by a Blue Flower. Ultimately, Joy is a longing to home in the triune God, a far-off echo of the enormous bliss lost in Eden. Eternity smolders in our hearts, and though we cannot fully snuff out this longing, we do smother it. Part of the tragedy of modernity is that almost everything is aimed at weeding out the Blue Flower. God planted the seed deep in our souls, but we are poor gardeners. Even though all souls thirst for the living God, few of us are ever quiet enough to identify the ache.

But good stories can remind us of the restlessness that besets our souls. Thus, many find their way into the foggy foothills of desire through the pages of great books. You need look no further than the astonishing success of the Harry Potter series to prove this. Harry proclaims to all who have ears to hear that modernity still yearns for something more — something that even the Room of Requirement cannot satisfy.

The best storytellers know how to fuel this holy longing. Tolkien, the maker of Middle-earth, defines a successful story as one that “awakens desire, satisfying it while also wetting it unbearably” (On Fairy-Stories). Jesus himself, the master storyteller, understood this narrative power and so wielded fantasy to this effect, regaling his listeners with tales of buried treasure and quests for legendary pearls.

Lewis’s imaginative mentor, George MacDonald, armed all of his fiction with the stab of Joy. For MacDonald, the best thing good stories can do for a man is “not to give him things to think about, but to wake things up that are in him.” And so, in all his subcreation and storytelling, MacDonald made it his aim to “assail the soul of his reader as the wind assails an aeolian harp. . . . [For] if there be music in my reader, I would gladly wake it” (A Dish of Orts, 239–40).

Given this emphasis, it should come as no surprise that when, as an atheist, Lewis first read MacDonald’s enchanting tale Phantastes, he was overwhelmed with a sense of longing, dazzled by what he would later identify as holiness. He recounts, “I saw the bright shadow coming out of the book into the real world and resting there, transforming all common things” (Surprised by Joy, 181). Lewis began to see the meaning of his insatiable longing, the tune of the song of his soul. And MacDonald’s fairy tale served as his alpine guide, leading him ever up.

In good stories, we hear rumors of glory, hints and bright riddles of the Home we were made for. And it is good to be haunted by this yearning, for above the mists of myth and the veil of story lies the goal of all our longing.

Up the Mountain

Finally, when good stories have raided the Dragon’s Den and guided us through the Foothills of Longing, they lead us yet further up. As the horns of elfland sing, for a moment the fog parts, and we are given a stunning vista of happily ever after.

Tolkien names this visionary virtue the Consolation of the Happy Ending, and he held it to be the highest good of good stories. And this happy ending is no mere wish fulfillment. For Tolkien, in a well-told tale, the happy ending echoes the gospel. It does not diminish the reality of sorrow and suffering. In fact, sorrow and suffering set the stage for the story’s most powerful moment.

Precisely here, when the tale turns, when against all odds and all hope evil is overcome, “a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world” breaks through the cloud of story and lights up the breathless reader (On Fairy-Stories, 75). Tolkien calls this moment eucatastrophe — literally a good catastrophe. And for him, every thunderbolt of eucatastrophe in subcreated stories reflects the Great Eucatastrophes of the incarnation and resurrection, giving us a glimpse of the staggering heights of triune joy.

Who, indeed, can be unmoved when Frodo, after facing the fires of Mount Doom, gets his first glimpse of the Undying Lands? “The grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise” (The Return of the King, 1,030). And what attentive reader does not feel the thrill of hope and yearning that jolts the heart at the mere mention of Aslan’s country?

Like Samwise finally returning to the Shire, we may turn the final page of a good story and, with a deep sigh, say, “Well, I’m back.” We may indeed be back, but not all of us. Something remains in the Otherlands. We left a splinter of soul in Lothlorien, a piece of heart in Narnia. We will never be free from Faerie. We carry with us the scent of the Blue Flower. And that homesickness reminds us that we are made for another world.

The magical lands of story can serve as a placeholder for the better country we are bound for (Hebrews 11:16). They can stretch our imaginations further and further in anticipation of our future home — a home that no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor heart imagined (1 Corinthians 2:9). But oh, there have been hints. We have heard echoes. We have caught glimpses. We’ve smelled the Blue Flowers of Eden, and now we can never finally be content with the here and now.

Good stories are signposts — alpine guides leading us up the path of life. Like Lewis, we can follow them past dragons, over hills, and high up into the mountains. In the pages and paragraphs of great tales, we can hear the voice of our Aslan echoing off the mountain walls, bidding us to come further up and further in. Will you heed his call?