I was once told the story of a child who had been invited to spend a sunny summer day playing with his friends. He lived in a rural area and it took him a good bit of time to make the trek. But the child made his way toward his friends as they made their way toward him and eventually they came upon one another halfway. Soon they were climbing trees and jumping creeks and skipping rocks and generally having the time of their lives.

Around dusk, the boy realized he should begin his return journey. But just as he was about to say his farewells, one of the other lads began to tell a story. The child, once drawn in, couldn’t force himself away. He sat in rapt attention as the story progressed, as the action waxed and waned, as the hero faced peril and emerged victorious.
By the time the story was complete, the sun had dipped behind the distant horizon. Now the boy gazed into the gathering darkness and realized he was afraid to set out by himself. He asked his friends to come with him, but they all needed to return in the opposite direction. As the boy dawdled and tried to work up his courage, the sun’s last rays disappeared from the sky. He fretted about his family, wondering if they were concerned about what had become of him.
The night grew darker still as clouds rolled in and began to blanket the moon and the stars. At last he decided he must stop procrastinating and set out. But just as he stood to his feet, a blinding flash of lightning shot from the sky and it was soon followed by a mighty crack of thunder. His courage failed him altogether.
Yet just as he was about to sink into utter despair, his eye spotted a flicker of light bobbing in the distance. Curious, he watched as it grew closer, as it grew brighter. And, then, to his delight, he saw that it was his older brother come to fetch him, come to bring him home. And now he quickly said farewell to his friends and boldly stepped into the darkness. He confidently made his way toward his brother who then led him safely home—home where his family threw their arms around him, home where a meal had been laid out for him, home where peace and rest awaited him.
And after the storyteller had said all of this, he paused for a moment. He paused to gather his thoughts and consider his words. And then he spoke once more.
So may it be for you when the night of death comes. So may it be for you when your friends cannot accompany you. So may it be for you when you do not dare to go alone.
On that day, your friend who is closer than a brother, your Savior who is your elder brother, will come to meet you at just the right time. In his hand will be the lantern of all the precious promises he has made, and this will be the lamp to your feet and the light to your path. He will lead you through the dark night and into the brightest day. He will accompany you to the place where your family awaits you and longs to see you, the place where a great supper has been laid out for you, the place where God himself is ready to welcome you home. Never, no never, do you need to fear that you will have to go that way alone.

Inspired by De Witt Talmage

I am worshipping with a congregation that is not my own, a community of Christians on the far side of the planet. Though I am there primarily to learn and to worship, I cannot help but observe one of the members of the church as he sits just in front of me. His wife is pressed close to him on one side and a chair has been left vacant on the other. He rises with the rest of the congregation as the pastor speaks the call to worship. “Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us.”

“Because God is worthy of our trust,” says the pastor, “you can pour out your heart before him. No matter the circumstances of your life, you can trust him because he is powerful and he is good. So let’s join our hearts and voices together to sing of this good and powerful God.”
The musicians take up the first strains of the opening hymn and the people soon join in.

O worship the King all-glorious above / O gratefully sing his power and his love. / our shield and defender, the Ancient of Days, / pavilioned in splendor and girded with praise.

I observe that as this man begins to sing, he glances toward the door at the back of the room, his eyes searching for something or for someone.

O tell of his might and sing of his grace, / whose robe is the light, whose canopy space. / His chariots of wrath the deep thunderclouds form, / and dark is his path on the wings of the storm.

He sings a few more lines, then looks that way again.

Frail children of dust, and feeble as frail, / in you do we trust, nor find you to fail. / Your mercies, how tender, how firm to the end, / our Maker, Defender, Redeemer, and Friend!

The hymn gives way to a Scripture reading, then to reciting a creed, and still I can see that his attention is divided—divided between worship and watching, between the front of the room and the back.
The service continues with prayer and song and still I see him looking forward and back, still I can see his heart expressing praise while his face expresses expectation, longing, hope.
It is only after the service has ended and I can speak to one of the pastors that I learn why his attention has been so divided. It is only after the service that I learn what he has been looking for—or, better said, who he has been looking for.
His daughter has said she will come to church today. His daughter has wandered far but has said she is ready to return. His daughter who has squandered so much says she has learned her lesson. His daughter who has caused her father’s heart to ache has said that today she will soothe it. This man is looking for his daughter, his beloved daughter.
As time goes on and as the elements of the service pass by, the glances become less frequent and less hopeful. Unless I’m wrong, his shoulders become a little less straight, a little more stooped, for it becomes clear that this will not be the day on which the prodigal daughter returns. This will not be the day on which sorrow gives way to joy, on which weeping gives way to dancing. Though I do not know him and though we live worlds apart, I grieve with him and for him. I grieve as a brother in Christ.
I spend a fair bit of time with men who know loss, fathers who have laid a child in the grave. Some of them are grieving beloved daughters and I know they sometimes experience stirrings of jealousy when they see other fathers with their girls. It causes them to remember better times, to remember the pleasures of being father to a daughter, to long to experience it and enjoy it again. I sometimes feel like this too when I see fathers with their sons.
But in this moment, this moment in which the congregation takes their seats and the pastor approaches the pulpit, words flash into my mind, words I came across in an old book from long ago. The author pointed out that in many lives the sorrow over the living is greater far than the sorrow for the dead who have passed on to sweet rest. Far more often, he says, has his heart been moved to pity for the parents of a living sorrow than for the parents of a departed joy. There are some sorrows harder even than the sorrow of death, he insists, some griefs deeper even than the grief of bereavement. And while I find little benefit in comparing one kind of grief to another, I am certain the sorrow of watching a living child careen toward hell is every bit as sharp as the pain of losing a child, but knowing he is safely in heaven.
And so, “God save that girl” my heart whispers. “And pity her father, Lord. Bless that man and comfort the sorrows of his troubled heart.”

Comparison comes as naturally to us as eating, breathing, laughing, weeping. From our youngest days we begin to compare ourselves to others and quickly find the old adage to be true: Comparison is the enemy of joy. Though we so readily compare ourselves with others, we discover that this fosters a deep unhappiness. What promises joy actually delivers misery.

The reason is that comparison is intrinsically competitive, so that we don’t really want to be merely pretty, but prettier than the other person; we don’t really want to be merely wealthy, but wealthier than he is; we don’t really want to be merely successful, but more successful than the other person. No follower count is high enough until it is higher than hers, no church big enough until it is bigger than his. If we fail to get the things our hearts desire we grow in envy, but if we do get them we grow in pride. Our comparison is never rewarded with contentment.
Even in our Christian lives we can be prone to comparison. We can judge ourselves righteous by comparing ourselves to others’ depravity, we can judge ourselves faithful by comparing ourselves to others’ sinfulness, we can judge ourselves committed by comparing ourselves to others’ apathy. We can become like the Pharisee Jesus introduced in a parable—the one who went to the temple to pray and said, “I thank you, God, that I am not like other men”—especially like that traitorous tax collector who stood nearby. With such an attitude it is little wonder that Jesus “told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt.”
Yet if comparison is most naturally the enemy of joy, it can supernaturally become its ally. However, comparison can only become an ally when we use it to compare ourselves to the right standard and if we do so for the right reason. It can only become an ally when we compare ourselves to Jesus out of a longing to be more like him. The way to grow in holiness is not to compare ourselves to other people, but to compare ourselves to the Savior.
If you are at a theme park and want to ride the rollercoasters, you need to be a certain height. It doesn’t matter if you’re taller than anyone else—all that matters is if your head comes up to the top of their measuring tape. The Pharisee fell into the universal temptation of judging himself a good man by comparing himself to people he considered worse. But that’s like trying to ride the coasters by saying “I’m taller than this other person!” That doesn’t matter because that’s not the right measure. What matters is if you come up to the mark.
Similarly, we love to compare ourselves to other people because it’s a comparison we can easily win. We only need to look around long enough to find someone who is worse, and that’s never hard to do. But it doesn’t matter if we are holier than the person who is next to us or the person who is on the TV screen. What matters is if we are as holy as Jesus, for he is the one who perfectly demonstrated how to live an unblemished life, how to love the Lord with his whole heart, soul, strength, and mind, and to love his neighbor as himself. When we compare ourselves to him we will always be confronted and challenged—we will see our shortcomings, we will repent of them, and we will take up the challenge to be more and more conformed to his image. It’s a comparison we will always lose, yet instead of growing in envy and pride, we will only ever grow in humility and the godliness that it fosters.