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6. INWARD SIMPLICITY: HOLY OBEDIENCE
The fruit of holy obedience is the simplicity of the children of God.
—Thomas Kelly
T. S. Eliot speaks of Christianity as “A condition of complete simplicity / (Costing not less than everything).”1 Holy obedience is stamped with that enormous price tag. Holy obedience is the insatiable God-hunger that will make a person dissatisfied with anything less than the pearl of great price. Holy obedience is the joyful abandon of the person who will sell absolutely everything to buy the field. It is the obedience of an Abraham willing to plunge the knife into his own dear son at the Kol Yahweh, the voice of the Lord. It is three Hebrew children who refused to bow the knee to the golden image. It is a Daniel who would die before he would stop praying to the one true God.
Holy obedience is the single eye that bathes the entire personality in light. It is the purity of heart that can desire only one thing—the good. It is a God-intoxicated life that can embrace wealth or poverty, hunger or plenty, crucifixion or acclaim with equal ease at the word of Christ.
Dr. Graham Scroggie, a gifted preacher of another generation, preached on the lordship of Christ at a huge Keswick Convention in England. A great orator, he spoke powerfully. After the crowd had left, he saw a young college student seated alone. He went to her, asking if he could help. “Oh, Dr. Scroggie,” she blurted out, “your message was so compelling, but I’m afraid to truly make Christ Lord, afraid of what he’ll ask of me!” Wisely, Graham Scroggie turned his worn Bible to the story of Peter at Joppa, where God had taught him about his racial and cultural discrimination. Three times God had brought down a sheet laden with animals unclean to orthodox Judaism and said, “Rise, Peter; kill and eat.” Three times Peter had responded, “No, Lord.” Tenderly, Dr. Scroggie said, “You know it is possible to say ‘No,’ and it is possible to say ‘Lord,’ but it is not really possible to say, ‘No, Lord.’ I’m going to leave my Bible with you and this pen and go into another room and pray for you, and I want you to cross out either the word ‘No’ or the word ‘Lord.’” He did so, and when in prayer he felt that the matter had been settled he slipped back into the auditorium. The young woman was weeping quietly, and Scroggie, peering over her shoulder, saw the word “No” crossed out. Softly she was saying, “He’s Lord, He’s Lord, He’s Lord.” Such is the stuff of holy obedience.
Going Deeper
We must be more precise, more concrete about this matter of holy obedience. Otherwise it will remain forever a pious-sounding theoretical ideal that does not much affect the way we live. Meister Eckhart wrote, “There are plenty to follow our Lord half-way, but not the other half. They will give up possessions, friends, and honors, but it touches them too closely to disown themselves.”2 As we cross over the line and venture into this second half, we find ourselves in the land of holy obedience. To gladly disown ourselves, to live in joyful self-renunciation, is the other half from which we so often draw back. Jesus declared, “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me” (Mark 8:34). Harsh demand, this self-denial. We would much prefer more comforting words like “self-fulfillment” and “self-actualization.” Self-denial conjures up in our minds all sorts of images of groveling and self-hatred. We imagine that it most certainly means self-contempt and will probably lead to various forms of self-mortification.
What we have failed to see is this amazing paradox: true self-fulfillment comes only through self-denial. There is no other way. The most certain way to miss self-fulfillment is to pursue it. “He who finds his life will lose it, and he who loses his life for my sake will find it” (Matt. 10:39).
It is wonderful, this losing of one’s self through a perpetual vision of the Holy. We are catapulted into something infinitely larger and more real than our petty existence. A blazing God-consciousness frees us from self-consciousness. It is freedom. It is joy. It is life.
I cannot stress enough how essential this quality is to true simplicity of life. It is the only thing that will allow us to hold the interest of others above self-interest. It saves us from self-pity. It lifts the burden of concern over having a proper image. It frees us from bondage to the opinions of others.
No one has written with greater vigor or more perception on the connection between selflessness and simplicity than the seventeenth-century Archbishop of Cambrai, François Fénelon. In his sensitive little book Christian Perfection, Fénelon identifies three stages though which we travel on our way into the simplicity of self-blindedness.
The first stage involves freeing ourselves from an “intoxication” to material or outward things and becoming sensitive to the things of the spirit, especially our own inward condition. We are no longer dazzled by the outward, the superficial. Impressive buildings, bulging budgets, flashy programs simply fail to move us. We give up on all the outward human systems to accomplish the work of God. Our attention is drawn to the more internal work of the Spirit. We become absorbed with the work of God upon the soul. It is a good and healthy step, but deeply self-centered and far from genuine simplicity. “It is a wise self-love, which wants to get out of the intoxication of outside things.”3
In the second stage we move away from total absorption in ourselves and our eternal destiny to being centered in the fear of God. It is a step forward but it is, as Fénelon said, “a weak commencement of true wisdom,” since we are “still wrapped up in self.”4 In this stage it is not enough for us to fear God; we must be sure that we fear him. We fear not-fearing. We have a kind of spiritual rigor that is determined to obey God. We are constantly returning to our own behavior to see if we can find any dregs of pride or avarice. There is a great longing for humility, and we work with all our might to attain it. There is a keen sensibility of sin within. A strong identity is felt with St. Paul, who, regardless of what others had done, could feel in the depths of his being that he was the “chief of sinners” (1 Tim. 1:15).
This stage is one of great honesty and sincerity, but it is not yet true simplicity. “Sincerity is a virtue below simplicity,”5 said Fénelon. The reason is easy to see. The sincere have a deep concern for honesty and truth. Rectitude, fidelity, conscientiousness, impeccability—these all mark the sincere. And although all of these are great virtues, they have a certain self-consciousness about them: a concern to do right, to be right, to look right. Of the sincere, Fénelon says, “They are always studying themselves, going over all their words and all their thoughts, and going back over all that they have done, afraid of having said or done too much.”6
The sincere are not yet simple. They have a kind of artificial rigor that makes us feel uncomfortable, though we cannot fault the virtue. They put us on edge and make us feel ill at ease. This often concerns us because they seem so spiritual, so determined to know God. We wonder if our discomfort stems from a resistance to God and his way. In reality, however, it is due to the fact that these deeply committed folk are trying too hard. They lack the ease, freedom, and naturalness that mark true interior simplicity. We would prefer less perfect people who are more at ease with themselves.
This stage in the spiritual walk must never be despised. It is, in a certain sense, necessary as we are coming into God. In the Christian fellowship there needs to be a sufficient measure of grace and latitude to allow our brothers and sisters and ourselves to travel through these experiences. Nor must we hurry people through this stage too quickly. People who see the peace and liberty that come from simple love often try to push themselves (and everyone else) into it before they are ready. This is a grave mistake. As the wise preacher of Ecclesiastes said, there is a time and a season for everything under heaven, and there must be times of inward struggle and penitence. When the time is right, the spirit is nourished by the bread of careful introspection. There is a proper place for inner disturbance and rigorous examination. Brother Lawrence witnessed to ten years of this inner turbulence.7
Having cautioned you about too brief a sojourn in this stage, I must hasten to add that neither must we become too attached to this period, for we are only pilgrims through the land. We were never meant to set up permanent residence there. An inward testing in the midst of strife is the rightful inheritance of the children of the kingdom (Heb. 4). When God begins to open us to something more pure, we are to follow promptly and never lose time in backward glances.
As we move along, God will lead us into the third stage, in which our attention becomes more and more drawn to the divine Center. “It begins to consider God more often than it considers self, and insensibly it tends to forget self in order to become more concerned with God with a love devoid of self-interest.”8
Please understand, this is not the destruction of self or the loss of individuality in some sort of “cosmic consciousness.” This is the discovery of the self achieved by focusing our attention on the Creator of the self. It is losing the self in order to find it. Only in this way can the true self blossom and flourish.
This third stage is a marvelous virtue, and something sublime. It is the natural charm and unpretentious exuberance of simplicity. We admire people who walk in this way, and enjoy their company. Gone is the forced behavior and sticky righteousness.
Do you know the wonderful new freedom this simplicity brings? No longer is there the stifling preoccupation with ourselves. Now there are new liberating graces to care deeply for the needs of others. And most wonderful of all, we can lay down the crushing burden of the opinions of others. Fénelon witnessed, “With this purity of heart, we are no longer troubled by what others think of us, except that in charity we avoid scandalizing them.”9 We do not have to be liked. We do not have to succeed. We can enjoy obscurity as easily as fame.
We have also a curious liberty to speak about ourselves not excessively but naturally. I say “curious” because most people assume that those who are truly unself-conscious would never talk about themselves. That approach belongs to an earlier period in which, out of false modesty, we try to quell any rise of pride. We are afraid that maybe we have said too much. We slip an example or word about ourselves into the conversation and immediately worry that it was inspired by vanity. We determine that we will never speak of ourselves, neither our accomplishments nor our failures, lest in either case we become the center of attention. At many points this is indeed good counsel, but it is a strained humility and contrary to simplicity. In time, however, we begin to relax, and are enabled to speak of ourselves with the same candor as we do of others. “Simplicity consists of not having any wrong shame, or false modesty,” writes Fénelon.10
The Apostle Paul knew this freedom to an amazing degree. He could assert his Roman citizenship and his Hebrew lineage when it was needed. He could boast of his many sufferings for Christ’s cause: beatings and stonings, shipwrecks and sleepless nights, hunger and thirst (2 Cor. 11:24–29). He received his apostleship and teaching from Christ alone, and even opposed Peter for his cultural Jewish Christianity (Gal. 1, 2). He was so free and unpretentious that he could boldly urge believers, “Be imitators of me, as I am of Christ” (1 Cor. 11:1).
Here is language that most of us would not dare utter. On our lips it would seem like the height of arrogance, and probably that is exactly what it would be. But Paul was beyond such petty self-admiration. He had passed through all that long ago. The hidden preparation through which God had put this man had changed him. We cannot understand the things that Paul said and the life that Paul lived until we see that he had given up on all the little human systems of self-aggrandizement. Without exaggeration he could call it all “dung,” because he was living in a greater Power. And when we see ourselves desperately struggling for the “dung,” we can be fairly certain that we know little of this “power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of his sufferings, being made conformable unto his death” (Phil. 3:10). Paul knew what it meant to be free from himself. What a desperately needed freedom it is today!
Throughout history there have been various traditions which, in one form or another, have advised verbal debasement of ourselves in order to gain mastery over reigning pride. We can remember this tendency in some of the ascetic practices of the Middle Ages, but it is also in evidence today in what I have sometimes called “worm theology.” “Without God I am nothing, I am no good, I am a worm!” Whatever merit such statements have theologically, I honestly doubt that they have much value in increasing selflessness. Fénelon is, I think, far wiser when he says simply, “Self-love prefers injury to oblivion and silence.”11 To be silent is probably the best way to deal with self-love.
In simplicity we are also free to let others speak well of us when it is appropriate. I still remember the day I was with a group of friends and one person paid me a sincere compliment. With self-conscious modesty I blushed, hemmed and hawed, and tried to shrug off the remark. A very perceptive friend in the group looked me straight in the eye and said, “Foster, you don’t know how to take a compliment, do you?” That was a turning point for me. I realized that a compliment, if given in honesty and not to impress, should be taken seriously. I had no right to affront people by rejecting their gift of love. Over the years since that incident, God has given me a measure of freedom in that regard, and it is a happy freedom.
In all of this we can sometimes get the mistaken impression of uninterrupted progress forward. Even the use of the term “stages” can unwittingly convey the idea of leaving one level for a higher one, never to return again. I have not found it to be so. My experience has been much more fluid and undulating. One day I may be experiencing an intimate attention to Christ’s presence that is well-nigh amazing, and the next day I am in the “Slough of Despond.” I can alternate between being meekly submissive and stubbornly rebellious with surprising speed. Many of the devotional masters record similar experiences. The stages are not hard and fast. There is a lot of movement back and forth, up and down.
But it is not a spiritual roller coaster either, because through all the motion there is a sense of progress and growth. The feeling of intermittent communion begins to give way to more sustained fellowship. Whereas before the hard thing was to seek God’s face, more and more the hard thing is to refrain from seeking him. Slowly and certainly, howbeit with many reversals, knowing God moves from obligation to delight. Although many times we do not pay attention to the holy Whisper, increasingly we do. We are less and less discouraged by our many wanderings in the wilderness because, having tasted the land of promise, we desire it more and more. As much as we may flirt with double-minded living, our real love is singleness of purpose, and increasingly it is capturing our heart. We cannot help being drawn toward this way of life when we read the inviting words of our mentor, François Fénelon: “When we are truly in this interior simplicity our whole appearance is franker, more natural. This true simplicity…makes us conscious of a certain openness, gentleness, innocence, gaiety, and serenity, which is charming when we see it near to and continually, with pure eyes.”12
Joy the Hallmark
Does all this sound difficult to you? Perhaps you are saying to yourself, “I thought I was doing well to get to stage one, and now I discover that it is the bottom rung! It sounds like too much work for me.” Yes, it is work—but then again, it isn’t. Once we begin, we discover that Someone is working on our behalf, and carrying the bulk of the load. It is the easy yoke and the light burden of which Jesus spoke. The Hound of Heaven is doggedly after us to do us good.
Actually this reality is not something we can bring about by gritting our teeth and fortifying our will. There are things for us to do, as we shall see, but they are more like getting in step with the Leader than blazing the trail for ourselves. There is a quality of yieldedness, a living in the passive voice. Fénelon observed, “The more docile and yielding a soul is in letting itself be carried away without resistance or delay, the more it advances in simplicity.”13
I often spend time with people who are keenly conscientious and determined to come into God. Sometimes I need to counsel them to relax and quit trying to be so religious. During my time teaching at university, I remember one such student who was struggling desperately and praying fervently over an internal matter. I shocked him when I said, “Please stop praying. You are working at this too hard; let me do the praying for you.” Such a small word, and yet it set him marvelously free.
Joy, not grit, is the hallmark of holy obedience. We need to be lighthearted in what we do to avoid taking ourselves too seriously. It is a cheerful revolt against self and pride. Our work is jubilant, carefree, merry. Utter abandonment to God is done freely and with celebration. And so I urge you to enjoy this ministry of self-surrender. Don’t push too hard. Hold this work lightly, joyfully.
The saints throughout the ages have witnessed to this reality. Think of St. Francis, the poor little monk of Assisi, inebriated with the love of God and filled with ecstasy. Those early Franciscans walked in holy obedience with the most incredible exuberance and merry abandon. Jubilant, they lived rapt in God by the over-flow of divine grace that descended upon them. Juliana of Norwich in her beautiful Revelations of Divine Love said that she was filled with “delight and security so blessedly and so powerfully that there was no fear, no sorrow, no pain, physical or spiritual, that one could suffer which might have disturbed me.”14 Blaise Pascal wrote, “Certitude. Certitude. Feeling. Joy. Peace. Forgetfulness of the world and of everything, except God…. Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy.”15 And on and on march the witnesses.
You know, of course, that they are not speaking of a silly, superficial, bubbly kind of joy like that flaunted in modern society. No, this is a deep, resonant joy that has been shaped and tempered by the fires of suffering and sorrow—joy through the cross, joy because of the cross.
The Rise of Humility
Of all the theological virtues, humility is one of the most coveted. No one enjoys people who are consumed with themselves. Smug arrogance is always distasteful. Genuine humility, on the other hand, has a gentleness about it that is delightful. There is an unpretentiousness in true humility that all people appreciate.
But humility is as elusive as it is desirable. We all know that it can never be gained by seeking it. The more we pursue it, the more distant it becomes. To think we have it is sure evidence that we don’t. But there is a way for humility to come into the habit patterns of our lives. Holy obedience opens the door. It is a central means of God’s grace to work humility into us.* It is not hard to see how this can be. When the whole of our vision is filled with the Holy, petty selfishness is squeezed out. Perpetual God-consciousness of necessity eliminates self-consciousness. Thomas Kelly wrote, “Humility rests upon a Holy blindedness, like the blindedness of him who looks steadily into the sun. For wherever he turns his eyes on earth, there he sees only the sun. The God-blinded soul sees naught of self, naught of personal degradation or of personal eminence, but only the Holy Will.”16
For the Christian, this comes as wonderful news. How many times we have longed to be free of our own self-conceit and domineering pride. What needless anguish we have borne simply because we were not noticed. We puff and strut to get a little attention, and later deplore our vanity. Wistfully we have seen the humility of others and ached to know its ease and freedom. How deeply we have desired to obey the word of Scripture to take on the mind of Christ, who (though God the Son) did not grasp for equality, but rather “emptied himself, taking the form of a servant…. And being found in human form he humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even death on a cross” (Phil. 2:7–8).
How wonderful now to see the connection between humility and obedience. Jesus “humbled himself and became obedient.” There is a way into humility, and it is through holy obedience. The God-possessed soul knows only one purpose, one goal, one desire. God is not some figure in our field of vision, sometimes blurred, sometimes focused; he is our vision. Our eye is single; our whole body is full of light. Selfishness cannot find a toehold.
First Steps
You may feel that the way of living we have been considering is a quantum leap from your present experience. Not only do you feel that you are in left field; you are in another ballpark, maybe another league. That probably overstates the case, but even if it is an accurate description of your situation, you need not be discouraged. You do not have to be advanced in the intricacies of sainthood to begin to move into holy obedience. You do not even need to know all of the problems or pitfalls. You need only one thing: a desire to know God and to walk with him. And even if you do not desire God but wish you did, you may ask him for the desire and he will give it to you. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that the very fact that you are reading this book is desire enough for God to begin bringing the grace of holy obedience into your life.
Holy obedience does not just fall upon our heads. There are things we can do that will draw us into this sacred sanctuary. So I share the following “first steps”—but I share them only as suggestions of the direction we need to travel, not as laws to encompass the journey. You can trust God to individualize the teaching: some things he will no doubt urge you to ignore; certainly he will teach you many personalized steps I do not mention. Above all, seek to be attentive to your present Teacher, whether through these words or beyond these words.
The first step I want to give you is not something to do at all. It is something to refrain from doing. Very simply, we should not try to be less egocentric. The attempt would be self-defeating. The more we work at being unconcerned about ourselves, the more conscious of ourselves we become. And so what are we to do? Nothing. Let the matter drop. It is one of those things in life that will never yield to a frontal attack. Concentration upon the problem redoubles its strength. This matter will be cared for in due time, but only if we first forget it and turn our attention to other things.
The second step is rather like the first in that it is less a plan for action and more a call to focus our field of vision. We are to discipline ourselves to “seek first the kingdom of God.” This focus must take precedence over absolutely everything. We must never allow anything, whether deed or desire, to have that place of central importance. The redistribution of the world’s wealth cannot be central; the concern for ecology cannot be central; the desire to get out of the rat race cannot be central; the desire for simplicity itself cannot be central. The moment any of these becomes the focus of our concern, it has become idolatry. Only one thing is to be central: the kingdom of God. And, in fact, when the kingdom of God is genuinely placed first the equitable distribution of wealth, ecological concerns, the poor, simplicity, and all things necessary will be given their proper attention.
In a particularly penetrating comment on this verse of Scripture, Søren Kierkegaard considered what sort of effort should be done to pursue the kingdom of God. Should a person get a suitable job in order to exert a virtuous influence? His answer: no, we must first seek God’s kingdom. Then should we give away all our money to feed the poor? Again the answer: no, we must first seek God’s kingdom. Well, then perhaps we are to go out and preach this truth to the world, that people are to seek first God’s kingdom? Once again the answer is a resounding no: we are first to seek the kingdom of God. Kierkegaard concludes, “Then in a certain sense it is nothing I shall do. Yes, certainly, in a certain sense it is nothing, become nothing before God, learn to keep silent; in this silence is the beginning, which is, first to seek God’s Kingdom.”17
And so I urge you to still every motion that is not rooted in the kingdom. Become quiet, hushed, motionless until you are finally centered. Strip away all excess baggage and nonessential trappings until you have come into the stark reality of the kingdom of God. Let go of all distractions until you are driven into the Core. Allow God to reshuffle your priorities and eliminate unnecessary froth. Mother Teresa of Calcutta said, “Pray for me that I not loosen my grip on the hands of Jesus even under the guise of ministering to the poor.”18 That is our first task: to grip the hands of Jesus with such tenacity that we are obliged to follow his lead, to seek first his kingdom.
The third step is so simple I am almost embarrassed to mention it, and yet it is so important that I must. Begin now to obey him in every way you can. Start right where you are, in the midst of all the tasks that press in upon you. Do not wait for some future time when you will have more time or be more perfect in knowledge. The Roman governor Felix wanted to wait for a more “convenient season,” but we all know that there is no more convenient season. “Today when you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts,” warned the author of Hebrews (3:7–8). Right now, as you read these words, ask for an increase of the light of Christ. Ask that the Shekinah, the glorious, radiant presence of God, which once filled the mercy-seat, fill your heart. In every task of your day seek to live in utter surrender, listening and obedient.
Allow me to share with you a very small experience, but one that may help you to see what I mean. This occurred at an especially busy time in my year. I was preparing for a weekend trip that involved speaking at three different churches. The financial arrangement was for each church to take up a little offering on my behalf when I had finished speaking. As I was meditating on what God desired of me for that weekend, I had the strong impression that I was not to take any money at all from these churches. For some time I struggled over this directive, for we were counting on the money to meet several obligations. The struggle further revealed an inward greed that I thought had been exorcised long ago. Finally, I felt clear that this was what I had to do if I was to be obedient. I shared this with my wife, for I felt that we had to be in unity on the matter. She released the money much more easily than I, noting that perhaps there would be some people in the meetings who needed to know that ministers of Christ were not always after their pocketbooks.
I told the pastors of the first two churches that any offering should be given to the poor or disposed of in whatever way they saw fit. Although surprised at my unorthodox request, they were congenial to the idea. But I arrived at the third church just as the service began, and so had no opportunity to explain my concern. I was relieved, however, when they did not take up an offering for me and assumed that the matter was settled.
It was late when I finally arrived at the home where I was to stay the night. As I walked in the door my host handed me a check made out in an amount that was, for me, considerable. It was from the church. I protested, but they mistook my concern for modesty and insisted with such vigor that I let the matter drop.
I wish I could express to you the experience I went through that night. There was the check lying on the nightstand, mine to take. I did not want to cause offense or seem ungrateful; after all, the money had been given for me. Maybe this last church should be considered an experience separate from the others. But what about the earlier directive—it had seemed quite clear. Back and forth I went. Finally, I had about decided that I really should take the money rather than cause any trouble, but I determined to review my decision once more in the morning when I was rested. I invited God to teach me while I slept if he desired.
When I opened my eyes the next morning it was unmistakably clear to me that I could not—must not—take the money. A period of meditation only intensified the conviction. With considerable trepidation I explained to my host as best I could why I was not able to accept the gracious gift. The moment I finished there rushed into me an unspeakable joy. Though outwardly I tried to remain calm, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of the glory of God. Once alone in the car I shouted and sang and blessed God. I did not have to be controlled by money! I could live in obedience! It was wonderful, jubilant ecstasy, and although the profuse exuberance lasted for perhaps twenty minutes, a sense of deep, warm joy flowed over me all day long. (I was pleased to learn later that the church decided to give the money for refugee work in Cambodia.)
It was such a small matter, and yet obedience was so important, so necessary. And you can obey God right where you are with the light you now have. Begin today, this moment.
A fourth advice in holy obedience is to get up quickly and keep going if you stumble and fall. You will fall, you know. I shared one incident of victory, but I could also tell you of so many times when stubborn self-will would shake its defiant fist at the gentle Voice: times when I simply didn’t want to listen so that I would not receive any disturbing instruction; neglect of whispered urgings to visit a neighbor or write a letter.
But when we do fail we do not need to give excessive time mourning the loss. We need to make confession, get up, and start again immediately. Nor should we linger long at the site of battles won. The issue in holy obedience is not whether we failed or succeeded yesterday or this morning, but whether we are obedient now. Does heaven’s light blind us to all other affections now? Is our eye single, are we living in simplicity now?
A fifth counsel in holy obedience is to still all vain talk about ourselves and others. I am not referring to gossip—I’m sure you ended that long ago. I mean the subtle mutual back-scratching that is profoundly dishonest, the strokes we give people, not to encourage them but to win them to our side. These over-flattering compliments are seldom thought to be deceitful, but they are. Such praise is not the straightforward speech that Jesus said would characterize the children of the kingdom (Matt. 5:33–37). And I have discovered that it does not really promote the honest, warm relationships we seek. Instead, it places an extra burden upon our brothers and sisters who are truly seeking to know humility of heart and now have to deal with our zealous misrepresentation of them.
In a public meeting I once spoke of a fellow pastor as “the most capable and compassionate pastor I know.” Later this good friend confronted me about the statement, saying that he did not feel compassion was yet a distinguishing characteristic of his ministry. He was helping me to see the difference between a true compliment and sheer flattery. A compliment affirms what is already there or coming into being. Flattery degrades us by saying something is that isn’t.
We would do well to discipline our words to what is actually the case without embellishment or overstatement. A commending word fitly spoken can be a special benediction, but we need to be careful not to offend propriety.
I shall mention a sixth word of counsel in this walk, which many have found especially helpful. I refer to the practice of keeping a spiritual journal. It is something of a book of remembrances, a personal Ebenezer to say, “Hitherto the LORD has helped us” (1 Sam. 7:12).
A journal is immensely encouraging, for we often forget over the years from what petty self-centered depths God has brought us. We tend to be so immersed in the tussle of the moment that we fail to see that the issues over which we now struggle are vastly more significant and substantial. Many matters are settled and behind us.
Beyond this, a journal has the added merit of focusing and concentrating our thinking. Writing out our concerns helps to clarify things and keeps us honest. Self-centered prayers become manifestly self-centered, even to us, when seen on paper. Insights that are hazy figures on our horizon sometimes become crystal clear when committed to a journal. Vacillating indecision can be turned into marching orders.
Many have been helped by sharing their journal notations with each other, thus providing mutual accountability and encouragement. None of us can live in holy obedience on our own. We need the help and encouragement, and even rebuke, of our brothers and sisters.
In our day a great crowd of concerns presses into our little lives, demanding attention. Neighbors are lonely; marriages are floundering; social injustice is prolific; world hunger is escalating. We are pulled, pushed, torn. We need not answer these concerns by rushing out in double-minded obedience. With our eyes blinded to all else by a flaming vision of God, we may respond decisively in holy obedience.