In His darkest hours, prior to the beginning of His physical torture unto death, Jesus still patiently and lovingly endured the mockery, rejections, abuses, and blatant misunderstanding of His nearest and dearest brethren. Lovingly.
In the midst of His deepest emotional, mental, spiritual torments--grieving in terror so deep as to reap blood--still, He comforted, served, and loved others. This is impossible for man, apart from Christ's intervention.
And to think, even Judas' feet were lovingly washed. No less than those of the rest. Knowing. Grieved. Tormented, even, yet refraining from despair for remaining steadfast in loving and honoring the Father, foremost.
He doesn't call us to look to one another--what a cold comfort, that we often provide comparative sufferings as some wholly erroneous attempt to mitigate the horrors endured by another. No, indeed. Rather, there's some brief solace in the solidarity of knowing we all suffer.
Even as looking to Christ's own suffering and torment and griefs offers no relief if viewed in terms of some blind attempt to silence other griefs, in comparison. Not at all.
Rather, a reminder He has and does suffer, still. We aren't alone. He understands and joins us. Even as He calls us to join with one another in grief and rejoicing.
Not to silence grief, but to endure. Unto healing.
The human tendency is to compare, though.
Rather than to see that all which He is and has done is a pealing refrain to the tune of His love and faithfulness, ever declaring we're not alone...no matter the trial.
Again and again, I've been told not to isolate. Refusing to openly acknowledge my pains and griefs and sufferings and joys and rejoicings and hopes is its own kind of isolation, in the midst of others. Having become accustomed to rebuke for expressing emotion--physical or verbal, or both--made isolation and restraint from open acknowledgement of emotions (and thoughts) preferable.
I am allowed to grieve. I am allowed to be broken.
I am allowed to struggle. Just as others are.
And not to despise or make light of my own or others' suffering.
But to bring it into subjection to the knowledge of who God is, and of His will.
Even when I'm utterly and completely wrong, still He is faithful.
And I've been very good at being wrong--very practiced in the matter.
But that's no reason to stop trying. And knowing Jesus is all the more reason to continue striving to love Him and others better...and myself, too, I guess.
He understands, though. And He's not put off by our failures--otherwise, He'd never have gone through such trouble as to salvage a relationship with us through His own blood and death.
No longer attempting to mitigate emotions, though. And effectively being...apparently...cut off from ability to attempt to avoid them or refuse to acknowledge them by running away or lying to myself about them, somehow suppressing them... ...I can't say I like.
There's something about having to look at what's felt and experienced in the light of the truth of Christ's love which stings like peroxide (or rubbing alcohol) in a fresh wound. Especially when He requires public acknowledgment, all the more.
That's part of the difficulty, when shock wears off--pain makes itself very known. And yet, we're to comfort others with the comfort we have received. I've not known comfort before Christ, in large part--the greater knowledge is of receiving rebuke for suffering openly.
It's very human to hurt those who are hurting. We fear pain. We covet security. And there's some very twisted, malicious glee in despising those who are afflicted with suffering...even in making them suffer more. It's sick. Utterly sick.
None of us is exempt. Sneering at or scoffing against those who enter trial after trial? But for grace, we'd all go. And even then, what mercy is it to be cast wholly upon the grace of God for means even to breathe?
Jesus was willing to suffer through the torments, enduring patiently the human thorns which pricked His heart along the while. Comforting those who would soon totally abandon Him, while He yet endured in silence.
I know He grieved and battled fears, along the while. Even apart from knowing Him, as to know...and, really, as large part of knowing Him, so to know...what's recorded of the open witness of His sufferings in Gethsemane attest to the mental, emotional, and spiritual trials being endured. And He pleaded with them, even then, that they would pray with Him, for Him. And they didn't. Disheartened, but not unto dismay. Grieved, but not unto despairing of the Father.
So He understands. He enters into our griefs with us. And as difficult as it is, encourages solidarity amongst the brethren along the while--even acknowledging there may well be those moments where the open acknowledgment of suffering is met with caustic rejection and rebuke. To suffer well, though, in solidarity with Jesus...
He would bear it for us. He would share the load. He has, so that He can.
So, He will. Even moment by moment as the pain rips us to shreds, and in the midst even still we're further trampled underfoot. He is there. He remains.
Better to face what's there, as He gives strength.
There've been times when grace has amounted to remaining drugged with warm milk and honey for half-dazed days at a time, prior even to being able to function, even to speak. Poring over Scripture, as though clinging to a life-raft--in desperation, with none to comfort except the Lord, Himself. And He calls to comfort with the comfort given.
I have nothing to give, except Christ Himself.
And even then, I fail, except that He intervene continually.
There is no call to silence grief. Nothing to dare attempt to detract.
But a desire to enter in solidarity, to whatsoever end the Lord would allow.
Yet it's not mine, to choose. So, if ever He only allows far distance and prayerfully seeking Him to intervene, then howsoever He wills.
It's very rare to speak openly, regardless.
But whatever the case, doing nothing is not an option.
I will pray, having entered the fray from where I stand, still.
Yet, ever as He wills. Not of mine.
One thing which seems increasingly certain is that He will have me speak with two of the elders at the new church about the previous church's abuses, personal. Why now and not before, I don't know. But, howsoever He wills. And whenever.
That lattermost is still not known. And it's entirely hard to tell when and to what extent the conversation will go. Speaking at length with the woman the Lord led to be a mentor, today, I ended up telling her about the previous pastor's exercise of spiritual discernment apart from the Lord's leading, even. Which, wasn't at all expected. It's one thing to discuss with others that there are theological errors and departures from Scripture, but to openly discuss that there are serious spiritual errors in practice, active, is another thing entirely.
Especially given that even in the church there's such a weird sense of disconnect from spiritual reality, in general. God the Father is Spirit, salvation is come of the Holy Spirit of Jesus coming to dwell within us and regenerating our own, as we dwell in the heavenlies with Christ, Himself, as part of this all, from that point onward. Yet there's an odd denial of the spiritual, still.
So, very unexpected to end up discussing at length the practices which used to be second nature and how the Lord delivered me into His own keeping over the months after He'd saved me. I tried for months to figure out where those "spiritual gifts" fit in to His purposes in the church, was the thing--I was still practicing them. But everything has to come into subjection, being surrendered to Jesus. And what He gives, then, is right. But not what's sought, per one's own will. That is rebellion, defiance.
So, the pastor at the previous church unknowingly practices that sort of spiritual divination. Humanly. And it's probably how they got the hook-up with whatever the weird spirit is that hangs there. The one that masquerades as God, attempting this weird sort of oppressive fearfulness and separation and isolation and restraint as a type of perverted holiness. When, rather, the fear which comes as a result of God's presence is one which brings utter silence to all thought and casts a person into trembling and utter incapacitation. Even as not to breathe, yet not being aware that breath has stopped till He withdraws, it seemed.
There's not anxiety. There's not fearfulness. There's abject incapacitation, with thought being utterly stilled. Not even to breathe. Only partially aware of what's even going on, until He allows for more.
Fear of the Lord really is a clean fear, somehow. A clean terror. It's not rife with other machinations, like with anxiety at the edges or self-consciousness rippling through or room for thoughts about how to maneuver oneself for best chance of survival. There's no room for thought. There's no room for doubt. There's no room for lack of faith. There's not room for self-awareness, even, nor awareness of others. Not at all. Everything is cast into abject silence under weight of His presence, specifically when fear of Him enters in.
But of that church--the light had truly come in, too, there...so there've now been some who have come to realize there is a darkness there. (Many months ago, prior even to having a new place to be, the Lord manifest conversation which made this known.)
And...
Praying.
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