Suffering, Hope and the Extent of the Gospel

lessons I have learned from my long struggle with post-Lyme chronic pain

Painting by Brandon J. O’Brien A tree in Blacksburg, VA, 2023.

Author’s note: this essay includes reflections which may appear as part of an article in byFaith magazine sometime in 2024. This is published with their permission. My thoughts are my own.

When I think about what has made my faith stronger, my first thought is when I see Christ in others. When I see others live as though heaven were real and this earth fleeting, it strengthens my faith. When I see others be generous with their time and money, or courageous enough to be people of integrity when compromising their faith is the far easier path, that strengthens my faith. People who live hidden lives.

But in terms of my own life, the most surprising circumstance that has strengthened my faith in God’s goodness is my own struggle with Lyme disease and its aftermath. Of course, the struggle has involved lots of complaining and self-focused misery.

But my pain has also caused me to commiserate with others who are also struggling - with trials far worse than mine. For some reason, my suffering has caused me to have more hope for the hurting of the world. Why is that? I am not sure I can explain it, but perhaps my pain is allowing me to see truths in Scripture that have always been there but which I had neatly boxed away.

As I have prayed for strength and healing for myself, I have often looked around at the hurting around me, including many unbelievers, and I ask, “why should I ask mercy for myself and not also for them? Why should I expect God’s love for me in my pain, but think He does not equally care for them?”

I know the correct theological answers, about profession of faith in Christ and God’s election. But somehow, when I am in pain, those answers are not enough. I feel much more like the psalmist, complaining to God about injustice, and asking why won’t He act? Why won’t He - in the end - have mercy on so many who suffer from oppression?

I feel Paul’s cry in Romans 9 when he expressed his “great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart” for his fellow Jews. I look around at those who are my fellow sufferers and ask for God to show them mercy - not only in this life, but in the life to come, through Christ our Lord.

Perhaps that is why I am still here - to pray. Perhaps I am Jonah under the withered plant. Perhaps we all are.

And I wonder. When I read in the Psalms about God lifting up the poor, or when Jesus says “blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,” there is no qualifier of faith there, no mention of the visible church. I know my theology. I know the technical answer, the analogy of faith I am to apply to such texts. But that does not mean I cannot wonder. And that does not mean I cannot pray for all who mourn now to be comforted, both now and forevermore. Why would I not?

It is as if God is saying to me, “You pity your health, which you did not create, nor did you sustain. Should I not pity these many thousands of suffering souls around you? Do I not love the world as much as I love you? Isn’t that why I sent my Son?”

And so I pray, remembering the great vision from John’s Revelation in which he saw: 

“a great multitude which no man could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, crying out with a loud voice, ‘Salvation belongs to our God who sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb!’”

My suffering has given me more pity for those who suffer. But oddly also, more hope. I have become more optimistic about God’s love for this world, even as I complain more about my own lot and sometimes give into bitterness and discouragement.

As a Christian and as a preacher - and as one who suffers pain - I must remain optimistic about the End. I must remain positive. I simply must. I have leaned more, not less, into God’s sovereignty and his love for this world. Has He not promised to bring a New Heavens and a New Earth? Isn’t that why He sends his servants into the highways and hedges that his house may be full?

Meanwhile, my suffering has made me open to hearing new voices in my reading that I had previously neglected. My upbringing was middle class and comfortable with many privileges afforded to me in life. But chronic illness is the great equalizer; it lowers us all before a mighty God, rich and poor alike. We are all sisters and brothers in our common need for mercy, and for the oil of gladness only Christ can provide.

So I began to wonder - who was I not listening to? Who was I not reading? I have led a theology reading group in my church since I’ve been here, covering well over fifty books and essays that I selected. Upon examination, I discovered all but one were authored by European or American white men. The one exception was Augustine, the North African church father.

So I began to read more women authors to hear their perspective, including Kristin Kobes du Mez’s Jesus and John Wayne. I began to read more African American authors, including Martin Luther King, Jr. even though I knew we had theological differences. But, I thought, maybe these authors knew something more about suffering and being marginalized than I did. Maybe, in my pain, I could learn something from them that I was not ready to learn before.

There is something about the crucible of suffering that gives us new eyes to see things in Scripture we simply did not take time for before. As Dr. King wrote in his Letter from a Birmingham Jail, “What else can one do when he is alone in a narrow jail cell, other than write long letters, think long thoughts and pray long prayers?”

My suffering and longing for God’s mercy have also helped me appreciate more the work of God in traditions outside of my own, wherever the love of Christ is proclaimed. If one looks, one can find Jesus at work in surprising places. After all, it’s we Reformed folk who proclaim that every square inch belongs to Christ. Perhaps mercy triumphs over judgment after all.

So oddly, my chronic illness has forced me to try to be more positive and encouraging to others, despite my bouts with discouragement. If I am struggling just to get by, I see that in many around me as well. Who among us needs more discouragement in life? Maybe a few who exalt themselves, but it is not our job to bring that.

As Proverbs says, “Anxiety in a man’s heart weighs him down, but a good word makes him glad.” We all need a good word. We all need the hope of Christ. It is suffering that binds us together in that need. That is what my long illness has taught me.