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Christian's Daily Challenge

March 28, 2024

Pain reveals our nothingness


“It is good for me that I have been afflicted” (Psa. 119:71).

“I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction” (Isa. 48:10).

In casting up the incidental blessings of the year, I found none to compare to my illness; it gave such a life, such a reality and nearness, to my prospect of futurity; it told me in language so conclusive and intelligible, that here is no abiding city.—Sir Thomas F. Buxton.

Pain teaches us our nothingness. Health permits us to swell in self-esteem and gather much which is unreal; sickness makes our feebleness conspicuous, and at the same time breaks up many of our shams. We need solid grace when we are thrown into the furnace of affliction; gilt and tinsel shrivel up in the fire. The patience in which we somewhat pride ourselves, where is it when sharp pangs succeed each other like poisoned arrows setting the blood on flame? The joyful faith which could do all things, and bear all sufferings, is it always at hand when the time of trial has arrived? The peace which stood aloft on the mountain’s summit and serenely smiled on storms beneath, does it hold its ground quite so easily as we thought it would when at our ease we prophesied our behavior in the day of battle?

How I have felt dwarfed and diminished by pain and depression! The preacher to thousands could creep into a nutshell, and feel himself smaller than the worm which bored the tiny round hole by which he entered. I have admired and envied the least of my Lord’s servants, and desired their prayers for me, though I felt unworthy of the kind thoughts of the weakest of them.

We are most of us by far too great. A soap bubble has a scant measure of material in it for its size, and most of us are after the same order. It is greatly for our good to be reduced to our true dimensions. It is comfortable to be small; one has more room and needs less, and is better able to hide away. When storms are out a low bush or narrow eaves may shelter a sparrow, while a larger bird must bear the beat of the rain and the wind. To be nothing, and to feel less than nothing, is most sweet, for then we cower down under the great wings of God, as the little chick beneath the brooding hen, and in utter helplessness we find our strength and solace. Nothing goes but that which ought to go; the flower falls, but the seed ripens; the froth is blown away, but the wines on the lees are perfected. When nought remains but the clinging of a weeping child who grasps his Father’s hand, nought but the smiting on the breast of the publican who cries, “God be merciful to me, a sinner,” nought but the last resolve, “Though he slay me, yet will I trust in Him,” no real loss has been sustained, say rather, a great gain has come to the humbled heart.—C. H. Spurgeon.