Gratitude Stronger than Suffering (Gratitude IV)

Victor Frankl, whose quote opened this chapter, experienced a living nightmare far beyond our worst dreams: he was a prisoner in Auschwitz and two other Nazi concentration camps. He watched as some of his fellow prisoners made it through, some had their lives stolen away, and others gave up hope and died. His conclusion at the end of his ordeal was that freedom of choice—and specifically, the ability to choose an orientation to meaningfulness in the midst of the most dire situations—was man’s ultimate freedom: “to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”[1]

As humans made in God’s image, we have freedom to choose. Pastor and author Chuck Swindoll says, “The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life… I am convinced that is life is 10 percent what happens to me and 90 percent how I react to it. And so it is with you… We are in charge of our attitudes.”[2]

Gratitude is precisely an attitude of hope. It’s even an acceptance and embrace of the inconveniences and suffering that try our souls. In it is the recognition that what tries us transforms us, if we don’t allow it to swallow us. This type of transformative gratitude is not wishful thinking or even “the power of positive thinking.” It’s not some Polyanna-pie-in-the-sky-optimism (though I guess there’s nothing wrong with that, if you can pull it off). The gratitude that Scripture talks about entails fully entering into both the joy and the sorrow of life. When we are willing to suffer, we can actually experience tremendous joy as we discover that our soul is meant for more than mere comfort. 

A few weeks ago, I was “not doing well.” Those are the very words I used to share with our church staff at our weekly meeting, as everyone graciously gave me their attention and let me stumble through some disjointed thoughts about how I was doing. I think I was exhausted. And I was realizing that I had never adjusted to having two kids while overseeing a largely-new staff, while pastoring a church, while both my wife and I work. I kept waiting for my energy and verve to rebound, but it wasn’t happening. I started to wonder if this was it: was I “burning out,” as I had heard so many warn about? After five days of prayerful retreat—which were insisted on by my kind and generous wife—I started to find my center again. I completely overhauled my schedule and once again accepted my limitations as a human being. But most importantly, in the midst of it all, even in the midst of the exhaustion, I started to feel joy again. I found consolation—the knowledge that God is with me in my weakness and that he comforts me, if I am willing to bring it to Him and to others, rather than judging, hating, and resisting it. In the midst of my sorrow, I started to feel a palpable sense of hope. I realized I didn’t just want things to “get better” so that I could return to a life full of activity. I actually wanted to fully mine the experience of joy that was happening as I was honest about my weakness. I wanted to stay in that place where, in my weakness, I felt such connection with God and others. 

As Americans, or maybe just as humans, we tend to think of joy and sorrow as different ends of a spectrum.

We want to maximize our happiness and pleasure (which we often, mistakenly, call joy) and minimize our sadness and discomfort. But the Scripture paints a different narrative of joy. It’s less like a line and more like a circle, and the place where true joy begins is connected to an experience of suffering.[3]

 Joy is magnified in the place where it touches sorrow, if we will allow the suffering to open us and not to harden us. In that place, joy becomes something far greater than the absence of adversity. This is because we can only be truly consoled by God—as opposed to just comforted by temporary relief—when our soul is stripped away. Once you come to know the life of God in the midst of suffering, you begin to experience the pattern of resurrection as God’s light fills you, even in the midst of sorrow. Experience this and you’ll begin to lose your fear of much of anything, even death itself. 

This is no doubt why the Scripture gives us such broad permission—and even commands us—to lament! Lament is a practice rooted in sorrow and suffering, and it is entirely different than grumbling and complaining. The Scripture encourages both thanksgiving and lament because both practices are anchored in trust and hope. We lament God’s seeming absence because we trust that reality is strong enough to take our honest response, and because we recognize that it is that only when we are authentic that we can be open to God. Thus, lament, like gratitude, is actually a sign that we are trusting a bigger story than mere survival or comfort, and that we are keeping our souls open before God. In this posture, we come to know that God is with us. 

For all of these readings in one place, order my book 'Learning to Live and Love Like Jesus.'

[1] See Foonote 1, above.

[2] Attributed everywhere to Charles R. Swindoll and listed in Swindoll’s The Grace Awakening, (Thomas Nelson. Nashville TN. 2005.)

[3] Perhaps Paul says it most clearly: “And since we are his children, we are his heirs. In fact, together with Christ we are heirs of God’s glory. But if we are to share his glory, we must also share his suffering.” (Romans 8:17)