The Fellowship of His Sufferings

“I want to know Christ – yes, to know the power of His resurrection
and participation in His sufferings, becoming like Him in His death,
and so, somehow attaining to the resurrection from the dead.”
(Philippians 3:10 NIV)

Truth be told, I’ve been hoarding my Israel experiences, rationing them out as manna for the wilderness I’ve returned to. Each hour in the Holy Land was amazing, each day crested with it’s own spiritual pinnacle. I know I will feast for years off the holy moments hard-packed into those eight short days. That being said, there is one memory that has held such healing, I mentally return to it’s birthplace many times a day.

Before I can share this experience, there’s a bit of back story. As many of my readers know, the past five years of my life have been nothing short of unfair; marked by tragedy, loss and inherited responsibility. This past year, though, it’s as though I was moved from the fire into the frying pan. Horrible things have happened to me entirely apart from my personal contribution. Betrayal has been my bitter companion. It seems as though my godly decisions and actions have harvested nothing but grief. I’ve suffered deeply at the hands of sinful man. And honestly, I’ve been feeling more than a little sorry for myself. Pity party for one. About a month ago, I finally reached out to my friend and spiritual mentor for perspective and she wisely told me, “Anna, God is allowing you to experience deep injustice.”

Trust me when I say those are not the words I wanted to hear. I wanted her to tell me I was right, it was unfair and God was going to fix it all tomorrow. I wanted a little bit of lightning to come down and smite the sinners that had made such a mess of my life. I wanted her to tell me that my anger and fervent wrestle with forgiveness was completely justifiable, that God was mad that this happened, too. But instead she just quietly tells me that God had, in fact, allowed it. Gulp.

Deep injustice. It sat with me like a too-solid meal in the bottom of my belly. I didn’t like it. Why would God allow it? What possible Kingdom good could come from the enemy experiencing such a smug victory?

So this is how I was struggling when we boarded three flights and worked our way around the world; a whole hemisphere away from my dilemma. This is the stage for the crowning moment in my pilgrimage…

We had finally made it to Jerusalem. We had spent our morning in the slow descent down the Mount of Olives, pausing to weep a bit in the tear-shaped chapel with the view of the city that grieved our Savior so.

As we descended, our guide had spoken with us about olives. About how the olive is pressed before it’s crushed; how in order to obtain the essence of the olive (the oil) it must lose itself in the process. I thought about our Savior, pressed in the garden before He submitted to the crushing of the cross. Pressed and crushed so His Spirit could be gathered and deposited in us.

We approached the Church of All Nations solemnly, well aware of the historic moment it signified. I had heard there was an ancient stone inside; the Rock of Agony where scholars believe the Savior wept and sweat blood with us in mind.

I wanted to rush past, I wanted to get to the Garden of Gethsemene. I wanted to see the olive trees and remember my heritage as a daughter planted in the House of the Lord. I thought I knew what the Lord might speak to my heart in that sacred space. I was wrong.

We drifted into the sanctuary, each of us pilgrims alone in our thoughts. The room was adorned in heavy mosaics, the starry night and His last hours spelled out one tiny tile at a time. The large stone preoccupied the room; the size of a king mattress set into the floor of the altar. I’m not one for relics, especially those marked as ‘supposedly’ but I was moved. Though I was unsure how to respond, I was certain of the Presence in this place. I left my hat and notebook at the handrail and fell hard to my knees at the edge of the rock, drawn like a moth to the light.

The moment my mortal hand rested on the enduring stone, I had what I can only call a pentecostal power surge. In brightest flash of light and knowledge, I felt the Lord speak to my soul so significantly; “Anna, I have let you experience a fraction, a small taste of the deep injustice I endured so you would know my heart, firsthand.” In that moment, I remembered the myriad of prayers I’ve prayed over the past twenty-some years; “God, I want to know Your heart. Less of me, more of You. Make me more like You. I want intimacy with You at all costs.”

The tears flowed freely as I realized how my Savior had, through the unwantedcup of deep injustice, revealed to me the most shadowed side of His heart. He shared with me His wrestle to do the right thing when everyone else was insistent on doing the wrong thing. This moment solidified the truth: true intimacy only comes with brave vulnerability. My Lord had let me into His inner chambers by allowing me to experience my own brand of deep injustice. I saw, for the first time, suffering as an opportunity to pray through with Christ, invited into the midnight garden to participate in His story right alongside Him. It is a privilege to share the cup.

When agonizing vulnerability is offered, it is our first instinct to bolt. I’ve struggled with this response, it’s awful tempting to run and hide when things get really hard. I’ve wanted to escape the embarrassment, the association of such ugly truths, the mess that’s left in it’s wake. But this day, with this new knowledge burning in my soul, by the time we moved from the inner sanctuary of agony, out into the bright light of the Garden, I was gaining confidence. Perhaps it was when we passed by the olive trees that seemed to be scarred by what they’ve seen, twisted by the grief they’ve worn, that I was finally certain. Peter’s words, when pressed by Jesus to leave because staying proved difficult, have became my words, also.

“Simon Peter answered Him, “Lord, to whom shall we go?
You have the words of life. (John 6:68 NIV)

I could flee. I could run. But in running I would pass up the opportunity for true intimacy, for the one-flesh divine entanglement I have long desired. Salvation is a free gift but intimacy is extraordinarily expensive. The woman with the alabaster jar taught us that intimacy costs everything. And once we’ve tasted it, intimacy is well-worth the excruciating investment.

This is what Christ offers us. True intimacy with God. Fellowship with the holy Family. He first offers Himself; every part of His story, including participating in His suffering. It is in sipping from this passing cup, amidst the hot fires of deep injustice, that we firsthand learn the magnitude of Christ’s forgiveness. Forgiveness is the supernatural power that freed Him up for resurrection. It is still true for us, forgiveness in the face of deep injustice unfreezes us, redeems our mindset from death to life.

So I left Israel believing that deep injustice is unfair, but it’s also a gift. It’s wrapped in injurious packaging and we’d wish like anything that this parcel would land on anyone’s doorstep but ours. Yet, we mustn’t be too quick to cast aside what God has allowed. Even ordained. I dare you to pull the tape back a bit, get a good look at the things that unnerve you. Allow yourself to sit in the discomfort and ask the hard questions. I wonder if our gracious Savior might lead you the same conclusion; deep injustice is an exclusive opportunity to explore the interior of His heart. It’s an invitation to oneness that we can recieve by no other means. You may be surprised by the gratitude that comes whispering in; a gentle breeze after the heat of anger has finally passed. I left the Garden that day honored, changed by the exchange of stories that happened there. Encouraged. Strengthened. Seen and treasured. My prayer is that one day, you will too.

Lord, injustice antagonizes us. We’d prefer it pass us by completely. Yet we are confident that You are sovereign and the things that come to our door did not arrive without Your pre-approval. When we wrestle, please help us push through to right conclusions. May we see our unfair moments as opportunities to re-align with Your heart, to better understand the story of Your salvation efforts on our behalf. Thank You for Your vulnerability with us, Your brave readiness to share the darkest hours of Your sacrifice. May we receive these divine connections as gifts, and in the heat of the moment, find the power in You to forgive and move forward. Amen.