Fires of Adversity

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Last summer, I visited Sequoia/Kings Canyon where the sequoia trees rely on fire to propagate. Today, I learned that the Rough Fire in California is ripping through Sequoia. It's sad in one way but also good, because I know that these particular trees thrive in the Fires of Adversity. In addition to the new baby trees that will find rich fertilizer amongst the ashes of those lost, the ones that survive will grow taller and thicker as they live through another wildfire. One of the rangers told us that they used to fight the fires until they learned it actually hurt the trees to interfere, and with us as well as sequoia trees, it is through the refining fire that we grow stronger.

This past Sunday, I felt particularly low and beset. Although I really like what I do, several hikers asked me on the mountain Saturday how I liked working in Academia, and I realized that I hate management. I work for a Dean who is of a Faith that detests mine and who I think went out of her way at every opportunity to make sure that I don't get anything unless she can somehow take credit. Although I get lots of compliments and am what women should want, I still go home to my faithful male beagle and spend Friday nights alone with my thoughts. Although I exercise a lot I still can't lose any weight or get rid of my stubborn belly fat. I'm fighting genetics, the GOBNet, and culture, and I'm getting tired. Today, I read about Hal Eyring, who was a little bit like me. Like me, he was a college chemistry professor. LIke me, he believed in God, worshiped Christ, and served valiantly as a man of Faith and Reason. Unlike me, he taught at Harvard and then at BYU. Unlike me, he was a pillar of my Faith and a father. However, his son recounts that once, while his father languished in the pain occasioned by cancer, his father asked God why he had to suffer so much when he had always tried to be good. He said a kindly answer came: “God needs brave sons.” When I read that, I knew I had my answer. If I really desire to stand tall, to be strong, and to be a good son, I must go through fires of adversary and go through them well.

For some reason, I am very popular in this new congregation. In the course of my three hours in the building last Sunday, I received three affirmations. My bishop told me that he thinks I'm a great man. So did a woman who decided to befriend me and make sure I have a place to sit besides the "single grumpy male" bench in my last congregation. Todd even went so far as to call me "the most faith-affirming thing" he sees every week. I have no responsibility, no family, no real friends, and yet there I am, despite the things with which I struggle, on time, on topic, singing and talking with the others who have reasons besides their own discipline to attend and trying to help THEM. I told him that his testimony shouldn't rest on my attendance, but I know he's right. I go to great lengths to be there. It's 25 miles from my house, and there are at least 12 other buildings of my Faith between my house and that building. Someone once told me that they envied me my faith, but what they really meant is that they wish they had my faith without going through the things through which I have passed. That's not really how it works, and it doesn't always work out this way. The right thing is rarely easy, which is probably why there are so few really great people, really great men, and really admirable stories. It's difficult to be disciplined; it's difficult to be a disciple. It requires you to be the very best you can be every day and then it requires you to realize that you can't be perfect. Even Peter denied knowing Christ.

All too often, we assume that becoming a Christian is easy, and all too many people of no faith whatsoever are quick to condemn us for our inability to perfectly live an ideal they wouldn't even attempt. In truth, if we want to be like Christ, we must endure what He did. Some of God's choicest spirits went through longer and deeper trials than any of the others. Trouble is, that's not how it starts. It starts with glowing experiences, and then God withdraws to let us stand on our own. My dad did the same thing when he taught me things, like riding a bike. I still remember riding along the irrigation ditch in Idaho with him holding the seat of the bike as he ran behind me. Now I realize that he was holding me up. Eventually, he let me ride on my own. Sometimes I fell and scraped my knee. He patched me up and encouraged me to try again until I could ride without his help, and now I ride 60 miles a week.

As you know, I am an avid fan of CS Lewis who wrote about this phenomenon. From his book The Screwtape Letters:

He (God) is prepared to do a little overriding at the beginning. He will set that off with communications of His presence which, though faint, seem great to them, with emotional sweetness, and easy conquest over temptation. But He never allows this state of affairs to last long. Sooner or later He withdraws, if not in fact, at least from their conscious experience, all those supports and incentives. He leaves the creature to stand up on it's own legs- to carry out from the will alone duties which have lost all relish. It is during such trough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that it is growing into the sort of creature He wants it to be. Hence the prayers offered in such a state of dryness are those which please Him best. We can drag our patients along by continual tempting, because we design them only for the table, and the more their will is interfered with the better. He cannot "tempt" to virtue as we can to vice. He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away his hand: and if only the will to walk is really there he is pleased even with their stumbles. Do not be decieved Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys.

I have seen this play out precisely as Lewis proscribes. People often ask why God doesn't do anything to stop suffering. I know that it might hurt us and be counterproductive if He interferes. Like the firemen in Sequoia NP, God isn't interested in mediocre trees. He offers these fires of adversity to help make us strong.

Fires of adversity are necessary, and they are sad because sometimes it doesn't lead to stronger trees, to better people. For each new sapling that emerges from the ashes, we think of great and noble trees we once knew who fell from their lofty state. I arrived in my mission to a congregation that had just been through an apostasy and then had a companion who apostatized himself. I have an uncle who also served a mission who no longer practices. I have a cousin who decided after witnessing of Christ as a missionary that he was gay. I was once married to a woman who pledged fealty and faithfulness to our union and to our Maker who know regards that oath as null and thinks only meanly of me. I have witnessed to many people who no longer even acknowledge they ever knew me. Even I discovered I am less than what I feel I ought to be. As much as I tried to be the man my dog or Kat thought I was, I'm still human, I'm still imperfect, but I am still here. The fires must come, and they must sometimes be frequent. "In your life," said F Enzio Busche, "there have to be trials. They can either bring you closer to Christ or they can destroy you." When opposition mounts, when the fires burn, you can either break down, or you can break through. When asked by the world to do things that are immoral and unethical even when they are legal, we must be ready to do what we ought. Said Sir Thomas More: “If we lived in a state where virtue was profitable, common sense would make us saintly. But since we see that avarice, anger, pride and stupidity commonly profit far beyond charity, modesty, justice and thought, perhaps we must stand fast a little, even at the risk of being heroes.”

Years ago, my best friend suggested I leave the Faith and worship on my own, but I could not. I feel to say as did Peter when asked "To whom shall we go? Thou hast the words of eternal life." Once, a friend gave me some contrary literature which I read. However, I have seen the sweetness and communications Lewis describes and felt of His presence. I have seen miracles and been part of them. I have been enlightened. I know it, and I know that God knows it, and I cannot deny it. Where else would I go? What else would even offer anything comparable? I feel sometimes as if His hand has been withdrawn, as if He left me behind to die like Reno did to Custer at the Little Bighorn. However, I know that I'm not alone. I know men of More faith and men of Liddel faith. I know this is a trough, a trial, and eventually this too will pass. I know that God needs brave sons, and I will stand fast a little at the risk of being a hero. I know that when the fires of adversity blow over and go away that someone will need to replenish and nurture the forest. I know that the scars of the burn grow over and that the trees grow strong. I feel forsaken, but this is who I am. This is where I will stay. I will stand my ground, hold until relieved, and be stubborn today and every day as long as I can until He decides I am ready to bear fruit and worthy of passing on who I am and what I learned. I will be a brave son. The Lord needs valiant servants to do His work in these latter days who follow the teachings of Jesus and serve His people in a loving way. I will be His servant and keep my covenants valiantly. I'll stand for truth; I'll stand for right. The Lord can depend on me. I will be brave, for there are those who trust me.