When God Weeps Read online

  When God Weeps

  Why Our Sufferings Matter to the Almighty

  Joni Eareckson Tada

  Steven Estes

  To Verna—

  Eight kids later and still the most fun companion on earth

  To Ken—

  You make me forget this chair…and that’s saying a lot

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  SPECIAL THANKS TO…

  BEFORE YOU BEGIN

  One I’M HURTING BAD

  Section I WHO IS THIS GOD?

  Two ECSTASY SPILLING OVER

  Three THE SUFFERING GOD

  Four DOES HE REALLY EXPECT ME TO SUFFER?

  Five ALL TRIALS GREAT AND SMALL

  Six HEAVEN’S DIRTY LAUNDRY?

  Section II WHAT IS HE UP TO?

  Seven A FEW REASONS WHY

  Eight THE BEST ANSWER WE HAVE

  Nine MAKING SENSE OF SUFFERING

  Section III HOW CAN I HANG ON?

  Ten CRY OF THE SOUL

  Eleven GAINING CONTENTMENT

  Twelve SUFFERING GONE MALIGNANT

  Thirteen SUFFERING GONE

  BEFORE YOU PUT THIS BOOK DOWN

  Section IV APPENDICES

  Appendix A: SCRIPTURE ON GOD’S HAND IN OUR SUFFERINGS

  Appendix B: SCRIPTURE ON GOD’S PURPOSE IN OUR SUFFERINGS

  Appendix C: CAN GOD EXPERIENCE GRIEF?

  NOTES

  OTHER BOOKS BY JONI EARECKSON TADA

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  SPECIAL THANKS TO…

  Sometimes a fresh word may, in fact, be a very old one. Truths that are timeless often need only the “time” brushed away in order to reveal the polished patina that has gleamed all along. And so we acknowledge those fathers of theology on whose shoulders we have built this book. People like Calvin and Luther and Latimer, Jonathan Edwards and George Whitefield, Loraine Boettner and Martyn Lloyd-Jones. Not many pull the writings of Jeremiah Burroughs off the shelf for a little casual reading these days, and so When God Weeps is meant to give a fresh and contemporary treatment of doctrines hammered out by theologians of old. We give thanks to God for these men of faith who continue to shape the thinking of many.

  We extend a hearty handshake to our friend, Dr. John MacArthur, who researched the Scriptures for Appendix B. (And he did so long before you could click on a computer icon and—zip!—have the answers!).

  Our profuse gratitude goes to Scott Bolinder of Zondervan who graciously accommodated our schedule, and John Sloan, our editor, with Bob Hudson, who picked up our slack. Thanks, also, to Robert Wolgemuth of Wolgemuth & Hyatt who kept us on track. This book was a team effort and sometimes the writers (Steve and Joni) had the defense and offense scrambling. Bless you, friends.

  We can’t leave this page without writing a few individual acknowledgments. Joni, who can’t type a key or turn a page without help, would like to thank Judy Buder and Francie Lorey for generously serving as her hands on When God Weeps. She can’t miss saying an extra thank you to Ken for cheering her on through late nights and Saturday afternoons. The JAF Ministries staff was gracious in respecting Joni’s closed office door and shortened administrative meetings—all to give her time to think, pray, and write. A special thanks to Bunny Warlen, Steve Jensen, Judy Butler, Francie Lorey, and a host of intercessors, including the Wednesday night group at Church in the Canyon, who lifted the manuscript, day by day, up in prayer.

  Steve would like to send out his heartfelt thanks to:

  Jesus Christ knows me yet still loves me. I cannot get over this.

  The elders of Community Evangelical Free Church, Elverson, Pennsylvania, for granting a six-month leave that stretched into eight, and for the generous conditions of that leave. They and the staff bore the weight of additional work during that period, especially Arleigh Hegarty who so competently filled the pulpit.

  My congregation who made me feel as if I were engaged in the world’s most important project—when they were the ones so engaged by their daily plugging away in the work of God’s kingdom. They loved me, sent me notes, had our family for dinner, and prayed, prayed, prayed.

  Paul and Carolyn Montgomery. You know all you gave me. It helped this book so much.

  Dave Godown for your enthusiasm about this project, backed up by a gesture of real self-sacrifice.

  Merle and Dave Stoltzfus for putting at my disposal a most pleasant office and staff. What would I have done without this gesture—and without your friendship which I prize beyond words? Why did God give me such brothers-in-law?

  Emily, Ashley, Debbie, and Paula who were 4/5 of that helpful staff. They cheerfully helped me in a hundred and one ways.

  Steve Beard whose flexibility last September helped me in this project more than he knows.

  Whistling Al Marple whose weekly cleaning visits cheered me. He always inquired about the book’s status and prayed daily for Joni and me.

  Rev. Tom Hall and the Elverson Methodist Church for access to their building where I could find quiet spots to walk and pray throughout this project.

  The Wednesday Soup Kitchen members.

  Verna, who listened to every whine as I wrote this but helped, loved, and fed me anyway. 5′ 0″ of smiling selflessness.

  Jeb, Gail, Leah, and Sarah Bland who hosted Verna and me for an autumn weekend in Rhode Island. How we needed and loved it!

  Ben Mountz who carried tons of books and shelving up flights of stairs to my writing office. Turns out I didn’t need most of it. Sorry.

  Bob Hughes, who one day told me, “Give me your office key, tell me when you’ll be out for a day, and don’t ask any questions.” I returned to find my old bookshelves whisked away, new ones moved in, and the thousands of books transferred. I now have the nicest bookshelves on the east coast, hand built by Bob as a labor of love—stocked with John Owen, Francis Turretin, and other books he bought me. Sherri helped him all the way. I will always remember them, now moved to Florida.

  Larry Everhart for insight into thunderstorms, as background for Chapter 6. An easy-going, low pressure kind of guy.

  The mother of the young man I have called Paul Ruffner in Chapter 5, for many hours of uplifting phone conversation in which she described God’s remarkable grace to her family during some heartbreaking years.

  John Frame of Westminster Seminary, California, for faxed thoughts on God’s emotions as I worked on Appendix C, although he never had opportunity to see the appendix.

  Vern Poythress and Sinclair Ferguson of Westminster Seminary, Philadelphia. Separate theological conversations with these men have helped my life and thinking enormously, even though their insights had only indirect impact on this book.

  Laurie O’Connor who re-wrote Appendix C out of sloppy senselessness into coherence when my back was against the wall for time, and who prayed for me like a trooper.

  Diane Stoltzfus who cheerleadered me through Chapters 2 through 6 in some bleak moments. Thank you, thank you.

  And finally, Curt Hoke, who on the countless occasions I called for help made me feel like I was doing him the favor. Nobody helped more with this book than he. I love the man.

  BEFORE YOU BEGIN

  I first met Joni in the summer of 1969 in a church parking lot. Several hundred other teenagers and I had just exploded from the building. The youth meeting was over, and everyone was scattering, engines starting, radios cranked up—laughter and good-hearted tomfoolery everywhere.

  A white station wagon had pulled up to the side steps. Somehow, with my friend Diana holding the keys, it avoided looking like a middle-aged person’s wheels. Diana had the world’s most carbonated personality. She stood by the front passenger door, next to an empty wheelchair she
had pulled from the back seat to unfold. She wanted me to meet the paralyzed friend she had told me about. From my angle up on the steps, I couldn’t see the face of the tall girl in the seat. I could see the braces on her wrists.

  “Steve, I want you to meet Joni.”

  “Hi, Joni.”

  The face in the front seat bent down to peer out. Stylishly short blonde hair. Freckle-faced and cute. Ski-slope nose. A bright but bittersweet smile—sweet because, if you know Joni, that’s just her. Bitter because she looked as if that chair had taken something precious out of her.

  “Hi, Steve! Good to meet you.” Enthusiastic but tentative.

  “You two have a lot to talk about,” Diana effervesced. We agreed it would be fun to get together.

  A week later I walked into the stone-and-timber home that I’ll always think of as a vestibule into heaven. Anders over every fireplace, Indian rugs scattered about. Candles, candles. Simon and Garfunkel on the turntable, laughter in every room, and the bubbling friendliness of the parents and sisters from whom Joni had stolen that winning smile.

  But once we were alone, it wasn’t ten minutes before the question came.

  “So, Diana says you’re big into the Bible. Tell me, do you think God had anything to do with my breaking my neck?” She casually brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist, but those eyes were anything but casual.

  Here is the crux of the book you’re about to read.

  I am a sixteen-year-old nobody, a paper boy, sitting across from perhaps the most popular girl of her huge high-school class from two years earlier. The crowd she ran with I saw only from across the gymnasium. Now look at her. I tap my foot to James Taylor in the background; she just bobs her head. I eat my own lunch; someone has to feed her. I’ll be walking out that screen door in about thirty minutes; she’ll stay sitting in that chair till the Grim Reaper comes. And she wants to know if I think God put her there? Who am I to open my mouth?

  I know what the Bible says about her question. A dozen passages come to mind from years of church and a Christian dad who taught his kids well. But I’ve never test-driven those truths on such a difficult course. Nothing worse than a D in algebra or puppy-love-gone-sour has ever happened to me. But I think, If the Bible can’t work in this girl’s life—it never was for real.

  I clear my throat and jump off the cliff.

  “God put you in that chair, Joni. I don’t know why, but if you’ll trust him instead of fighting him, you’ll find out why—if not in this life, then in the next. He let you break your neck because he loves you.”

  Oh, it sounded trite to me—but apparently not to her. We looked at a few verses, and I went home. From that day on I had to study hard just to keep one step ahead of the girl; she always had her nose in that Bible.

  This book is about God weeping over human heartache, his entering our anguish himself, and the love that drives him to let us suffer. It’s about experiencing the friendship of God along difficult paths we didn’t even know he walked. Much of it is written from Joni’s perspective because her life is a remarkable laboratory that proves God knows what he’s talking about.

  But your life is the important laboratory to put God’s Word to the test as you read. Do God’s thoughts about suffering sound trite to you?

  Steve Estes

  March 31,1997

  Where do the years fly?

  I can still see Steve Estes, humped over his Bible by the hearth, looking up only long enough to put another log on the fire. He’d flip furiously between the Old and New Testaments, finding a page, tracing his finger down a column, and jabbing the very verse to answer my latest query.

  “Okay, Jon, now follow me. Listen to this in Ephesians chapter three: ‘The purpose is that…,’” he’d say, as if revving an engine with little taps on the accelerator. Off we’d go, heading down a road of questions, bumping over them, stopping, backing up, and then starting again, taking a detour or two, then shutting down after the last log on the fire had burned into embers. He was as raw and youthful as I, hungry to see truth work. And so we’d be at it again, next Bible study, charging ahead—he, excitedly pointing out the sights through Scripture, and I, keeping pace, not missing a thing.

  If God is loving, why is there suffering?

  What’s the difference between permitting something and ordaining it?

  When bad things happen, is God in cahoots with the Devil?

  How can he expect me to be happy this way?

  “Hold that thought!” Steve would yell over his shoulder, running to the kitchen to grab another RC Cola.

  Never were there sweeter days than those early years we spent journeying through Scripture. Our adventure was to go down that road of knowing God in suffering as far as it would take us. Thirty years later we’ve passed a few milestones and suffered the bumps and bruises of growing older and wiser. Thankfully we both have marriage partners, Verna and Ken, who keep cheering us on. Much has changed, but one thing remains constant: our friendship still orbits around the Son.

  Something else is constant. Suffering. In some respects, it’s even harder. My bones are aching from sitting so long in a wheelchair, and I’m weary from battling the encroaching limitations of my paralysis. Yet it’s still an adventure (although what I’m learning is but an echo of those early days, as though I were simply taking soundings at greater depths). Never would I have dreamed, long ago, sitting by that fire, the hour late and the cola bottles empty, that the answers I discovered then would have such powerful repercussions now. Through decades of quadriplegia and almost as many years of encountering people in situations as bad if not worse than mine, I continue to pass on these truths.

  They are not so much truths about suffering as they are about God. And so I introduce this book with the premise: When God Weeps is not so much about affliction as it is about the only One who can unlock sense out of suffering. It’s not why our afflictions matter to us (although they do), but why they matter to the Almighty. Another premise: we believe the Bible to be God’s Word, the Hebrew Bible unfolding into the New Testament, each book an immovable stone in the foundation of truth. The Bible is the proven road map we will use in this book.

  I knew I couldn’t handle a potent topic like this alone. It begs for experience and scholarship. I lend experience, and Steve Estes, with his many years of seminary study, brings the scholarship. He has graciously lent his writing gifts and learning so that, together, we could “disciple” you through the same tough questions.

  For one leg of the journey—chapters 2 through 6—the research and writing are Steve’s. Your heart and mind will be stirred, as was mine when he first shared the insights in “Who Is This God?” by the side of my wheelchair. In the twelfth chapter, Steve writes about hell, and I follow it with the concluding chapter on heaven. Appendices A and C are his too. We hammered out the book’s outline together (many times!) and tweaked one another’s work, having stimulated each other on the subject of suffering for years.

  One more thing. “Weeping endures for a night, but joy comes in the morning”: joy for those who suffer—but especially for God. It’s Steve’s and my prayer that through this book you will better understand why our weeping matters to a loving God. A God who, one day, will make clear the meaning behind every tear.

  Even his tears.

  Joni Eareckson Tada

  Spring 1997

  One

  I’M HURTING BAD

  The African night smelled and looked like pitch. Only the beam of a flashlight guided the way. I shook off my nausea at the smell of rancid trash, wanting to enter cautiously, but my companion thought nothing of striding ahead. Lifting the flap of the canvas lean-to, he beamed his light into the darkness and entered. I followed in my wheelchair.

  When the flap dropped behind me, a dozen slum-street noises were muffled. My eyes would now do most of the learning. He held his flashlight high, spotlighting a young woman with hair and skin as black as the shadows. She had no hands. Splayed b
eneath her on the straw mat were her stick-thin legs. These did not hold my gaze. I had seen the alleys full of people who, from polio, or amputation, had stubs for hands or callused stumps for feet. All of them, homeless. Quadriplegics, like me, don’t survive in Ghana, equatorial west Africa, let alone on the sidewalks of this miserable pesthole in the capital of Accra—only disabled people who are strong enough to fend for themselves on the streets. Streets wet with urine and rotting garbage.

  The glow from my companion’s flashlight illumined the tiny lean-to, and when the young woman saw me, she smiled African-style, broad and full of tooth. Her dark eyes glinted from the light when she flashed her smile at my companion. She knew well this African pastor who made it his ministry to go out into the streets and the alleys to find the blind and the lame.

  The pastor cleared his throat for introductions. “Ama,” he began with an accent and a British air, “I would very much like you to meet my American friend, Joni.” She returned the greeting in her tribal tongue. I was told that Ama, a citizen of this former British colony, understood English, and so our conversation ensued as though we were having tea around a table. Yes, I was pleased to meet her and her friends on the street. Yes, our trip was long, but we were delighted to come. Our group from Joni and Friends (JAF Ministries) was here to give wheelchairs to her and some of her friends. Would she care to join us up the street? She would. For that matter, would she care to point her smile my way so I could see it for the rest of the evening? We laughed. She did.

  I was hooked. My heart was captured, yes, by the African girl who came to symbolize for me the disabled street Christians of Accra, but also by her flashlight-toting pastor who had chosen to spend his days with the scourings of the earth. The stench of things rotting lay heavy over the streets, but a few minutes with Ama, like a miracle, made it a fragrance of life.

  I backed out of the canvas lean-to and was swallowed by the night. I followed the flashlight across the dirt street, lurching around chunks of asphalt. My JAF friends—the ones who brought our crutches and wheelchairs—hoisted me up on the opposite sidewalk. Where are we going? Stay with the flashlight!