Faithful Paradox

We are at that time of year where the morning light comes later. Prior to the time-change this past weekend, mornings in my corner of the world have been dark until quite late. We recently got a puppy (whom my boys have named Mike), and as things tend to go with puppies, we are often outside in the early darkness of the morning, training him about the appropriate place to do his business.

I was outside with Mike the other morning and the backyard was still clothed in complete darkness. As I looked towards the east, however, the glow of the sun was just beginning to announces its arrival. There were orange, red, and yellow streaks sneaking into the sky. It was not yet enough to bring light to the backyard, but it was a promise of what was coming. The light was breaking through the dark and soon would push back the black of night, proclaiming the beginning of a new day.

As I waited for Mike to do his backyard business, I began to think about the paradox of this particular moment; both the sun rising and yet the darkness of night still very present. It felt for a moment like a picture of this life we live.

Every morning, as the sun marches its way to the sky’s pinnacle, there is the beauty of hope; a new day in front of us. We do not doubt the sun will rise. We know with confidence it will return every day. There is certainty and anticipation of newness each morning.

Likewise, with all that Christ accomplished on the cross on our behalf, there is a one-day-future hope. We know with great confidence that one day God will dwell with his people and he will “wipe away every tear from their eyes and death will be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away” (Rev. 21:3-5).

Simultaneously, we live in this world which is often very dark. There are times that weeping comes which lasts for, what feels like, far longer than the night (Psalm 30:5). Despite knowing the light of morning will come, the night can feel impossibly long as we wonder if hints of light will ever pierce the darkness we endure.

This moment in my back yard was one of living in the in-between. The light of the morning and the darkness of the night coexisted; if only for a moment. There was both sheer darkness where I stood along side the promise of light as it began to break through the dark. It was a picture of living in both the already and the not yet; the black of night and the promised new day.

There are times in this life that we bear the darkness of a long night. The difficulty in these seasons of night is that the promises of the coming day, knowing that light will break through, often does not bring comfort. The darkness can even blind hope for a time. The promise of all that Christ has accomplished, the promise of his nearness, the promise of his comfort, the promise that he is a refuge and his grace is enough can, at times, feel hollow in the darkness of night.

When we first lost Ezra, I could not comprehend that light would ever come again. If I’m honest, at times I doubted that light would shine again. I doubted the comfort of God because it did not come in the way I thought it would. The promises I knew did not ease the pain. I found I could not even look to the east in hope of the light shining. All I could see and experience was darkness.

I knew the promises of God. I knew he promised his nearness. I knew he promised to bring good. I knew he promised new mercy. Yet the darkness of night was so heavy and so real that even knowing these promises could not prompt my heart to look to the east for light. The truth of the coming light did not bring comfort for my broken heart; at least for a time.

There are times that the promise of the day dawning, the promise of Christ’s return and making all things new, the promise that God will work all things for good, cannot be felt in the moments of darkest night. It is in these moments that we can find rest, however, knowing there is nothing that we can do that will cause the sun to rise. As the sun rises each morning, as its light pierces the dark of night and calls forth newness each day, it stands as a reminder of God’s promises to his children. It will come on its own, each day, apart from my bidding or call. Likewise, there is nothing we must do to call forth the promises of God in the midst of so much darkness; he has promised his presence and care to his children whose hearts are broken (Psalm 34:18).

We can be confident that as sure as the sun will rise each morning, the Lord will bring comfort. At times, it can be hard to hope or believe, but because God has promised it, light will come into the present darkness once again. If we are Christ’s, we do not have to will it or ask. It is simply the process of looking to the east, looking toward Christ, trusting with certainty that he is “the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort” who “heals the brokenhearted” (2 Cor. 1:3, Psalm 147:3). Although “he has struck us down, he will bind us up” so “let us know, let us press on to know the Lord, his going out is as sure as the dawn” (Hosea 6:1b, 3a).