The Surprising Secret of Contentment
That’s me eight or so years ago. Kicked back in a small boat, gliding over glassy waters that reflected the severe beauty of the mountains around me. I drank in the unmatched blue of the sky and inhaled the untainted freshness of the air. No destination. No agenda. Just a drawn out moment of savoring and beholding. It’s the perfect picture of contentment, is it not?
An old man, stiff with scars from whippings and stonings, sat on a tattered mat in an unadorned room. Scabs oozed from beneath the metal chain on his ankle which bound him to a Roman guard day and night. He hadn’t known freedom–a walk in a flowered meadow, a shared meal at a friend’s table, a curious audience by the riverside as he preached–in nearly two years. Not exactly the situation for picturesque contentment. And yet, in his bondage he penned, “I’ve learned by now to be quite content whatever my circumstances. I’m just as happy with little as with much, with much as with little. I’ve found the recipe for being happy whether full or hungry, hands full or hands empty. Whatever I have, wherever I am, I can make it through anything in the One who makes me who I am.” (Philippians 4:12-13, MSG)
I yearn to know this recipe for happiness, this secret of contentment, don’t you? Drifting across glacial lakes or sunbathing on tropical sands are rarely accessible to me. I can’t wait for pristine moments of serenity to unlock contentment in my heart.
Perhaps by staring down the monster of discontent, I can see what makes it grow and better understand how to defeat it, how to live in its counterpart.
I find myself discontent when I compare my life with others’. The remedy? Stepping away from social media and practicing daily gratitude.
I feel discontent when I grow entitled, believing I deserve something that seems to be withheld from me. The remedy? Worshipping the One who is worthy of it all and remembering the extravagant grace He has already poured out on me through Christ.
I struggle with discontent when I feel worn out from giving and going and serving and teaching. The remedy? Practicing the disciplines of sleep, solitude, and silence.
I grow discontent when I hold tightly to an idea that I believe will make me happy. The remedy? Saturating my mind with scriptural truth and opening my hands to God’s plans that are better than my own.
Learning to surrender my plans and desires has been central to my 30+ years of walking with Jesus. I love my ideas, my ways of making things work, my schedules, my dreams. Just ask my poor husband. But I’ve come to learn that the times when I am the least happy are the times when I grip too tightly to a plan and refuse to see how God could be inviting me in a different direction.
A heart that clings to its own desires is a heart of discontentment. And so, perhaps our good Father knows when we need some holy disruption to shake our hands loose from clutching the idol of false control.
Let’s consider this from a biblical standpoint: Does God ever lead His children into the wilderness? Does He ever allow their enslavement or orchestrate their imprisonment? Does He agree to their testing? Does He promise their suffering?
It seems to be these very trials that make us people of character, hope, and contentment. People like Paul. More than that, people like Jesus.
This is demonstrated time and again in the joy of the church in both persecuted and impoverished nations. I recently read a newsletter from a missionary reflecting on their encounter with oppressed believers in Cuba. “Despite the economic hardship, the unregistered church in Cuba is thriving—growing by thousands. …these believers are among the most joyful and resilient people we’ve encountered in all our travels. Their faith is contagious and their worship sincere and vibrant…”
The longer I live as a missionary in an international community in South East Asia, the more stories I hear like this and the more I witness firsthand those who are content with what most of us from the West would consider to be very little. This all has me wondering if authentic joy and contagious faith doesn’t exist in them in spite of their difficult circumstances, but perhaps because of them.
Am I going too far here? Paul didn’t seem to think so, nor did James whose first statement after greeting the church was an exhortation to “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” (James 1:2-4)
The writer of Hebrews brings it home for us with, “Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said,
‘Never will I leave you;
never will I forsake you.’
So we say with confidence,
‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid.
What can mere mortals do to me?’” (Hebrews 13:5-6)
Money will not bring us contentment, nor will comfortable circumstances. Only an awareness of the presence of Christ in our lives offers true, deep contentment, peace, and joy. And, sadly, our comforts are often what blind us to his presence, yet our trials cause us to look for him, listen to him, and lean on him all the more.
I wish I could say that the human soul was different than this, but it seems that the secret of contentment is nothing other than learning to abide with Jesus through suffering.
I’m stirred by this quote from François Fénelon, a French theologian and writer of the late 1600s:
“Your deep self-love makes the cross too heavy to bear. Learn to suffer with simplicity and a heart full of love. If you do you will not only be happy in spite of the cross, but because of it. Love is pleased to suffer for the Well-Beloved.”
– 100 Days in the Secret Place, p. 21
Oh to love Another much more than myself, and so to also love the burning path that brings me closer to Him!
It’s simply the way of Jesus, who for the joy set before him endured the cross. The cross wasn’t joyful itself, of course, but there was joy beyond it, and, therefore, in it.
I write all this with an awkward awareness that I’ve actually suffered very little. Many of you reading this have experienced severe loss or carry perpetual pain. I won’t pretend that I have any right to preach to you, but instead I’ll ask: Has Jesus been near in your suffering? Do you find that you’re any closer to contentment not in spite of it but because of it? Does any of this resonate with you? I’d love to know. I need to know. A theology of prosperity and comfort has taken the Western church nowhere good; perhaps it’s time for a more robust theology of suffering. What do you think?
