Will My Master Hurt Me?

Jesus once (at least once) warned to not fear people who could only hurt the physical body and not the soul, but instead to fear the Father who could destroy both in the fires of Hell for eternity.  I have heard that I should fear God in the sense of revering Him.  I believe that, but not only that.  I also believe I fear my Master because He hurts me in at least three ways.

First is the obvious punishment brought on as the normal natural consequences of my wrong, sinful, rebellious acts that are often softened by His graciousness to me.  Those are fairly easy to spot with some exceptions.  The exceptions are notable because they setup the third way.  But first, the second way (is not English fun?) He hurts me is through allowing suffering for His kingdom.  This is where martyrs live out their lives.  God will sometimes use up His children on this planet so His name gains glory.  I live in the United States and all I typically suffer is ridicule, and not much of that.  Having survived such treatment in grade school, I have to admit, it's not a high level of pain as the torment my brothers and sisters suffer in Africa and Asia on our Masters behalf.  If you want examples, try this Voices of the Martyrs website.

The third sort of pain caused by my Master is sometimes like surgery without anesthesia.  Depending the severity of the surgery will determine the level of the pain.  My Master changes me because I cannot change myself.  I am commanded to let Him in Romans 12.  I believe this needs to be a command because it is not a comfortable experience.  The Scriptures are described a double-edged sword which divides joints and morrow, soul and spirit.  That's sharp!  But it is also frightening.  One of the reasons I fear my Master is because He wields a scalpel capable of surgery at the very spiritual and soul level of my self.  He cuts deep.  And what He cuts out are things I have come to love, rely on, go to for comfort, snuggle with emotionally, and usually resemble very old unwashed dog toys.

Knowing that these things need to go does  not make the process less painful.  Knowing they are bad and I need to be rid of them sometimes makes it easier for me to endure the pain, but it's always still pain.  My Master hurts me intentionally to drive from me everything, good or bad, that separates my devotion due Him from Himself.  Anything I run to instead of Him is subject to this painful surgery; even the cleaner newer of my dog toys.

Sometimes the process of this surgery is in the form of questions.  These questions come at me through the haze of denial carefully wrapped around my secret stash of nasty comforts.  They cut through the layers of shame, lies, and apathetic ignorance.  Like Peter in John 21:17, I am asked, "Do you love me?"  Like Elijah outside the cave on the Mountain of the Lord in 2 Kings 19:13, I am asked, "What are you doing here?"  Solomon was asked in his dream in 1 Kings 3:5, "What do you want me to give to you?"  These seem like simple questions, but their source drives stakes to the heart of my soul.  It is the Mighty One of Israel, the Master of unnumbered galaxies and stars, the Holy God, my Master and Savior.  Do I love Him?  What am I doing here?  What do I want Him to give me?  If it were the Queen of England or President Obama, even former President Bush (either one) asking me these questions the answers would be difficult enough and complex enough in meaning.  But that difficulty and complexity is driven to the furthest extreme when God asks me.

Peter was hurt, grieved, when Jesus asked him a third time.  Elijah was corrected and told to go back into the danger he just left.  Solomon asked and got, but was so distracted by what he got that he ends up writing Ecclesiastes (one of the most depressing books in Scripture).  These are people who are pinned and pained by the questions of their Master.  I am hurt by Him, and I am hurt intentionally.  Do I fear my Master?  You bet I do!  And I do not just revere Him greatly, I sometimes feel the impulse to duck when He visits.  Sometimes I bring on the pain, sometimes my circumstances are just painful, sometimes I suffer for clinging to my faith in Him.  But sometimes He comes with scalpel in hand, and carves me up to remove one of my sacred cows.  Sometimes we have barbecue afterwards, sometimes I simply lie there sobbing.  It's a good pain, and I desperately need things removed.  But it is never fun nor is it something I typically choose.  The question is asked, and while I'm off finding the answers, He pops open the hidden closet, and raids the depths of my soul.  Do I love Him?  Yes.  What am I doing here?  I was afraid, so I hid in a cave.  What do I want Him to give me?  It would be nice to be wise enough not to have to go through the surgery so often.  The scars are getting harder and harder to explain.  I think I hear a knock at the door of my heart, hmm, I wonder Who that could be...