“Do not gloat over me, my enemies! For though I fall, I will rise again. Though I sit in darkness, the Lord will be my light.” — Micah 7:8, NLT
We value intelligence in people — and strength, some skills, experiences of certain types, and a shifting set of appearances that we call “character” or “leadership.”
God values faith. This is scandalous to us; it levels and defeats our hierarchies. Admittedly, there is a thoughtfulness to faith, and it is strong. Skills serve it, sometimes, though they ever strive to run ahead. Faith is shaped by experience, while refusing to be bound or defined by it. But the great scandal, to minds steeped in human culture, is that faith presents no consistent face, not even for one generation. Often, it does not appear at all.
In the wild, fierce stories of Elisha, one moment stands out. A wealthy married woman, known to us only as “the Shunammite,” sets apart a room for the “holy man of God” (2 Kings 4:9, NIV). In return — and over her anguished, doubting protest (verse 16) — he prophesies that she will bear a son, and she does. Years pass, and the little boy dies suddenly, perhaps of heat stroke. The mother stretches him on Elisha’s bed, like a mute accusation, and then with steely determination sets out to confront the prophet. To her husband and Elisha’s servant she will say only, “All is well” (verse 26, ESV; Msg “Everything’s fine”; compare verse 23), a false screen of shalom, “peace.” Behind it, she is single-minded, all her fear and grief and rage and hope channeled in one direction.
The prophet sees her coming, watches her dismiss his servant. He does not move to meet her, but stands on his mountain, waiting, waiting, till she completes her journey and seizes his feet. Yet when his servant starts to intervene, he barks out, “Leave her alone, for she is in bitter distress, and the Lord has hidden it from me and has not told me” (verse 27, MEV).
The remarkable note here is precisely Elisha’s ignorance. Two chapters later, we read about the intense frustration of the king of Aram (Syria), because the king of Israel routinely anticipates his troop movements. Summoning his military council, the Aramean king demands to know which of them is the spy; one officer replies, “None of us, my lord the king, but Elisha, the prophet who is in Israel, tells the king of Israel the very words you speak in your bedroom” (6:12, NIV).
Elisha can overhear the distant plotting of men in another country, but he cannot discern the sorrow of a woman at his feet. God honors as something holy the grief of a mother, the anguish of a parent; it is a pain that He knows better than anyone. He draws a curtain round it, like the dense darkness of Good Friday (Matthew 27:45; compare Exodus 10:21; 20:21). Even His prophet is not allowed to peer within. God shuts her in, alone, with Him.
It is in such hidden places that faith takes root and grows. The heart of God for us may be still waters and soft, abundant grass; but His path to the next meadow leads through the dark valley. Somehow, only there can “He” become “You” (Psalm 23:1-4). A lifelong intimacy (verses 5-6) is forged; we come out of the wilderness leaning on our Beloved (Song of Songs 8:5). Something in us relaxes and yields, even to the rod, as we find Him sufficient in our suffering.
Granted, the process is not pretty. The Shunammite’s faith is a flickering candle, a tent under siege: “My master, did I ask you for a son? Didn’t I tell you, ‘Don’t make me hope for something that won’t happen’?” (2 Kings 4:28, NIRV). She will not even entertain the possibility that the servant bearing the prophet’s staff may resolve the crisis; she is adamant that Elisha must go with her (verses 29-30). I for one am tempted to keep score, ranking her lower in faith than the centurion content to have Jesus “just say the word” (Matthew 8:8, NIV). But this, I strongly suspect, is beside the point. God is not keeping score; He is drawing a space, around an affliction, so that the faint embers of faith that are in the heart may stand out against a backdrop of darkness, and fan into flame. See, already, how focused she is, and how wholehearted! God honors the Shunammite, and she continues to walk with Him (2 Kings 8:1-6).
We see something like this in the Gospels, when a widow steps into the temple to make her last two coins an offering to God. Her poverty serves as a cloak; nobody except Jesus pays any attention to her. And He, so far as we know, gives her no word, no touch, no blessing of abundance; He leaves her in the holy place of commitment, alone with God. The Savior, who went out of His way to pick Zacchaeus out of a tree, takes not one step toward this woman. Yet He shares her secret, calling the disciples to Him (Mark 12:43), commending her to them (and us). He lets us glimpse how, in heaven, the Father does the same, summoning angels, pointing proudly, bragging on those who trust in Him (compare Job 1:8; 2:3).
No doubt He watches over her. But the curtain descends. We are not told any more of her story; we must await the day when all such hidden devotion comes to light. For now, on our pages, she trundles slowly out of view, perhaps resting in joyful hope, perhaps despairing and reproaching herself.
This is in the very nature of faith: frequently the attaboys, the assurances, the felt Presence are withdrawn. Night presses in. “God has driven me away and made me walk in darkness instead of light,” cries the survivor in the devastated city (Lamentations 3:2, GW). “We look for light, but all is darkness; for brightness, but we walk in deep shadows,” laments the erring nation (Isaiah 59:9, NIV). Job longs for the days “when He caused His lamp to shine upon my head, and by His light I walked through darkness” (Job 29:3, NET); now he has no light. Faith is the great leveler: to raise it, strength, skill, wisdom, authority are all snuffed out. Faith blooms in hiddenness.
But God looks on — catching His breath, betraying the glimmer of a smile. “Do you see that one?” He whispers. He draws the curtain round, but inside He is already working. The stricken child is stretched out on His bed. He stands watching, ready to act — to heal and restore, or to comfort and receive — when faith is fully uttered or alight.
“Who among you walks in darkness, and has no light? Let him trust in the name of the Lord; let him lean on his God” (Isaiah 50:10, CSB).
To be sure, Isaiah goes on to warn those who respond by kindling their own fires, making their own light (verse 11, ICB). But you who read this are not in that place. The word of faith has taken root in your heart; it trembles on the tip of your tongue (Romans 10:8). Stay within the curtained darkness. Take hold of His feet. Hold fast.