Mark Batterson - Good Grief

Tell me about the best day of your life—that’s the question I want to ask. It would be far more fun than the question I’m about to ask: tell me about the worst day of your life, the hardest day, the most difficult day of your life. Can you access it for a moment? How did you handle it? How did it change you—for better or for worse? How did you get to the other side? Did it make you bitter or better? Those are hard questions, but those are the questions we want to ask and answer this weekend.

If you’re like me, you have a short list. There are hard days; the longer you live, let’s be honest, there are going to be bad days, hard days, difficult days. I woke up on January 6th, 1998, and I remember exactly where I was—in a classroom. I was doing a doctoral program at Regent University; it was a class in myology. It’s crazy how right before a crisis, you remember all the details, and then you don’t remember anything for days.

Dr. Howard Foltz told a story about missionaries who, a hundred years ago, wouldn’t pack a suitcase; they would pack their belongings in a coffin because they knew they were never coming home. They were called one-way missionaries. I remember hearing that story not long after someone came into the class and said I needed to take a phone call. This was before iPhones, and it was everyone’s worst nightmare. Nothing can prepare you for that phone call: someone you love has died, and there is no warning. My father-in-law had just turned 55 two days before. He had had a complete physical, and the doctor had literally said to him, «You could drive a Mac Truck through your arteries,» so how could he be drinking a cup of coffee at IHOP after early morning prayer and die two days later?

I wish I had easy answers today, but here’s what I’ve learned: if you’re going through a tough time, easy answers make it harder. Platitudes are painful; they are more hurtful than helpful. I’m not sure who said «Time heals all wounds,» but they were wrong. Only eternity can do that. There is no expiration date on grief. Did I plan on crying this morning? No, but there’s a hole in your heart that sometimes strikes the chord of grief, and you can’t help it. You don’t get over grief, but you can get through it. What I’m about to say is not a platitude; I believe it’s a promise. Revelation 21:4 says, «The day is coming when God will wipe away our tears. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.» But friends, between now and then, there are going to be hard days; there are going to be difficult days, and how we handle those will make us or break us.

I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. We were born on a battlefield between good and evil. All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Bad things happen to good people. Life is unfair, and then we die. God bless; good luck. Sometimes you have to break a little bit of the tension because I feel it internally. And by the way, a sense of humor is a gift from God. When you walk through grief, what you will discover is that, at first, you feel almost wrong laughing, but you have to.

I’ll never forget the missionaries we support in Ukraine. Every day, they are in danger; every day, they’re on the front lines delivering goods to those who are dying, who are hurting, and I couldn’t believe how much they laugh. They said they have to; they have to. It’s a gift from God. The good life doesn’t mean we don’t have bad days. Carl Jung made this observation about the difference between the good life and the bad life. He said, «The difference between a good life and a bad life is how well you walk through the fire.» That’s what I want to talk about this weekend.

Welcome to National Community Church. We’re in a series called The Good Life, and I want to talk about good grief, which sounds like an oxymoron, but I hope it makes a little bit more sense in about 30 minutes. You can meet me in Isaiah 61; we’ll look at a lot of passages this weekend because I don’t know where else to turn other than the Word of God. A few months ago, I was at an event where the actor Kelsey Grammer shared a little bit of his story. It was kind of one of those off-the-record conversations. He said that the darkest day, the most difficult day of his life, was the day that his sister was murdered, and then his father was murdered, and then he lost two brothers in a shark attack. That’s when Kelsey Grammer gave up on God, but God didn’t give up on Kelsey Grammer.

Kelsey Grammer said this: «I’ve lived every day with grief.» He said, «Addiction is unresolved grief,» and I’ll leave that to our counselors and therapists, or psychologists and psychiatrists. Can we just take a moment? I’ve never met anybody who doesn’t need counseling. Some of us, like me, need more than one counselor. Can we just give it up for those who serve in that way? So grateful! Kelsey said, «I held on to a limping faith,» and some of you are limping today. To you, I want to say it’s okay to not be okay. There are seasons when you’re going to walk with a limp.

But Kelsey said, «I finally forgave myself; I finally got through the grief.» How did it happen? Well, listen: Oswald Chambers said, «Let God be as original with others as He was with you.» Kelsey Grammer is a data point, just like I am. God is going to write His story through your life differently than mine. But here’s what Kelsey said, and I don’t know how to argue with his testimony. He said there was this moment when Jesus sat down next to him and said, «I got this. It’s mine.» This is not a message this weekend; this is a prayer that Jesus would sit down next to you, that you would give Him your grief. He went to a cross to carry your pain, your sin, your shame, your suffering. May He nail it to the cross today, in Jesus' name.

A few weeks ago, I got an email from someone who is part of our extended family online—a little shout-out to our NCC online family all around the world. So glad you’re with us today! This couple is walking through the valley of the shadow of death, and many of us have been there and done that. They got a devastating cancer diagnosis that landed them at Mayo Clinic. It’s aggressive cancer; it’s severe; it’s spreading; the prognosis is not good. But they said, and they’re in the fight of their lives, but they said they’re approaching it—and this caught my attention—with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego faith. I mean, you know the story, right? They wouldn’t bow down to that statue of Nebuchadnezzar. They wouldn’t do the politically correct thing and bow down to Nebuchadnezzar.

It’s almost like this couple is saying, «We’re not going to bow down to the doctors or the diagnosis.» Now, hear me: praise God for doctors, and without the right diagnosis, you can’t treat it. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt. I’m not talking about saying that these things aren’t real problems, and that’s not what they’re saying. They’re just saying we’re going to approach it with that kind of faith. Well, what kind of faith is that? I’ll tell you exactly what it is. Daniel 3:17 and 18: «If you throw us into the fiery furnace, our God is able to save us. But even if He does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship your golden statue.» Can I tell you what this couple said? It was so meaningful to me, and it’s a word for someone today: «Our God is able to stop this cancer, but even if He does not, we will not bow down to the god of fear, the god of doubt, or the god of despair.»

Let me nuance this: sometimes God delivers from; sometimes God delivers through. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego had to go through the fire. That is baptism by fire; that is baptism by pain and suffering. But listen to me; it produces a furnace faith. Malachi 3:2 says, «Our God is a refining fire. He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver; He will purify the Levites and refine them as silver and gold.» Isaiah 48:10 says, «I have refined you; I have tested you in the furnace of affliction.» Please hear me right now: I am not suggesting that God causes cancer. That’s bad theology. Cancer is a byproduct of the curse. We aren’t doing anybody any favors if our theology is off here. Shame, sin, sickness—all of it—are a result of a fallen world. But there is a God who will never leave us nor forsake us; a God who will stick closer than a brother; an ever-present help in time of need. There’s a fourth man in the fire.

Now, these passages about refining—we can’t just read right over them. They leverage the ancient art of metallurgy. It’s this practice that would purify precious metals through the use of fire, and it was fire that would remove the impurities, remove the imperfections. Now, here’s the question: how do you know when the metal is perfectly refined, perfectly purified? The answer is that the metallurgist, that blacksmith—whoever it is—could then see their reflection perfectly in the metal. Is it possible that while God doesn’t cause sin, sickness, and suffering, it can become redemptive suffering? That God can work a process, that God can even teach us certain lessons or cultivate certain character, can maybe do some things in us that might even produce the character of Christ; that might help us look a little more, act a little more, think a little more like Jesus? I think the answer is yes. Last time I checked, character is formed in the crucible.

What makes us think we can become like Jesus without being betrayed by Judas, deserted by our friends, trolled by Pharisees, mobbed by the mob, tempted by the devil in the wilderness, or crucified by Roman soldiers? That’s not the world we live in. We live in a fallen world. Now, there’s going to be a little bit more hope at the end, but stick with me. Isaiah 61:1-3: «To all who mourn in Israel, He will give a beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. They will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor.»

I want you to hear what Abraham Heschel, perhaps the greatest Jewish theologian of the last century, said. He said this: «In decisive hours of history,» and I would apply it to our lives personally, «it dawned on us that we would not trade certain lines in the book of Isaiah for the Seven Wonders of the World.» These are some of those lines. I’ve white-knuckled these promises: «God, You give beauty for ashes; You give the oil of joy for mourning; You give the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.» How do we cross that bridge? How do you get from ashes to beauty? How do you get from mourning back to joy? How do you get from the heaviness—some of you walked in, and your heart is so heavy with grief and anxiety and depression—how do you get to the garment of praise?

The short answer is Jesus, but I want to break this down. I want to talk about three things: one, forgive reality; two, seek beauty; three, prophesy your praise, and I’ll extrapolate on these.

One: you have to forgive reality. In his book Good to Great, Jim Collins shares what he calls the Stockdale Paradox. Simply put, you have to confront the brutal facts—confront the brutal facts with unwavering faith. Can you feel the tension in that? On September 9, 1965, James Stockdale was flying a mission over Vietnam. The plane that he piloted was shot down. He would spend eight years as a prisoner of war. As a naval officer, he was routinely tortured and denied medical treatment. His concrete cell measured 3 feet by 9 ft with no windows. How do you survive in those circumstances for eight years? Stockdale said this: «I never lost faith in the end of the story.» There’s a lot of nuance here, but if grief isn’t nuanced, then the solution is generic, and that’s not going to get us where we need to go.

So this is not just a play on words. We do not believe in happily ever after. I mean, I wish Hebrews 11 ended right in the middle of verse 35 because everything up to verse 35—come on! —they shut the mouths of lions; that’s what I’m talking about, right? They saw the dead raised—I mean, incredible miracles! Then it says they were sawn in half. I’m like, «What?» You can read the whole thing; I mean, it’s a brutal ending. I mean, come on! Eleven out of the twelve apostles were martyred for their faith in torturous, painful fashion. We don’t believe in happily ever after; we believe in something bigger and better. We believe in something longer and stronger. We believe in happily forever after. You cannot forgive reality if you take eternity out of the equation.

That’s where I know there are people here saying, «Okay, here he goes; there’s his crutch.» Who would say to me, «You’re believing in a fairy tale?» Not so fast; not so fast. It was C.S. Lewis who said, «If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.» I really believe that God is always writing a bigger story, that God is writing a better story, and then my circumstances get in the way.

How do you forgive reality? Well, you start by confronting the brutal facts. It’s coming to terms with the devastating diagnosis, a difficult divorce, a dream that’s turned into a nightmare. If you don’t own it, it will own you. Jesus said, «In this world, you will have trouble.» I mean, I’m so glad it doesn’t end there, but take heart; I have overcome the world. And this is where an unwavering faith begins to enter the equation: He who began a good work will carry it to completion. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. God has prepared good works in advance; all things work together for good to those who love God and are called according to His purpose.

I’m reaching back to week one, this idea of this Hebrew word «tov,» which isn’t just good; it’s gooder than good. It’s as good as it gets. It’s too good to be true, but it is. Tov is not just something for the good times when we’re flying high; tov is something for the hard times. Listen, one of the most profound moments I’ve ever had in my life was a graveside service a couple of days after that January 6, 1998 sucker punch, and we sang, «It Is Well with My Soul.» I want to tell you today when sorrows like sea billows roll, there is a peace that passes understanding. There’s a hope beyond the grave.

The day Laura got her first cancer diagnosis was hard; the day Laura got her second cancer diagnosis was harder. The day I tore the ACL in my knee was hard; the day I tore the other ACL two years later was harder. How do you get through that? When Laura got that first diagnosis, you’ve heard it a hundred times, she read a poem that posed a question, and the question was this: «What have you come to teach me?» What have you come to teach me? Again, do I think God causes it? No, but He can help you get through it. There are some lessons you can only learn in those circumstances. There’s some character that can only be cultivated.

And let me put a little hope on the table today: I really thought the more that I grappled with grief, it’s easy to think that grief is what will steal your joy. What I’ve discovered is that grief doesn’t steal your joy; it creates capacity for joy. The good things are so much better; the sweet things are so much sweeter. Laura and I keep a gratitude journal, and we share our gratitudes on our Sabbath. They’re more meaningful on the other side of grief. Charles Spurgeon said, «I’ve learned to kiss the wave that throws me against the Rock of Ages.»

I can’t control my circumstances; I can’t control my response to those circumstances. So what I try to do is I try to pull a Joseph. What’s that? He said, «You intended to harm me.» He’s talking to the brothers who sold him into slavery and sent him for 13 years down a hard road to walk. But God! Would you just say it out loud today? But God! Would you say it again? But God! Man, that is the key conjunction, is it not? Conjunction junction—the elixir of life! But God intended it for good, the saving of many lives. Does it excuse his brothers' bad behavior? No, but somehow, someway, there’s a God who can redeem, recycle, and give meaning to the hardest things. He can turn your pain into someone else’s gain. He can redeem it.

I don’t know how to help people with things I haven’t gone through, but I can walk with you—not in a prescriptive but more in a descriptive way. I can walk with you through some of the things I’ve faced. Can I just put up two rules of life? These are guardrails for me. I mean, I’ve got dozens of rules of life, but these are two of them that help me: When things go good, don’t play God. I mean, Joseph could have, right? Oh, whose turn is it now? Oh, it’s my turn now; we’re going to even the score now! If you read the text, it does seem like he had a little bit of fun with it; he did take a little bit of liberty.

But when things go good, don’t play God, and when things go bad, don’t play the victim. He could have, but he held on to his faith. Let me just say it one more time: you cannot forgive reality without eternity. The Book of Ecclesiastes is one of the most esoteric books in the Bible. It’s premodern, 10th century BC, but it reads postmodern. It says there’s a time for everything, a season for every activity under the sun.

Then there’s this laundry list: a time to be born, a time to die, a time to plant, a time to uproot, a time to weep, a time to laugh, a time to tear, a time to mend. By my count, «time» is repeated 29 times, and then a 30th time—but God has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of man. Blaise Pascal said, «Our imagination so magnifies the present because we continually think about it and so reduces eternity because we do not think about it that we turn eternity into nothing and nothing into eternity.» We get stuck in a moment we can’t get out of.

The way you forgive reality is by refocusing on eternity.

Number two: seek beauty. That sounds so theoretical, but I think it’s really practical, at least after the email that I got this week. A few days after the Fourth of July 2023, an NCCer got a devastating diagnosis, a disease called HLH. The median survival rate is two to six months. I don’t know how I would react in those circumstances; I don’t know what I would do. Here’s what they said in their email: «Beauty is so woven into my everyday life that I hardly noticed it until I got the diagnosis.» That’s the way it is, isn’t it? We don’t appreciate our health until we don’t have it. He said, «I learned to appreciate that everything in life is a miracle, ” and it was so meaningful.

Can I just share this? This is my spiritual family. So, I’m finishing fourth-round edits on *A Million Little Miracles, * which releases November 19. The publisher wasn’t so sure; they said everybody’s going to be focused on the election and that we needed to push it back. I’m like, „No, people are going to want something besides the election!“ About two weeks later, I want to show you since you’re family, no one’s seen this. Maybe now, you have. Maybe the cover… but maybe not. But maybe! Oh, there it is. I love it!

Now listen, don’t go out and buy the book! Laura and I are going to give you a copy, okay? Two days before it releases, that Sunday, November 17, if you’re in person. So, online might be a good excuse; make a field trip! Come on! And we’re not going to cover your plane ticket, but we will give you a free book, okay? So the whole point of the book—and I’m going somewhere with this—is that we think of miracles as the anomalies and the epiphanies. Trust me, I believe in those kinds of miracles; I’ve experienced them. God healed my lungs July 2, 2016; I’m 2,922 days inhaler-free after 40 years with asthma. Trust me; I believe in those kinds of miracles!

But the reality is, I know people who say they’ve never experienced a miracle. With all due respect, you have—never not—in fact, you are one. I mean, those 37 sextillion chemical reactions happening in your body right now—like, are you working that? Now, in Him, we live and move and have our being. So, it’s a book about rediscovering the million little miracles that are all around us all the time. There’s goodness, there’s beauty. Yes, we live in a fallen world; I watch the news like you do. But I also know how the story ends.

Then this person said this, because I don’t know how I would handle that diagnosis. But I love what they’re doing: he and his wife decided to seek beauty—those are the literal words that they used. And what they did is they celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary in Paris, seeking beauty. They visited the Louis Vuitton Dream exhibition, attended a concert at sunset on Easter at St. Chapelle, and had lunch in the Eiffel Tower. Seek beauty.

Well, I mean, Mark, can you give me chapter and verse? Yeah! Psalm 27:4: „One thing I ask from the Lord, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord.“ What are the applications and implications of that? Everything we see was said, „Let there be light.“ All of creation—the invisible qualities of God are revealed through His creation (Romans 1:20). So what I’m saying is anything that’s beautiful is a reflection of the Creator Himself. So, seeking the Lord is seeking the beauty, and to seek Him in His temple.

Can I just throw one more thing in? While you’re seeking beauty, seek comedy. When Laura and I got that first diagnosis, we decided to start hitting comedy clubs, watching Netflix comedy specials. „Mario, that doesn’t sound very spiritual!“ No! The writer of Proverbs says laughter doeth good like a medicine. This is ancient truth. In 1979, a man named Norman Cousins wrote a book titled *Anatomy of an Illness.* In that book, he chronicled his battle with terminal cancer. He had a one in 500 chance to live, and he decided he would fight with his attitude. Anytime his friends or family heard something funny, he said, „Call me,“ because he just needed to maintain a positive attitude.

Then he kind of took it upon himself to have a little bit of fun, too. There was this one nurse—and again, so grateful for doctors and nurses, right? Come on! —but there was one nurse who was a little grumpy. Every time he pressed the call button, he just felt a little guilty hitting that call button. So she came in one day and said, „We’re going to need a urine sample,“ and then walked out and left the cup. He decided to have a little bit of fun and poured apple juice in it. She came back in and said, „We’re a little cloudy today, aren’t we?“ He said, „Yeah, better run it through again.“ Let’s just say the nurse laughed, and so did Norman Cousins. And he survived! By the way, one of my dying wishes is one last laugh. If it’s funny to me, I’m going to say it or do it whether it’s funny to you!

I don’t know—I’ve lived over half a century, and I still love putting chocolate on my front teeth and smiling! I’m not kidding! I’ve asked Laura; I don’t think she’s going to respect my wishes, but I said someday when I’m in that coffin, and people come up and get one last look, would you just put some chocolate on my front teeth? Let’s have one last laugh!

You didn’t laugh at that very hard, did you? Did that sound too morbid? No? Did I give you an idea? Anyone else with me? Okay! Oh my goodness, where were we? Number three: prophesy your praise. Prophesy your praise!

July 23, 2020—one of those difficult days—I woke up that morning, Sunday morning, and I’ll close with this story. Severe abdominal pain—more than a stomach ache—but got up, tried to preach, ended up doubled over in pain, and literally walked out of Union Station like this; I couldn’t straighten up! Went to the ER; MRI around midnight took a minute; discovered necrotic intestines, so sepsis was starting and my body was being poisoned—thus the pain. At about 2 or 3:00 in the morning, the surgeon came in with a concerned look on his face and said, „We’re going to have to go into emergency surgery.“

I wouldn’t wake up for the next two days. I was on a respirator for two days; they took a foot of my intestines out and lost 25 pounds in a week. I wore an ostomy for six months; it was a hard day, a hard year. And I’ll tell you what got me to the other side: I started to prophesy my praise. There was a song I listened to—417 times! I’m totally making up that number, but this was before the iPod, so I had to rewind and fast forward and all that good stuff. „I’m trading my sickness; I’m trading my sorrow; I’m trading it for the joy of the Lord!“ I listened over and over and over again. „God, I’m trading my sickness for the joy of the Lord!“

God got me up out of that hospital bed. I’ll tell you this: it was the worst day of my life at the time, but looking back, it was one of the best days of my life. You know what I remember? I remember going home after those surgeries, after the respirator, and I remember two things. I remember tucking my kids in bed. They almost lost their dad, and just watching them sleep. „Lord, thank You for the joy of being a father to my children.“

Then I remember waking up in the middle of the night in pain, but right next to Sleeping Beauty. „Thank You for my wife!“ I have a scar down the middle of my abdomen; some people have a six-pack; I have a two-pack. I didn’t take my shirt off for about two years; it was too embarrassing! I mean, I mean this literally; I didn’t want to scare the children — it was gruesome! I thought it was ugly! But I think it’s kind of beautiful because that scar is a symbol of healing. That scar is a symbol of my second birthday, by the way. So, however old I am, actually, July 23rd, I’ll be 24-just for the record! I’ll literally be 24, and I celebrate it because God gave me a new lease on life.

I’m believing that for you today-that the same God who gives beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness-the same God who got me through some of that grieving, the same God who got me to the other side of probably the greatest physical challenge I faced, the same God who got us to the other side of radiation and reconstructive surgery, the same God who can get you to the other side of a divorce, the other side of a diagnosis, the other side of a dream that is long gone-that maybe that God wants to sit down next to you today and carry your burden and carry your pain.

He said it 2,000 years ago: „Come to Me, all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Let Me carry it.“ Let Me carry it in Jesus' name. Amen.