The Discipline of Difficulty

''And he arose, and followed him'' (Matt. 9:9).

   One often stands silent upon seeing the difficulties some sanguine souls must surmount in order to do their lifework. The Conquest of Peru, with its companion The Conquest of Mexico, is known by all to stand securely among the immortal pieces of historical writing; but not many seem to be aware of the immense physical handicaps under which it was composed. Its author, William H. Prescott¹, in unassuming manner told his own story in the preface of his epochal account of Atahuallpa, Pizarro, Almagro, and others.

   ''While at the University, I received an injury in one of my eyes, which deprived me of sight of it. The other, soon after, was attacked by inflammation so severely, that, for some time, I lost the sight of that also, and though it was subsequently restored, the organ was so much disordered as to remain permanently dibilitated, while twice in my life since, I have been deprived of the use of it for all

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¹ William H. Prescot, History of the Conquest of Peru, (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co., 1874) Vol. I, pp. 16-20.

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purposes of reading and writing, for several years together. It was during one of these periods that I received from Madrid the materials for the 'History of Ferdinand and Isabella,' and in my disabled condition, with my Transatlantic treasures lying around me, I was like one pining from hunger in the midst of abundance. In this state, I resolved to make the ear, if possible, do the work of the eye. I procured the services of a secretary, who read to me the various authorities; and in time I became so far familiar with the sounds of the different foreign languages (to some of which indeed, I had been previously accustomed by a residence abroad), that I could comprehend his reading without much difficulty. . . .

   ''Still another difficulty occurred, in the mechanical labor of writing, which I found a severe trial to the eye. This was remedied by means of a writing-case, such as is used by the blind, which enabled me to commit my thoughts to paper without the aid of sight, serving me equally well in the dark as in the light. . . .

   ''Though I was encouraged by the sensible progress of my work, it was necessarily slow. But in time the tendency to inflammation diminished, and the strength of the eye was confirmed more and more. It was at length so far restored, that I could read for several hours of the day, though my labors in this way necessarily terminated with the daylight. . . .

   ''But a change has again taken place during the

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last two years. The sight of my eye has become gradually dimmed, while the sensibility of the nerve has been so far increased, that for several weeks of the last year I have not opened a volume, and through the whole time I have not had the use of it, on an average, for more than an hour a day. . . .

   ''From this statement—too long, I fear, for his patience—the reader, who feels any curiosity about the matter, will understand the real extent of my embarrassments in my historical pursuits. That they have not been very light will be readily admitted, when it is considered that I have had but a limited use of my eye, in its best state, and that much of the time I have been debarred from the use of it altogether. Yet the difficulties I have had to contend with are very far inferior to those which fall to the lot of a blind man. I know of no historian, now alive, who can claim the glory of having overcome such obstacles, but the author of 'La Conquete de [Angleterre par les Normands'; who, to use his own touching and beautiful language, 'has made himself the friend of darkness'; and who, to a profound philosophy that requires no light but that from within, unites a capacity for extensive and various research, that might well demand the severest application of the student.''

   This is the discipline of difficulty, understood and overcome only by the indomitable in heart. Only the undaunted, despite aching head and failing sight, could say that others could be in deeper difficulty than they. Lesser souls would be swallowed up

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in their own sickness, sorrows and silence.

   John Milton knew the deeper discipline of total blindness. Gifted, brilliant, with educational advantages beyond many of his contemporaries, spiritually-minded, he became blind at the age of forty-four, when his countrymen were in the throes of controversy between King and Commonwealth. Milton's public service continued for some time; but blindness became in time an insuperable barrier to such service. Far from bemoaning his cruel fate or becoming embittered by the narrowed horizons of his life, he brought forth his immortal masterpieces, Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonistes. A blind man could see Paradise, and has helped countless others to see it down through the generations since his day! What blind man would not have questioned God's demands of him saying,

   ''Doth God exact day-labor, light denied? I fondly ask.''

   With the penetration and patience of a Puritan, with unshaken faith in the justice and kindness of the Most High, he concluded:

   ''They also serve who only stand and wait.''

   Who wanted a blind man for service higher than that of country? No man, but God did!

   All difficulties in life are not physical, although these loom large in our thoughts. Physical handicaps break some men and women; and others are forced thereby to a larger usefulness, as was the case with Milton. Moses, for example had the handicap of age before he began his lifework. At forty,

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when life allegedly begins, he went into exile, to spend his days as an obscure shepherd of the desert. He endured the adjustments made necessary by the shifting from Pharaoh's majestic court to a Midian sheephold, with its solitude, silence and apparent usefulness. At eighty, when most men have retired from active service, he was called at the burning bush to become the Deliverer of his people. With reasons, he could object to this calling, saying, ''Who am I, that I should go unto Pharaoh, and that I should bring forth the children of Israel out of Egypt?'' (Exod. 3:11). Who would want an unknown old man as a leader to organize unruly and untutored tribes into a nation, and to lead them to the land of promise? No man, perhaps, would want him; but God did. He was God's man, despite any human handicap.

   Mordecai knew the humanly hopeless handicap of racial prejudice. He was a Jew in a strange land, and knew by experience the bitterness of unbridled racial bigotry. He had to warn his niece, Esther, not to reveal her nationality (Esther 2:20). Haman's wrath knew no bounds when he was told that Mordecai was a Jew (3:4); with the result that he ''sought to destroy all the Jews that were throughout the whole kingdom of Ahasuerus, even the people of Mordecai'' (3:6). The plot proceeded temporarily without hindrance, to the pleasure of Haman; while Mordecai was overcome with fear and grief (4:1-3). Only the soul that has felt the heel of the

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oppressor and the fury of the sadist can sense the sorrow that was Mordecai's.

   However, he was not overcome by these apparently insurmountable difficulties. After the sackcloth and ashes there was the arising to trust God for help. Vigorous, even dangerous methods were devised: the Queen was to ask unbidden audience with the King, a move which possibly could have proved fatal to her (4:16). There was to be prayer and fasting, within the palace of the Queen, and without; and ''Mordecai went his way, and did according to all that Esther had commanded him'' (4:17). Who could help a man rendered helpless and hopeless by blind and bitter prejudice? No man, but God could help him in his difficulty; and He did!

   Matthew the publican knew the stinging social prejudice that can be heaped in scorn upon the outcast. The publican was a pestiferous pariah to the Palestinian of our Lord's day. He was an apostate, a renegade, who had sold himself to be the servant of the hated Romans. A customs officer, the cur! A tax gatherer, the grafter! A tool of Imperial Rome, the traitor! No contempt was adequate for the unspeakable publican. By their logic the people classified the publican with the lowest of the population: the sinners. Therefore they asked the disciples of our Lord in the house of Matthew, as on other similar occasions, ''Why eateth your Master with publicans and sinners?'' (Matt. 9:11; Luke 15:2; etc.).

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   However, Matthew was not overcome by social stigma. As he sat at the receipt of customs he had heard words of inexpressible beauty and blessing; ''Follow me'' (Matt: 9:9). Without hesitation he had risen to follow the Lord Jesus Christ. No handicap of social status, of family background, of the opinions of others, deterred him. Matthew would follow the Master. The social outcast became the servant of the Saviour and the human author of the gospel narrative that bears his name. Who would have thought that the Prince of life would have had pleasure in the service of an ostracised publican? No man, perhaps; but the Lord Jesus did.

   Herein lies the discipline of difficulty: to recognize one's limitations and handicaps; nevertheless, to rise up and do the impossible in spite of them. To yield to discouragement and difficulty is to be defeated. The handicap, I repeat, can be physical, racial, social, personal in any way; yet the soul that will rise up and follow the Saviour will know life that climbs with Bunyan's Pilgrim the Hill Difficulty, to find on its summit the Palace Beautiful, whose windows face the sun-rising. Our discipline is to keep on climbing when sight is dim and strength is debilitated, when friends fail and foes are fierce, when handicaps hinder and hardships harry. God has use for the heart that no difficulties can deter!

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Looking Unto God

I look to Thee in every need

And never look in vain;

I feel thy strong and tender love,

And all is well again:

The thought of Thee is mightier far

Than sin and pain and sorrow are.

Discouraged in the work of life,

Disheartened by its load,

Shamed by its failures or its fears,

I sink beside the road;

But let me only think of Thee,

And then new heart springs up in me.

Thy calmness bends serene above

My restlessness to still;

Around me flows thy quickening life,

To nerve my faltering will;

Thy presence fills my solitude;

Thy providence turns all to good.

Embosomed deep in Thy dear love,

Held in Thy law, I stand;

Thy hand in all things I behold,

And all things in Thy hand;

Thou leadest me by unsought ways,

And turn'st my mourning into praise.

                   —Samuel Longfellow

Chapter Nineteen  ||  Table of Contents