In the Pastures of Providence

PROV’IDENCE, noun [Latin providentia]

1.) In theology, the care and superintendence which God exercises over his creatures. He that acknowledges a creation and denies a providence involves himself in a palpable contradiction; for the same power which caused a thing to exist is necessary to continue its existence.

“Know that the LORD, He is God! It is He who made us, and we are His; we are His people, and the sheep of His pasture.”

—Psalm 100:3

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My wife and I have been on vacation with her family this week—what a joy it is to get away for some much needed rest! I thank the Lord that He has weaved the need for refreshment into the very fabric of His creation. The older I get—which, as folks keep reminding me, is not very old quite yet—the more I feel drawn to the longings of Bilbo Baggins in The Fellowship of the Ring: “I want to see mountains again, Gandalf—mountains; and then find somewhere where I can rest. In peace and quiet, without a lot of relatives prying around, and string of confounded visitors hanging on the bell.”

Just before we left for our week away, I was out for coffee with a dear friend of mine who, not for the first time, highly recommended that I read through C.S. Lewis’ The Space Trilogy. There are allegedly many long-time C.S. Lewis readers out in the world like myself who, admittedly, have not read this series. And so, without any further delay I got my hands on the thickly-bound, 3-in-1 copy of the trilogy and swiftly began consuming the first novel, Out of the Silent Planet.

To describe The Space Trilogy as Narnia for adults, or merely as Narnia in space, would be a disservice to Lewis’ work. An argument can be made that The Space Trilogy is the novel form of The Screwtape Letters, Lewis’ famous work on angels and demons—but that too seems to fall short of just how other this series of novels is when stood against his body of work as a whole.

Without treading too deeply into spoiler territory, there is a scene early on in the first novel that struck me. Ransom, the protagonist, has just landed on the mysterious red planet of Malacandra. In no time at all, Ransom encounters one of the planet’s native species, a 7-foot tall cat-like creature that is described as something like a feline mixed with a ferret or beaver, though that’s hardly important at the moment. What is important is Ransom’s reaction to this creature; a reaction that becomes characteristic of much of his journey on Malacandra throughout the book. Upon meeting this creature and discovering that it not only is benevolent but also has the ability to communicate, Ransom reflects upon their first contact in this way: “[it was] as though Paradise had never been lost and earliest dreams were true, the charm of speech and reason. Nothing could be more disgusting than the one impression; nothing more delightful than the other. It all depended on the point of view.”

Now, this may well be one of my wilder connections, but allow me time to develop this thread—I think there’s something important here.

As a student of literature, I’ve grown accustomed to reading texts through the lens of theme and symbolism. Indeed, it’s a rather useful way to understand a wide variety of texts and build meaningful connections between them. If I had to ascribe a primary theme to Out of the Silent Planet, I could scarcely do better than Ransom’s words from just a moment ago: It all depends on the point of view. So much of Ransom’s fantastic adventure on Malacandra follows his discovery of some new landscape or creature or entire species of creature, his subsequent response of either fear, dread, or disgust, only to grow in his understanding such that his affections go from disgust to delight. Through incremental developments in his revelation of the planet and those who inhabit it, Ransom routinely discovers that not everything is as it first seems in this strange world; that there is a deeper, older beauty churning beneath the surface—“Nothing could be more disgusting than the one impression; nothing more delightful than the other.” Indeed, Ransom’s journey across the novel is really just one of perspective.

The books of Numbers and Deuteronomy have occupied the rest of my reading time while on vacation. While at first glance the Old Testament and C.S. Lewis’ The Space Trilogy have nothing in common, the similarities soon become clear once you look beyond the surface. Again, it all depends on the point of view.

From the vantage point of the man who does not know the Lord, the books of Numbers and Deuteronomy are mostly dreadful. Add in Exodus and Leviticus, and the story becomes dreadfully burdensome also. Here in these books we have the unvarnished tale of humanity’s rebellion against God on full display, a dress rehearsal for the wicked plot which will soon echo throughout the rest of history.

A cursory glance of the Torah, the first five books of the Bible of which Numbers and Deuteronomy are a part, will reveal the dreadfulness of man’s sin and the dreadfulness of God’s glory and goodness. The two are ever rubbing up against one another. The good and perfect law of God is given as a gift to the nation of Israel as both a blessing and a curse: should they obey God they will be surely blessed, and if not, they will surely perish in His wrath. To the man who does not know God, there is a great dreadfulness about all His ways; an all-consuming fire that he, a mere creature, dare not approach. The law of God as revealed in the Torah serves as a revelation of God’s own nature; a bright light to shine upon the darkness of man.

And yet, when we but begin to ponder the edges of His glory and commence the consideration of what it may mean for God to be holy, holy, holy, it is then, and then only, that we start to see God for who He is. If history is, as Lewis put it, “the long terrible story of man trying to find something other than God which will make him happy,” then the Old Testament is the long, beautiful story of God proving man wrong in this regard. As R.C. Sproul once said, the sheer wonder of the Old Testament is not that so many people died, but rather than anyone lived when man’s sinfulness and God’s perfect righteousness are properly understood. Again, it all depends on the point of view.

As the Lord Himself said,

“Did any people ever hear the voice of a god speaking out of the midst of the fire, as you have heard, and still live? Or has any god ever attempted to go and take a nation for himself from the midst of another nation, by trials, by signs, by wonders, and by war, by a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, and by great deeds of terror, all of which the LORD your God did for you in Egypt before your eyes? To you it was shown, that you might know that the LORD is God; there is no other besides Him” (Deuteronomy 4:33-35).

The nation of Israel was never safer nor in greater danger than when they were being led out of the land of Egypt by the strong hand of the Lord. For the faithless and rebellious among them, terror greater than any Pharoah could inflict upon them brewed above their heads every hour; but for the faithful who loved the LORD their God, they were ever safe in the pastures of providence.

It is upon this razor’s edge that the Christian’s perspective ever sojourns. For, as we all know, to be kept from harm is not always the same as being kept from hurt. On our road to Christlikeness, our Heavenly Father may hurt us, but He never harms us. God often allows pain and hurt to intrude upon our quiet lives for our eternal good; this He does to heal us, not harm us.

Herein lies the mystery of the twin perspectives presented to us in Hebrews 11. On the one hand, the people of God throughout the ages are stoned, sawn in two, and slain by the sword, hated violently by the world and those in it; and on the other, the people of God are those “of whom the world was not worthy” (Hebrews 11:38). As those in Christ, we have this sure confidence: “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose” (Romans 8:28).

Life outside of the Lord is a hard, bitter existence. Without His great and exceedingly precious promises, it is little wonder that people lose all hope in this life. For what is life without Christ but sickness, sorrow, betrayal, murder, hate, sin, and then worst of all, having to face death itself under a dark, starless sky without the hope of a Redeemer? And yet with the Lord for us, we can have every confidence that no matter how hard life gets, He is in control; and not just in control, but indeed actively working out all things for our highest good:

“So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:16-18).

In John chapter 10, Jesus describes Himself as the Good Shepherd. The Lord knows those sheep who are His; He calls them each by name, and they respond to the melody of His voice. It was He who called His people out of Egypt through many trials, wonders, signs, and war, and great deeds of terror, and it is He who will lead us safely home. Without the Lord by our side, the trials of this life illicit only dread and despair; but with the Lord by our side, working out all things for good, we ought to feel only delight—“Nothing could be more disgusting than the one impression; nothing more delightful than the other.” I think Joseph said it best when he was led to conclude, after a great many trials and terrors of his own, that, though men meant evil against him, “God meant it for good” (Genesis 50:20). Ransom was right, it’s all a matter of perspective—and providence.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever” (Psalm 23).

“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish, and no one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all, and no one is able to snatch them out of the Father’s hand. I and the Father are one” (John 10:27-30).

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Photo by Art Institute of Chicago, Unsplash