Privation
To follow the way of life and the path of righteousness, a person must be prepared to deprive himself of the ways of darkness and the paths leading to sin. If he resolves to do that, he must count on being deprived by sinners who walk in darkness and for whom sin is a la mode. In other words, if you separate yourself from cultural excesses, you run the risk of being shut out of things that you did not even separate from. If you refuse to join in song because you think rock music is a poor replacement for hymns, for example, you may be blocked from teaching Sunday school.
There are many false ideas of privation. It is folly to embark on a mission across the sea before first making sure that we are in the ark of salvation, which must be by faith alone in Jesus Christ alone; but this is what thousands of priests have done. They have taken privation as a way of salvation instead of a way of life for the saved. Monks and priests are still doing this today. They board the sinking ship of works, and take up their oars to produce their deeds. But their oars are weak instruments, and their rowing is not equal to the wind they face. Falling backward instead of making headway, and thus missing out on the encouragement that progress yields, their privation falls into distrust and disuse. Then, perhaps giving in to dissipation, they proceed to the end of their lives despairing. Going to heaven on the strength of Roman Catholicism is as futile as trying to cross an ocean with rosary beads for oars. “But in all things approving ourselves as the ministers of God, in much patience, in afflictions, in necessities, in distresses, in stripes, in imprisonments, in tumults, in labours, in watchings, in fastings” (2 Corinthians 6.4, 5.) This is a good description of privation, but only on the basis of having received the grace of God, not vainly, as through baptismal regeneration, but actually (verse 1.)
Some disciples don’t even go in for privation. Consequently, they are not deprived by others, not for their faith, at least. Yet, in spite of it all, or I should say, in spite of so little given up or taken away, they think themselves followers of the Lord. They go on a mission to Zimbabwe to put a building up, not once fasting during the week that it takes to do it. And yet they think they’ve suffered deprivation by flying to Africa and back on the wings of a jet.
It might seem romantic to have to be fed, as Elijah was, by ravens through the interposition of God. But imagine how hungry a person has to get in order for such a divine initiative to take place. Imagine having to eat carrion dropped from the beak of a bird! “And the ravens brought him bread and flesh in the morning, and bread and flesh in the evening; and he drank of the brook” (1 Kings 17.6.) This is an experience of privation. Churches would be emptied of hypocrites if the price of continued membership included just a few days of imitating Elijah during the time of 1 Kings. Like a wild animal, the apostle Paul had to endure being driven from pillar to post in the matter of basic sustenance. “I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need” (Philippians 4.12.) To live from paycheck to paycheck can be stressful, for nothing can be laid up for a rainy day that way. Nevertheless, that steady income yields the blessing of stability. To live, however, in this manner: sometimes adequately, sometimes barely, and never sumptuously, is the experience of privation. Like a lynx or a coyote, the apostle Paul ate when he could—when food was available, which was far from always. By being regularly put to this elastic exercise, he came to the point at which he was happy at the prospect of giving thanks at an empty table. He kept under his body, God supplying him the opportunity of practice through privation. God supplied him the mean of mastering his body through a mean (scanty) supply. I recall a story in which the following question was put to a member of an outpost: “What do you do when you run out of food?” His answer: “We proclaim a fast.” We should not be unused to privation.
Privation is frequently, if not usually, the consequence of persecution. If a disciple is dismissed by his family because of his faith, which commonly occurs in eastern countries, he may soon be as needy as Elijah was. The privations experienced by John Hus, the Reformer, rival those of both Elijah and Paul. Before his burning at the stake, the Roman Church tried, as hard as its most wicked officials could, to extinguish his faith by removing his comforts. “Ten spans above the water you’ll see a small hole riveted thereto a grate of thick iron bars, through which, when the waves beat high, foam and drops splash into the dark chamber where Hus is sitting…I saw the poor prisoner…huddled at my feet in the foul straw. Upon a ledge stood a bowl with porridge, upon which lay a black, wooden spoon; next to it stood an earthen jar, near it lay a crust of bread. When the prisoner lies down, his head and his soles almost touch the walls. His clothing is falling to pieces and if he wants to relieve his bowels he must sit upon a round stonehole, from which a bestial stink rises, until the high water forces the excrements from the vault, which often happens only after three or four weeks…Hus was led out of his dungeon into a decent chamber, but his feet almost refused to carry him, he swayed as he walked; listless and unused to the day was the light of his eyes, deathly pale his cheeks and loose what was left of his teeth, since eleven had fallen out due to the damp prison. The nails on his fingers were terribly long, because he had been unable to bite them off for many weeks; upon his skin was a crust of dirt which exuded an awful stench and his otherwise brown hair fell in white ringlets upon his rotting and torn garb. His shoes had rotted upon his feet and his shirt and loincloth had vanished. The rounded flesh which had covered his bones had shrunken and shriveled and he had become a picture of woe without equal, unrecognizable to those who had known him before” (Poggius the Papist, Hus the Heretic, pp. 12-14.) This is a biblical portion of privation—worse treatment than what Dostoevsky received in a Russian gulag, and equal to any affliction in any German concentration camp.
In our modern time in the West, God allows us an exceptional measure of liberty where food, accommodation, care, and comforts are concerned. We may live quite large depending on the abundance of our culture, government subsidies, charity, and the profits we make through labor. Privation not being our lot, therefore, it is up to us to learn to be abounding and yet suffer need by the practice of mortification. Through this exercise, we instruct ourselves to keep under our body—to master our bodily needs and desires. And the fact is: “Just so much meat and drink should be used as to reinvigorate the powers, not to oppress them” (Cicero.) It is discouraging to observe Christians never depriving themselves of whatever they want whenever they want it. To be always full to satisfaction is what leads to ennui. What is ennui but weariness caused by satiety? When anything we desire is readily had and indulged, we soon tire of everything, which is an irreligious humor in the face of God’s bounty. A Christian complaining of not knowing what to cook on account of being tired of all foods, what does he need but a bout of privation from a chastening God? Why not fast sometimes? Why not eat ‘bread of affliction’ (1 Kings 22.27) one day in the week? Or why not pick an even more chastening food? My personal favorite is ‘beans of ‘affliction,’ which concoction I came up with for its humiliating, mortifying effect. A soup made with nothing but lentils and mung beans, with a little salt, will buoy the soul by abasing the body. Bible reading and prayer open up by closing the door on preoccupations. Denying our belly turns our thoughts upward through spiritual exercises; this facilitates the denial of other sins than gluttony. “The eye must fast from impure glances. The ear must fast from hearing slanders. The tongue must fast from oaths. The hands must fast from bribes. The feet must fast from the path of the harlot. And the soul must fast from the love of wickedness” (Thomas Watson, The Doctrine of Repentance, p. 52.) It is worth knowing, also, that privation caused by dietary issues, if we have them, or unexplainable malaise if we have that for our cross, is as much from God as privation through persecution. The Christian should remember to give thanks for this, for privation works toward humility, and humility is one of the chief virtues to lead us to that ‘secret place of the Most High’ (Psalm 91.1), the sanctum sanctorum, or holy of holies. And what is that but a sense of God by the Holy Ghost? What does this sense include but inexpressible joy, and peace beyond human understanding? Believers who have been in that sanctuary know where it is, what it is, and how heavenly it is to be there. Our limitations are not accidental; and they are meant to be instrumental. It is comforting to assume that a limitation is on account of discipline from God; and the assumption has a fair probability of being correct, given the sinners that we are. Regardless, what is it that we suffer from that is not, at the very least, by God’s permission? But if we are not put to a hard lot, it is up to us to not be too used to ease. The reader of Church history will have noticed that great preachers were accomplished mortifiers. Of John Bradford, the 16th century martyr, John Foxe relates, “He did not eat above one meal a day, which was but very little when he took it; and his continual study was upon his knees” (J. C. Ryle, The English Reformers, p. 131.) Is this not glaringly unlike the practice of today’s Christians generally? Is it not at variance in particular with Christians feasting in restaurants after service on the Sabbath? Do we believe the Sabbath to be for rest and worship when we, by having strangers cook and serve us food on that day, contribute to this holy day being profaned? Would a Christian like John Bradford not make most of us uncomfortable because of our lack of rigor and godliness? A would-be disciple should be advised to count the cost of privation, or self-denial when privation is lacking, for which behavior he will be avoided or hated by easygoing churchgoers—churchgoers who have never so much as heard that there is a cost to count.
