A Better Country (Joy in the Journey 93)

There are so many things in life we could wish were ‘better’. Better health; better job; better friendships. We long for things to be different, to be improved. And perhaps we can see that, for others, it does indeed appear to be better. From the little that we can see, they seem to have what we lack. In a time of national distress those comparisons can seem even starker. And the memories of better times we cherish and that have often comforted us now cruelly mock our present loss.

The saints of old who are celebrated in Hebrews 11 are said to have been longing for “a better country”. Not an earthly one, where they had won the culture wars, but a heavenly one, not susceptible to change and decay. An inheritance that cannot be stolen or soiled. A country that is the dwelling place of God. A city with foundations whose builder and maker is God. In every way it deserves to be thought of as ‘better’.

It’s possible that one of the significant differences between the way they handled their distress and how we find ourselves responding to our own is where they were looking and how they looked.

Their eyes were not so much fixed on the terrain of their troubles but were lifted to the farther horizon, to the better country and to the God who had prepared a lasting home for them. Lifting our eyes to take in that view can be hard. We’re often overcome and in our weakness we wilt under the heat of trial. We walk with our eyes lowered to the ground and our hearts deflated. Our only hope is to ask the Lord to grant us faith, to strengthen our trust and dependence upon him. It won’t self-generate. But he is wonderfully kind in meeting us in our frailties.

One of the striking points made about these saints is not only that they lived by faith but “were still living by faith when they died.” Their trust in God was not because he had already answered all their hopes (which is sight, not faith). The better country was not yet present - it had been made clear to them that perfection awaited the full complement of God’s people. All they could do - and what they did in such exemplary manner - was to see and welcome the promises from a distance, to embrace them, cherishing every present indication of their ultimate fulfilment.

In Lamentations 3:21 there is a similar movement of the soul: “Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope…” Embracing the promises of God, even at a distance, and welcoming them into our lives requires a deliberate choice, the humbled heart open to receive and not closed by cynicism.

All the while as they did this - and through the very act of doing so - they admitted that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. Lasting security and ultimate reality lay elsewhere, with the God whose promises would one day be fulfilled in and through his Son. Their sense of non-belonging didn’t dismiss the joys of this present creation but saw, with piercing clarity, where true value and beauty lay, in the heavenly country.

This kind of perspective is hard-won but deeply consoling. It can revive a spirit that is fainting, athirst for substance and hope, in the knowledge of the better Saviour and his better country.

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Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,

    Pilgrim through this barren land;

I am weak, but Thou art mighty,

    Hold me with Thy powerful hand.

        Bread of heaven

Feed me till I want no more;

Open Thou the crystal fountain

    Whence the healing stream doth flow;

Let the fiery, cloudy pillar

    Lead me all my journey through;

        Strong Deliverer,

Be Thou still my strength and shield.

When I tread the verge of Jordan,

    Bid my anxious fears subside;

Death of death and hell’s Destruction,

    Land me safe on Canaan’s side.

        Songs of praises

I will ever give to Thee.

(William Williams, 1717-91;

tr. Peter Williams, 1721-96)