Dear one,
“Now is the winter of our discontent…”
You might recall that John Steinbeck employed these words, taken from Shakespeare’s Richard III, as the title to his novel, The Winter of Our Discontent. You might also recall that the novel centers upon Ethan Allen Hawley, and his attempt to regain his family’s Long Island “dignity.” Through petty intrigue, but mostly through circumstances and ineptitude, Ethan regains the coveted status, but at the grievous cost of his own, personal identity and integrity. Obviously the novel addresses discontent—and its erosive darkness.
Although I must confess that this winter has felt bleak, and counter my reference to Steinbeck, my attention has been drawn not to “discontent” but rather to “contentment.” My conviction is that we live in a culture that daily peddles “discontent”: we must have more … more things, more opportunities, more conveniences … and these must be bigger and better, greater and grander, offering yet unknown pinnacles of paradise.
Nonetheless, regularly I have been drawn to Paul’s words: “I have learned to be content with whatever I have … of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in want” (Philippians 4:11-12). Often I have been comforted by his words: he learned contentment—that contentment is an “acquired taste.” This certainly seems true as we observe babies and infants: upon being fed, we observe that they are “content,” at least for a while, until they become discontent. But whether for infant or adult, if I understand Paul, contentment is not a natural or innate attribute: for both it is learned, a process of time and acceptance.
The word “content,” as in being satisfied, is clearly related to the word “content,” as in the contents of a box; although pronounced differently, they are both related to “contain,” which from the Latin, continere, means “to hold altogether.” Thus, given Paul’s words, he learned “to hold it altogether,” which of course begs the question: How? The answer to this question lies in the Greek word he used: αὐτάρκης, which conveys the sense of “self” (auto) and “sufficiency” (arkeo). Strictly speaking, he learned to be “self-sufficient” or “independent”; but in context, he learned to be independent of that which constituted his abundance (i.e., being well-fed) or the source of his hunger (i.e., his poverty). Rather, again in context, it wasn’t as though he gritted his teeth: “I’m my own man, I can do this”; or, “After all, I’m a self-made man”; but instead he acknowledged: “I can do all things through Him who empowers me” (4:13). In plenty or in want, he could be content. In Christ lay his sufficiency and his dependence—always the mystery of a Sovereign Creator relating to volitional creatures.
The Source of his contentment was neither internal nor external to himself; his contentment lay in his relational thanksgiving to and for Christ Jesus.
I can do no better.
Stan
Contentment?