Three Men in the Cellar of Affliction
The following is a narrative based on a quote attributed to Samuel Rutherford, “When I am in the cellar of affliction, I look for the Lord’s choicest wines.”
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The first of the three men stumbled upon the cellar quite unexpectedly, but now he had found it, he rejoiced. Here was the finest wine the Lord had to offer, and plenty of it. The cellar of affliction, as it came to be known, was to be found at the far end of a corridor named weakness. It had many names come to think of it, suffering, persecution, failure. The corridor was vicious with a singular trait, if one could not make their way to the end, it could swallow one whole, and slowly, but surely, digest them, stripping away hope, contentment, patience, and faith. This man, Paul was his name, found himself in the corridor when a thorn had been thrust into his side which, try as he might, even calling upon the name of the Lord, he could not remove. His depth of weakness was far greater than he, and could not be overcome, it required another more potent answer.
It was then that Paul heard a voice beckoning, it said to him, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is perfected in weakness.” This was the voice of the Lord. Paul began to push through the corridor. Not in an attempt to leave, as so many had tried and failed to do before. Forcing open the door behind from where he’d heard the voice, not by his own strength but in the Lord’s. Paul descended the stairs into affliction. He did not lose hope but found on that journey the strength to “take pleasure in weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and in difficulties, for the sake of Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong,” as he would later recount (2 Cor. 12:10 CSB).
Over the years Paul found himself visiting this place often and with great joy. He found an entrance while imprisoned, and before his eventual death. The wine, not a poison which dulled the body, but rather a tonic full of the spirit of the Lord, was apt to strengthen one with true power. It never ran empty or lost potency in all his time there, nor for its myriad of other visitors. Long before Paul, another had fallen here also, the second of our three, but his journey had been from a great height far above. He’d spent a long time in the corridor and had been thoroughly digested by the time he’d met with the cellar’s embrace.
It had begun with a dream. This second man, Nebuchadnezzar, had called for his servant Daniel. The servant stood before his King and delivered an interpretation for a dream Nebuchadnezzar had received.
The verdict was dire. “You shall be driven from among men, and your dwelling shall be with the beasts of the field. And you shall be made to eat grass like an ox, and seven periods of time shall pass over you, until you know that the Most High rules the kingdom of men and gives it to whom he will” (Dan. 4:32).
It came to pass immediately, the highest king of the world, the man who had everything, writhed on the ground with hair like feathers and nails like eagle’s claws. He was no more than a beast and there was no reason left in him.
“The highest king of the world, the man who had everything, writhed on the ground with hair like feathers and nails like eagle’s claws. ”
Before he could breathe his last breath, he too found himself in the cellar. There his eyes were raised to Heaven, and he was restored to his former self, not only body and mind—but all he had previously been given and more!
He had been given many opportunities to turn and truly worship the Lord of the Cellar before, but what miracles, wisdom and power had failed to do, weakness had accomplished. Tasting the greatest wine for the very first time, he drank in the gift of revelation and proclaimed, “I blessed the Most High, and praised and honored him who lives forever, for his dominion is an everlasting dominion, and his kingdom endures from generation to generation; all the inhabitants of the earth are accounted as nothing, and he does according to his will among the host of heaven and among the inhabitants of the earth; and none can stay his hand or say to him, ‘What have you done?’” (Dan. 4:34–35).
Though these stories are in the public record, and I urge you to find them for yourself and to be encouraged by them, I found them whilst visiting the cellar myself. I, the third man, have known the taste of this wine longer than I can truly recall, but it may help to tell you of one such occasion on which I found myself there. Five years ago, in an Underground station in London, whilst dealing with some major health issues, I found that the elevator was unfortunately out of order. Cane click-clacking as I slowly, painfully, descended a flight of stairs, I smiled upon seeing a young boy playfully running up and down the platform. His mother, seeing an opportunity, grabbed the boy by the arm and, pointing at me, said in a stern voice, “If you keep running around this station, you are going to end up like that.”
The whole platform took a second to look, but no one said anything. These glances were not altogether uncommon, most onlookers didn’t see a person but death on legs.
The corridor of weakness, at least to my eyes, was richly decorated by framed pictures of such glances. Many of the pictures displayed faces I had met at church. The faces told me I wasn’t an image-bearer; I was a leper. For a time, I believed them.
Above the door to the cellar, now far closer, but not yet there, I read the following words: “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness” (James 1:2–3).
“Reading the accounts of their visits I was struck that, though my present age told me that suffering was something to be vehemently avoided, God had seemingly chosen to make it his distinct and unique training ground for heroes of the faith. ”
Though I wanted to believe, it would take the Spirit’s doing to bring me forth and place my hand on the doorknob. As the knob turned, the pain in my body increased and I now knew the journey was worthwhile—I would truly suffer for it. As the wine touched my lips, I looked down upon a well-worn book sat upon a lectern. It was a sort of guestbook. As I opened it up and thumbed through its thick pages, glass in hand, I noted the names scribbled within. Many have since become dear friends, though they are friends with whom I’ve never been formally acquainted. Pillars of the faith like Charles Spurgeon, Matt Chandler, John Newton, Mephibosheth, Paul and Nebuchadnezzar, as well as many, many others.
Reading the accounts of their visits I was struck that, though my present age told me that suffering was something to be vehemently avoided, God had seemingly chosen to make it his distinct and unique training ground for heroes of the faith. I would commend their stories to you, much more than my own, as far greater examples of how suffering can bring a person great joy. From the first man, Paul, I learned how to be content in all circumstances, not by my own strength, but by my lack thereof as “I am able to do all things through him who strengthens me” (Phil. 4:13).
Since my first visit, the joy I have experienced in my suffering has come through willingly accepting my inadequacy in the face of my trials, receiving the stark revelation that Christ has already conquered, and in the light of that victory, taking up my cross to follow him to the end. Of course, not through my own strength but through his.
Adsum Ravenhill is married to Anna and together they are passionate about seeing young men and women discipled within the context of the local church. You can find Adsum through his writing at The Raven’s Writing Desk and alongside Anna as the co-host of the Consider the Ravens Podcast.