I recently heard a story about Martyn Lloyd-Jones, one of the greatest preachers of the twentieth century. Before he went into the ministry, he was a promising young doctor at one of the best hospitals in London. One day, another doctor from the hospital came to his door, requesting to sit by his fire. This doctor had recently lost a woman he’d cared about to a sudden illness. This man sat in front of Lloyd-Jones’ fire for two hours, not saying a word. For all his prominence in medicine and society, this doctor had no resources to deal with his grief. Lloyd-Jones said that this incident had a profound effect on his life. He saw the “vanity of all human greatness.”

That phrase reverberated in my head, challenging my own hopes and desires. I doubt that many of us would admit point-blank that we seek self-greatness in our endeavors. We would hide any such ambition behind more acceptable expressions like ‘helping others,’ ‘pursuing excellence,’ ‘being responsible,’ or ‘glorifying God.’ Yet I think that most of us wish to taste of this world’s adulation. It fuels our hard work and promises to be the balm of our miseries. And few of us deviate from its siren call, even if we see the bald face of it. Perhaps humans will always be susceptible to our original sin of pride. But I think it is particularly insidious for authors.

By the very definition of our profession, we are proffering our ideas and stories to the world for their approval and consumption. Our fame becomes the measure of success. People don’t buy our books if they don’t know us. And they only know us if they think we are great. So we must pursue our greatness to succeed. And writing is too much work if we’re only going to fail, right? It sounds like an impossible conundrum, especially for people who feel called to write for God’s glory. How can we reconcile this?

I wrote this on Good Friday, a day rife with contradictions itself. We celebrate the death of God in the flesh, who submitted himself to powers far less than himself and bore the punishment of guilt that was not His. And He called it the hour of His glory, and we call the day Good. Maybe the answer lies in the Lord we serve. His definitions fly in the face of this world, and it can never understand them. Could it be that we must live by these definitions also if we are to walk rightly with Him?

Would He give us the desire and ability to pen meaningful words only to experience obscurity, rejection, or indifference? What could be the purpose of that? How long do we wait if it seems like the world is passing us by, and we won’t have enough? We flounder in confusion, feeling betrayed and abandoned. Like death. And that brings us back to Good Friday and the Cross. Behold the love that was stronger than death. But it took a little while for that to become evident. And then, many people still missed it. Are we missing it even though we look back on the empty grave? Why are we so afraid? Could He ever fail us or give us anything less than the best? Maybe if we keep our eyes on Him, see the blessings that sustain us every day, and follow the minute instructions for the next step that leave us dependent on him, we will understand. Following in His death leads to glorious new life. Human greatness could never compare to His goodness.