We Serve God by Enduring Suffering

John Milton  (1608-1674)

Sonnet: On his blindness

When I consider how my light is spent,
    Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
    And that one talent which is death to hide,
    Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my maker, and present
    My true account, lest he returning chide,
    Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
    I fondly ask; but Patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
    Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
    Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best, his state
Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
    And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
    They also serve who only stand and wait.

Yang Jiang submits that the poem should assuage people with any kind of deformity or incapacitating illness: "If they follow the intentions of Heaven and accept their pain, this too is service to God; similarly it is moral accomplishment, because it is the refinement of the soul, the improvement of the self in the midst of bitter pain."

I suppose she's right that suffering requires a supporting logic -- at bottom, this is what the German psychoanalyst and self-help writer Victor Frankl meant, yes? But if we apply the formulation too strictly, we will never take Tylenol ("Your headache serves God, dearie.") and we may well become the sort of worshippers who flog themselves, or worse ("This body part amputate I, in remembrance of Thee, o Lord..."). So the thought seems incomplete

Thanks to Weed's home page for the text of the poem.