Lent Day 7: Suffering with Job

"The Despair of Job," by William Blake (1757-1827)
Thanks to Art in the Christian Tradition, Vanderbilt University

Job said, "Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return there; the LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD."
~Job 1:21

We meet Job after a series of losses that come at him quick and hard. All his herds and flocks, all but four of his many servants, and, most devastating, all ten of his children. The reason for all the losses is strange and disconcerting, and I don't want to muddy up this reflection by dwelling on it. I want to talk about what happens when we are suffering--whether due to losses, physical pain, or mental anguish of any kind. 

You can read Job's first response, the words that tumble out of his mouth after having torn and discarded his clothes, shaved his hair, and fallen on the ground to worship God.

On the page, Job sounds calm, almost philosophical. But we don't know how this character is supposed to have uttered these words. Was he screaming? Was he sobbing? Was he barely audible, so gutted he was to have lost all his wealth (and his children would have counted in that category, even aside from the love we can assume he had for them). 

(I would probably be screaming.)  

The text is interested in the fact that Job doesn't sin against God in his grief. I think the text has a pretty fragile/ shallow conception of the almighty. To rage against God would be understandable, even in God's eyes. (Don't ask me how I know this. I just do.) To hurl accusations at God would be understandable, too. 

Have you ever had the, let's say, opportunity to tell God how furious you were with them? I can think of times when we weren't on the best terms, based on unexpected, devastating events in my life. Have you been there? Did you tell God off? You could, you know. The Psalms are filled with accusations of God's absence, lack of care, falling down on their basic savior job. Do you think those writers sinned? I don't. I think they used their own experiences to name something pretty universal: the challenge of faith in a God whom scripture claims is Love, when that God falls silent, or seems to have dropped the ball in terms of our life, our hopes, our stability, our actual needs. What do we do when God is (or seems) silent?

Job doesn't break up with God. Job doesn't say, because this happened, either you're not there, or you're a real jerk and I don't want to know you. I don't believe in you any more.

How does he manage this?

One clue comes before the verse I quoted. Job is a pray-er. He's always praying for his children (in the manner of his era). He's always trying to make sure they stay right with God, which means (to me, anyway) that he feels he is in good and right relationship with God. (God agrees.) 

Another clue is this: Job is taking the time to grieve. When we experience loss, shock, when our world is turned upside down, we need to do this--maybe not in the same way Job does, but we need to stop for a moment (or a day or a week or more) and realize: This is grief. I am mourning. And, even if God seems to you to have been a player in your loss, invite them into your grieving process. Tell God your sorry. Know that God is weeping with you, that God doesn't want this for you any more than you do.

And we don't really see Job doing this, but I believe telling God how angry we are is essential. You would do it with a friend who'd hurt you, wouldn't you? You'd tell your spouse or parent or child or co-worker, right? Why wouldn't you tell God? I would try not to let my first move be, God is dead to me. If we don't do that with a friend or partner, why would we do it with God?

And... here comes the weird part. One question I would ask myself is, "Do I still want to believe in God?" 

I know that sounds weird, but I believe the answer to that question plays a role. I've known since I was very young that faith in God was something I wanted, badly. I remember a friend in high school teasing me about my early religiosity (think, 2nd grade, wearing a rosary on the belt to my school uniform). I remember my response as clear as day: Don't you want to have faith? I don't have a clear recollection of his response, but I sure remember mine.

If the answer is yes, then this is a relationship worth working on. If the answer is no, I wish you well, and I give you this reminder: you can always change your mind.

Job was a man of faith who suffered a series of grievous losses, and then had to endure his friends saying "but you must have done SOMETHING to deserve it." 

No. That's not how God works. (Don't ask me how I know. I just do.) When you are suffering, know that this isn't what God wants for you, any more than you want it. Know that God is in it with you, that God weeps when you are weeping just as God laughs with you when you are merry.

Blessed be the name of the LORD.

Lent Day 3: Refuge

Because you have made the Lord your refuge, 

    the Most High your dwelling place,

No evil shall befall you,

    no scourge come near your tent.

~Psalm 91:1-2

Oh, that it were so.

Our eyes offer us evidence that this is not the case, day after day, year after year. We watch as refugees stream out of Ukraine... or Guatemala, or Syria, or Darfur, or Bosnia... and we know that, just statistically speaking, there are people of faith among them, deep faith in a God of their understanding. There are people who have spent their lives trusting in God's providence and protection, and teaching their children to do the same. 

And yet their homes have become the battlefields of the powerful, and their only safety lies in running, far and fast.

(Just to be clear: I have no wisdom, zip, zilch, about the situation in Ukraine. For that, go read Tom Nichols in the Atlantic, and Heather Cox Richardson on Facebook or by subscription. Also, pray.)

Even so, I delight in this psalm. I sing heartily every time "On Eagles' Wings" is our hymn in worship, and I believe every word of it to be true.

Yes, I have just said two contradictory things. That's because:

There is more to refuge than physical safety. On Friday, my Daily Prayers remind me to be thankful for "the presence of [God] in my weakness and suffering," and that is my refuge.

There is more to God's protection than a magic shield from falling bombs. God's protection looks different for different people, in different places: for me, it is a hedge against despair in desperate times. (I know this is a privilege, and probably reflects my privileged status as a white woman with financial stability and a good network of support. I acknowledge this.) I do not know why some suffer and others are able to avoid suffering, but I know it has nothing whatsoever to do with worthiness or holiness.

There is more to faith than God not letting anything bad to happen to me. Sometimes the deepest faith is forged in the crucible of the deepest suffering. (And sometimes, it is not. This, too, I acknowledge.)

There's an old story (I've probably told it here, on this very blog) about Saint Teresa of Avila. Wikipedia's thumbnail bio tells us that she was "a Spanish noblewoman who was called to convent life in the Catholic Church. A Carmelite nun, prominent Spanish mystic, religious reformer, author, theologian of the contemplative life and of mental prayer, she earned the rare distinction of being declared a Doctor of the Church" (meaning, she made a significant contribution to the church's theology... to this date, only four women have been given this distinction).

Anyway, the story. Teresa was traveling by donkey between convents, and was somehow knocked off her donkey. She landed in a puddle of mud and injured her leg. She prayed the equivalent of, "God, how could you? And what lousy timing." (Remember this. This is a prayer. You get to pray like this.)

God replied: "That is how I treat my friends."

To which Teresa replied, "No wonder you have so few of them."

There's another hymn we sing in church (though, admittedly, less frequently than "On Eagles' Wings"), courtesy of the Taizé Community. "Nada de turbe." Its lyrics are a prayer of this same St. Teresa:

“Let nothing perturb you, nothing frighten you.
All things pass. God does not change. Patience achieves everything.”

There is more to refuge than physical safety. 

There is more to God's protection than a magic shield from falling bombs.

There is more to faith than God not letting anything bad happen to me.

Lent Day 20: Heaven

Scripture (2 Corinthians 4:16-5:5) can be found here.

So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.  For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. 
                                                                                                                        ~ 2 Corinthians 4:16-5:1

I don't talk about heaven much, and I don't preach about it on a regular basis. I am most likely to speak from the pulpit about heaven during a memorial service or funeral, because I believe at that moment, the loved ones of the deceased need to hear words of hope that include that promise. But I don't preach about it most Sundays because I believe the people, on the whole, need words of hope and encouragement that are about the here and now, which, after all, is what Jesus meant by the "kingdom" or "reign" of heaven. He was talking about God's inbreaking and transforming presence for us, now, in this life. The heaven that is here already, but not entirely, not yet.

But today I read this passage in 2 Corinthians, so let's talk about heaven! Paul is using these words of encouragement, not for a grieving congregation, but for a fighting congregation, in the midst of power struggles, and, particularly, in the midst of rejecting him. And here, in the middle of addressing those concerns, he moves into a long and very beautiful description of the way in which the promise of heaven can encourage those who are suffering-- whether physically or mentally. He does not want his people to lose heart, in the midst of a world that can be so ugly, so harsh, and so devastating. Even in physical decline, even when faced with illness or the challenges that can come with aging, he asks the people to consider it a preparation for that moment when it will all be transformed into a glory he can't even quite describe.

This is not it, he insists. This pain. This sorrow. This is not it. And if you do not see the joy and transformation in this life, he holds up God's promises that we surely will see it in the next.

This image comforts me so. The soldiers have their limbs again, and whole and perfect brains. The children no longer have the wounds of war. The infirm are hale, and walk upright. Everyone has their original knees and hips!

I don't mean to be glib, or silly. Physical suffering in this life is no joke. I read last night about a ten year old boy, named Seven Bridges, who took his own life because he was mercilessly teased by school bullies about having a colostomy bag. The suffering that child endured makes me weep. And my hope is in the Lord who promises he is not only whole, but in the arms of a loving Father-Mother God who has removed all that pain and even the memory of it.

I don't know that that would be a comfort to his parents, though.  Even believing what I do, I don't know that I would be comforted by it, if that were my child.

We have these promises, and they are beautiful and they can be a source of strength under certain conditions.

But I don't want us to give up on this world. Right now a dream of peace among nations; justice and equity/equality for every person; peace among peoples of differing complexions, ways of worshiping God, ways of loving; a world in which there are no hungry or homeless people; a world in which the air is clean and the water is pure and human beings are the priority, and not profits.... right now this dream seems so very far away.

But I don't want us to give up on it. I can't. I won't. I won't give up on this world, no matter how beautiful the promise of what is next may be.