I've been reading the book of Job lately.
Job is an uncomfortable book.
This super-good, super-rich, super-nice guy ends up having all this really rotten stuff happen to him. He basically goes bankrupt, loses all his kids in a devastating accident, and then gets really sick and wishes he could die but he can't. It's just all wrong.
And then there's the weird stuff about satan and God in heaven, having this kind of dual over poor, unsuspecting Job. God brags on Job, satan scoffs, and suddenly Job is the rope in a divine tug-of-war.
Add to that a bunch of really lame friends who claim to be there to help, and who start off ok, and then who end up doing nothing but heaping more and more hurt on their friend's head. They accuse him of sinning. They blame the whole sorry mess on him. They hammer at him with their words until he can barely stand up, but through it all, he refuses to break. What a bunch of creeps.
I don't much like the book of Job, really. It shatters too much of my safe little world.
You know, the world that says that really bad things shouldn't happen to really good people. The world that says, "This kind of thing only happens to other people." It's a world that tries to rationalise away bad stuff, tries to find an explanation for disaster. He was in the wrong area of town. He hung out with the wrong kind of people. She dressed wrong. They lived on a fault line. They lived in a flood plain. They lived in Tornado Alley. I don't do those things or live in those places, so I'll be ok. So long as I can find a rationale, I feel like I'm in control. And if we can't find a ready reason, we make one up. He must have a secret life. He's not what he seems to be. There's probably secretly drugs involved, or prostitutes, or some other horrible secret life.
That's exactly what Job's friends did. They couldn't accept the fact that sometimes bad stuff happens to good people who are really and truly just good people living good and ordinary lives. So they accused Job of a secret sinful life. Problem is, Job was exactly what he appeared to be -- a really good guy who really loved the Lord, and really bad stuff happened to him anyway.
Accepting that reality means accepting the fact that I am not in control. It means that I accept that I don't control my destiny. I don't write my today or my tomorrow. I am not in charge. I can do everything right and that's no guarantee it's all going to work out happily ever after. The book of Job brings me to the end of myself.
So, I accept the fact that there are no guarantees. Things might not turn out happily ever after. I can accept that it's not my fault. But isn't it nice to know then that there's some greater purpose to my suffering? Perhaps there is a lesson I need to learn. Perhaps the Lord is trying to teach me something. Perhaps my suffering will bring redemption in someone else's life. I can almost feel vindicated if I know that my suffering over here has brought about that great purpose over there. But that's where the God-and-satan duel comes in. Job never knew about that duel. We, as the readers, know about it, but Job never knew. There was a greater purpose at work, but Job never saw it. And the greater purpose was not to make Job a better person or to teach Job a lesson, but to bring God glory. It wasn't about Job at all. It was all about God. And God never explained it to him. All Job knew was that his life was ticking along beautifully and suddenly it all went wrong. Boom. No reason, no purpose, no explanation, just a whole lot of hurt and a bunch of crummy friends and a God who, for the longest time, remained painfully silent.
That's an uncomfortable world. It's a wearisome and worrisome world, this world that defies my logic and flouts my sense of self-importance. My thoughts spin in every which direction, looking for a landing place, looking to create order out of the chaos, trying to make sense out of the senseless. My cry is echoed by a thousand voices all trying to do the same. It forms a keening cry that rises like a whirlwind from the broken rubble of this world, a cry in the minor key, a voiceless wail filled with the voices of a thousand hurting souls, all looking for answers, all looking for a guarantee, providing cold comfort as they try to comfort themselves, a yammering endless dissonant storm of sound. But there simply are no guarantees.
There are no guarantees, but there is God.
"Then the LORD answered Job out of the storm." Out of the storm of confusion and hurt, out of the storm of agony and despair, out of the storm of pain and defeat, YHWH answered. The One who makes and keeps promises answered. The One who loves with a never-ending love answered Job out of the storm. And he answers every one of us.
But the amazing part is that He gave Job no answer. He didn't tell Job why. He didn't defend himself or explain himself. He simply showed up. He showed up in all his glory, the glory that laid the foundations of the earth, bound up the sea, flung the sun and stars into the sky, and fashioned the seasons to follow each other. He showed up in all his love and reminded Job that he is the one who sends the rain, who feeds the animals of the earth, and who delivers the wild young. He simply showed up in all his power, majesty, justice, and mercy. He just showed up.
It is enough. When God shows up, answers become unnecessary. Explanations become inexpedient. There is simply the LORD, and he is enough.
The book of Job makes me uncomfortable, right until I get to the end, and God answers out of the storm. Suddenly, it's ok, not because the storm is gone, but because God has spoken. God is there. He is good. He is my guarantee.
I put my hand over my mouth and I say no more.
And there is peace, even in the middle of the storm.
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