Why Does Life Suck? (Reflections on Pentecost 25)

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

Ironically, it was Charles Dickens' birthday, February 7, an icy winter's day in 1999. Faith Lutheran Church was filled to capacity. Folding chairs were set up to handle an overflow crowd which included a chartered busload of folks from my internship parish in New York, Faith's congregation, and a lot of my family and friends who had come to help me celebrate my ordination mass and see me installed as pastor of this congregation. It was one of the best days of my life.

I was unaware of what had happened to Lisa's son that morning. Michael was riding home from a night out with a friend. The friend had been drinking. The car skidded off the road into a pole. Michael was killed. The driver fled the scene. It was the worst day of Lisa's life.

It would be many years later that Lisa and I crossed paths. Today she is president of Faith's church council, a faithful member of our praise team, and a ferocious advocate for Mothers Against Drunk Driving. I don't bring the subject up to her, but I'm certain that every February seventh, while I rejoice over my years in the ministry, Lisa is asking God, “Why?”

The Hebrew Scripture lesson from the Revised Common Lectionary for the Twenty-fifth Sunday After Pentecost is from that poetic speed bump in the theology of the Old Testament, the book of Job. (Job 19:23-27a) For most of the OT, the idea seems to be if you live a righteous life, God will reward and bless you. If you don't, you're screwed. But along comes Job asking the question, “What happens when I live a righteous life and I'm screwed anyway?”

 



In this rhapsodic piece of ancient literature Job, the protagonist, is painted as a really good guy. He follows God's law and even makes ritual sacrifices for his kids when they've been out partying. Capriciously it seems, God smites this poor slob. He kills Job's children, destroys his fortunes, and ruins his health with a disgusting skin ailment and a bad case of halitosis. Mrs. Job isn't very helpful. She tells the old man to curse God and die. But Job won't give up so easily. Broke, starving, sick as a dog, and grieving as only a parent can, Job is still faithful to God. He's pissed off, but he's faithful. And he wants an answer.

Wouldn't you?

Most of Job's posse desert him. Yeah, they liked the old boy when he was flush, but now that he's broke, sick, and sad they want nothing to do with him. A few of his buddies hang out with him, however, and try to get him to see that a just God wouldn't simply smite him for no reason. They insist Job must have done something to provoke the Almighty's wrath. But Job isn't buying it. He grows defensive and belligerent and demands that God cough up a good explanation for why his life sucks so much when he's done nothing to deserve it.

God's answer?

None of your freakin' business, Buster! I'm God, and I can do what I want. And just who do you think you are that you even have the right to question me? Hmmm?

Then God leads Job to contemplate the immensity of God's Creation. Which is a good thing, because Job has been getting just a little too introspective lately. God forces Job to pull his head out of his own self-absorption and realize that there is more going on in the world than just his circumstances. Job eventually gets the picture. He pardons the false friends who had been accusing him. Slowly, his fortunes are restored. His ailments abate, his wife bears him more children, and he rebuilds his business. Personally, I don't think he could possibly get over the death of a child, but maybe having experienced so tragic and soul-crushing a loss, his heart has softened. With his new heart, he appreciates his later years more than he had enjoyed his youth. It's a weird thing, but I think the wisdom of pain can bring us to contentment.

I don't know what to say to Lisa. I can't explain why her son had to die that day. All I can do is tell her to hang tough as she navigates the rest of her journey. What I love about the book of Job is Job's angry—almost violent—faith in the face of his own tragedy. When I read this passage, I can almost hear the old guy—his face, arms and legs, covered in puss-oozing rash—screaming in his defiant hopefulness,

“For I KNOW that my redeemer lives, and that at the last he will stand upon the earth; and after my skin has been thus destroyed, then in my flesh I shall see God, whom I shall see on my side...”(Job 19: 25-6)

I love that Job makes a distinction here between “skin” and flesh.” His skin may be rotting off of him, but his flesh—his true self—is still heir to the promise of his faith.

We are not our circumstances. Our age, our bodies, our gender, sexual orientation, surroundings, resources, health, what have you—they may inform our consciousness, but they do not comprise the mystery of our immortal souls. Our circumstances do not speak for or define who we really are. Nor do they speak for or define God.

I'm as guilty as the next guy of curving in on my own stuff and missing the larger picture. I need to take my eyes off of my issues to see the pain around me. And to see the joy and the beauty and the mystery, too. God does not stop being good just because I stop noticing God's goodness. So I keep reminding myself to look up and out. And I will defiantly stand with Job and refuse to accept death and pain as the final answer.

God bless you, my friends. Thanks for reading.

By the way, I also don't accept that Christians can't get along with each other. If you're Lutheran or Roman Catholic, don't you think it's time we patched things up? I mean, it's been almost 500 years since the Reformation. Let's ask the Pope to open the communion table again. Sign my petition here.