As with most people, I have lost those who are dear to me. More often than not, these losses happened as part of the natural rhythm of life. As we grow older, that rhythm inevitably speeds up. We all come from dust and to dust we all return. Eventually, if we live long enough, it can feel like there isn't anything but dust blowing all around us. But we take comfort in the memories of those who are no longer with us, and rejoice in the vibrancy of life we see in our children and grandchildren.
It is the losses that occur outside the natural rhythm of life that stop us cold. The kind that brings darkness so overwhelming it becomes the stuff of poetry and song.
The Rolling Stones song “Paint It Black”:
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door, I must have it painted black
Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts
It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black
Or Metallica's “One”:
I can't remember anything
Can’t tell if this is true or a dream
Deep down inside I feel the scream
This terrible silence stops me
Now that the war is through with me
I'm waking up, I cannot see
That there's not much left of me
Nothing is real but pain now
Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please, God, wake me
While I have witnessed unimaginable circumstance in those around me, it has always been just far enough removed that I wasn’t swept into that vortex of darkness. When people talk about having more than their fair share of grief or tragedy, I can’t help but feel some of that should have been mine. I live with this sense of dread hanging over me. Is my time coming? What if one of my children is taken away? Can I be as strong as others I've seen?
As many of you know, my theological home is in process theology. What captivated me, and what draws most people to process thought, is the belief that divine power is not manifested in the world in ways that allow God to override the laws of nature and supernaturally intervene in creation. Unlike the God in the book of Job, process theology does not view divinity as something which causes or willingly allows evil to happen in the world. Instead, God suffers with us, grieves with us, and our pain is divinely shared.
When my time comes and I'm facing down some of the worst life has to offer, my battle won't be with God. I won't be shouting at the sky asking, "Why, God, did you allow this to happen? What could possibly be the reason for this?" Nor will I have the unsavoury temptation to defend God honour during these times or to protect God by thinking, "This is all part of a greater design, some mysterious plan to bring more goodness into the world.” And I won’t feel the need verbalize those same words to try and comfort someone else.
We read tonight the passage in Job that sets the stage for the rest of the story. The book of Job spans over a thousand verses across forty-two chapters, yet the majority of time in this account is relegated to a mere three verses.
When Job's three friends, Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite and Zophar the Naamathite, heard about all the troubles that had come upon him, they set out from their homes and met together by agreement to go and sympathize with him and comfort him. When they saw him from a distance, they could hardly recognize him; they began to weep aloud, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads. They sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great his suffering was.
For seven days and seven nights, his friends sat in silence with Job. Their empathy for his suffering surpasses all expectations.
This vigil is finally broken by the intrusion of theology. After a week sitting in the dirt with his friends, Job finally speaks, and in his suffering, he challenges the unquestioned belief that God blesses the righteous and curses those who are not.
When Job puts God's honour on trial, the friends who sat and mourned with Job immediately assume the role of God's defenders. In their urgency to protect their preconceived understanding of God's justice, they could no longer remain silent. The need to respond to Job’s questioning took precedence over their continued willingness to be comforters.
There is a time for theology, a time to reflect on why there is unimaginable evil in the world, but it has no place in the deep darkness. Theologians and ministers who repeatedly defend God are an unwelcome intrusion into these moments.
Jesus' approach is different. When he speaks about grief and suffering, such as in the beatitudes, he offers no defence of God's goodness, but rather instructions to his disciples on how to live in such times.
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” These are not only words meant to bring mourners hope, but it is a command to the disciples to be comforters to others, not defenders of God.
One of the greatest gifts we have to offer is to be there for those whose whole world has been painted black! In the midst of profound grief it ceases to matter who you voted for, what your religion is, or any other manner of ideology that can cause division. It is in these times that our humanity, that essential part of ourselves we all share, becomes most important.
So often, it is those who carry with them the memories of unspeakable tragedies who take up the task of being comforters. Those guardian angels who have been through the overwhelming darkness and have come out the other side, bruised and scarred, but still with light left to share. Those who willingly re-enter the darkness, to risk having their hearts broken again, who can be that gentle wisdom and empathy so needed in those times. And sometimes without even knowing it, their unassuming presence lights up a little bit of that darkness, just enough so others might glimpse the path out.
When the dark night of the soul comes for me, as it does for all of us, I expect the light I see will be God's gentle light shining through those who have walked that path before. What a gift they are to are to the world.
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