Earlier this year, the actor and author Stephen Fry was
interviewed on the programme 'The Meaning of Life'. He was asked what he would say if he was
confronted by God at the pearly gates.
An avowed atheist, Fry replies: I'd
say, bone cancer in children? What's that about? How dare you? How dare you
create a world in which there is such misery that is not our fault.
That kind of voice of protest is not unknown to us; it is not
unknown to our biblical narratives either.
The psalms include passages of anguished lament alongside songs of
praise and wonder. The psalms include
words of anger which resonate with the conviction of Fry's 'how dare
you?'. That voice of protest echoes
within the lives of Christian communities too: in our theology and practice of
endurance, resilience and altruism; in the words of Magnificat and campaigns
for justice.
Rowan Williams responded to Fry on 'Newsnight' by acknowledging
that it would a very, very stupid and insensitive person who never felt
that. To be human is to be
confronted by the reality of pain and injustice; to be human is to grapple with
our incomprehension and anger; to be human is respond with compassion and
generosity.
As Williams expresses it what's mysterious is the fact that
people in the heart of suffering, people who are alongside children with bone
cancer still, somehow, maintain a faith, a trust of some kind. It is that 'something' that prevents
Rowan from saying 'it's all god's fault and that's it' . Today we are confronted by a text which draws
us deeply into the reality of suffering.
The book of Job is story of human misfortune and misery. Job's story is one which explores human
motivation in relation to God. He is a
devout man; he is a prosperous man. The writer of this book sets up an extended game of 'what if?'. The character of the Satan is like a
Shakespearean court fool - asking the testing questions. He asks, does Job
trust God because of his great wealth? Or as the divine character suggests, is
Job's trust in God independent of comfort and prosperity. In the opening chapters, Job's wife poses the
questions forcefully, why bother to place your love and faith in God, if
there's no material gain? Do you
still persist in your integrity? she says,
Curse God and die!
Chris Gollon - Job's Wife (2013)
Job's friends continue to challenge him on his loyalty to God.
They goad him by offering advice and explanations. The passage we heard this
evening forms part of Job's response to their torment and reproach. He is brutally honest in his lament. He cries out to God against the violence and
agony he faces but finds no answer, no justice.
He rages and rails against God: he feels hemmed in by darkness
and cannot see the way ahead. Having
lost his family, wealth, possessions and status - the things we might regard as
his pride and glory - he feels broken down.
I am gone he says. All
that defines him has been taken away - his own identity, his sense of
self-worth is undermined. In the midst of loss and pain, without material
stability, Job feels as if his hope has been uprooted.
He describes his relationship with God is embattled. Having known
God as the source of blessing, his trust in him is now put to the test. His own
intimate friends and closest family, as well as those more superficial social
acquaintances, have deserted him. It is easy to become estranged when our
capacity to be hospitable and generous is none existent. He sees himself as
they see him: repulsive, loathsome, despised and abhorred. They are perhaps fair weather friends - keen
to enjoy the luxury of Job's bountiful lifestyle in the good days. Yet as he
asks for their pity, they become like pursuers - judging him for his changed
circumstances.
The agony and cries of Job's circumstances are not alien to
us. Growing inequality in our own
nation; the fear mounting on the borders of the European Union; the violence,
oppression and injustice perpetuated across the continents; the shock of
untimely death and chronic illness; the pain of loneliness and inexplicable
changes of circumstances. All these things shape our petitions, prayers and
laments.
Yet within the darkness of Job's petitions we hear words of hope
and trust: I know that my Redeemer lives. The word translated redeemer
is goel and literally means someone who would defend our cause; a
champion and advocate. He is one who seeks justice; the champion of the
oppressed. Although his heart faints,
Job utters words of assurance that he is not abandoned. Such hope of a redeemer
goes beyond the expectation of literal support and practical alleviation of our
circumstances.
Job's hope is in God who will stands alongside us, who reaches
out to us. A God who's love and forgiveness isn't dependent on our worthiness.
It is a hope which is rooted in the assurance of God with us; whose love for us
is made perfect in human weakness. The
letter to the Hebrews picks up this theme of redemption expressed in part
through the lives and actions of priesthood; but fulfilled in Jesus
Christ. The main point of this letter is
that in him we know God with us; we know that our Redeemer lives.
The priesthood of Christ is eternal: it is expressed in his birth
and teaching, his healing and suffering, his death and resurrection. This is the drama of our redemption: a drama
of God's love for the world: creating, redeeming and sustaining. God takes the risk of giving freedom to his
creation; God also risks bearing the cost of redemption on the cross. In Jesus
sin and death are defeated; in him we see life restored, bursting from an empty
tomb. God sends his Spirit upon us - in
our fragile and broken world - in order that we might be caught up in this
redemptive activity.
As Graham Tomlin puts it in 'The Widening Circle': God's
desire is to bless his Creation and to bring it to its fulfillment. He does that
through Christ, the one Mediator between God and Creation. And yet he chooses
to involve us in various ways in that priestly blessing. That is part of
our human calling - to be a source of comfort, joy and blessing to others. We
are called to abide in God's love; we are called to reflect that love in
abiding with one another.
Sometimes we protest with Job as cries seem unanswered; but
rather than seeking blame and culpability like his friends, we might be called
to hold the hands of the dying; to embrace those in distress. We are called to embody that mysterious trust
and faith expressed by Rowan. It's not
perfect, it's not painless; but it's love, actually. It is not something that
can be presented in words; it is something that can be lived - cautiously,
hopefully, wholeheartedly.
It's a faith and trust made manifest in us. I glimpsed it at a
lunch time recital hosted in by previous parish church and Shooting Star Chase
children's hospice. It's not romantic
ideal; it's a piece of ordinary. The musicians performed with energy and skill; the
children were caught up in rhythm which held their wordless attention; their
siblings danced and clapped; bereaved parents wept and carers reached out to
them. We gathered for a moment in this place. The unemployed man eating his
lunch, the passer by and the worshiper; the volunteer with homemade biscuits.
We came. And stayed. And spent time
together. Then in my flesh I shall see God. Then in our frailty we find life.
© Julie Gittoes 2015
