Aug 20 2020 Job 1: 1-22

Then Job arose, tore his robe, shaved his head, and fell on the ground and worshipped.

Satan has just made a deal with God. God has basically handed Job over to Satan to test, as God knows Job is a good and righteous man. In this first tormenting bit, God allows Satan to do whatever he will, but to not harm Job directly. So Satan does his dirty deeds. He has all of the sheep, oxen and donkeys carried off and killed, all but a couple servants carried off and killed, and all  but one of his sons and daughters killed. To this horrible carnage, Job’s response is to tear his robe and shave his head, both signs of despair and lament, and both absolutely warranted in this story. He also falls on the ground and worships. 

That’s the part that’s hard to understand. 

All of the things that are hard right now, partisan conversations, a struggling civil rights movement, the pandemic, elections, - none of these things are as horrible as what Job has experienced so far. And yet, our collective and individual response is not to worship. In response to these things, I find myself spending more time railing at God. But Job worshipped. I wonder what he said or thought in this part of the story. What did his worship look like. Thank you God, for sparing me? God, you are wonderful, all powerful, and my family, servants and livestock have all been destroyed?  I want to know what worship at that moment looked like. 

Sometimes when I worship, I’m able to momentarily suspend the grief or lament in my heart and head. Worship allows me to connect with the all-loving God, ever-present Holy Spirit. But after reading this beginning part of Job, I’m wondering what worship would be like, in the midst of the grief, not suspending it, but worshipping amidst it. 

I’m exceedingly good at making things clear, perhaps forcing clarity even when there isn’t any in reality. I’m good at dichotomies, either this or that. I’m not as good at the in-between, vague, or inconsistent. I understand worry, despair, and the resulting lamenting. I understand joy, beauty, and the resulting worship. I struggle with understanding worry, despair, and in Job’s case, the resulting worship. For Job, it’s not that the worship made all the bad stuff go away. He worshipped from that place of immense grief. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how to worship in grief, and letting the anguish remain. I genuinely do get glimpses of beauty and grace and love when worshipping, and maybe that’s just my overactive mind, making order where there is discord. I am feeling grief these days, whether from political uncertainty, pandemic, work uncertainty, or my loved one’s continued descent into their disease. I want to learn from Job, how he worshipped in the midst of his tragedies that were far more personally impactful than my worries. 

Aug 17 2020 Psalm 106

But they soon forgot his deeds and did not wait for his counsel.

Oh how easy it is, to forget God’s deeds. As soon as things are hard, or the path forward obscure, I forget. It’s not that I forget God’s there, or doubt in God’s providence. Rather, I begin to interject myself in ways that are neither helpful, or feel good. 

When things are hard, I sometimes throw my hands up in the air, figuratively, and get a little dooms-day-ish. Currently my loved one is becoming increasingly symptomatic in their significant chronic mental health disease. They’re increasingly withdrawn, and non-communicative. That’s a big red flag for us, as they normally spend a lot of time on social media, for better or worse, talking to their thousands of fans, literally. Now, they spend most of the time in their bedroom, coming out to occasionally smoke or drink, or even more occasionally, eat. Woe is me. There’s nothing I can do about this, except fret. And so, forgetting God’s deeds, I fret. Worse, I return their surly tone with my own, as if that will help, or as if they can do anything about the disease in their brain. 

Similarly, when I cannot see the path forward, I jump in and plan or organize or force a way. Certainty, even my own contrived, likely-to-not-happen plans are more comfortable than the unknown. My family plans are pretty non-existent now, between the pandemic and the uncertainty of my loved one’s condition or presence at any given time. Therefore, clearly, I’m needed to jump in and construct a plan, a future, a vision forward. 

Just like the Israelites in Egypt, I soon forget God’s deeds. 

This is why I pray the Morning Office. Every morning, I’m given a chance to remember God’s deeds. Whether it’s with the Lord’s Prayer, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, or a song of Isaiah, ‘Surely it is God who saves me, I will trust in him and not be afraid’, every day, I’m given text to pray and remember. I will trust in him and not be afraid. I will trust in him and not be afraid. 

That trust in God doesn’t make things any less crummy for my loved one. It doesn’t mean the delusions are gone, or the smiles return. It doesn’t make it any easier to watch. But for a moment at least, I remember that God is with us both. God, the ever present, ever loving, ever merciful God. I do not need to fret, or wring my hands. To be clear, I’m not suggesting all will be ‘well’, and I sometimes wish my faith would indemnify me and my loved ones from any harm. But that’s not how it works. 

With regard to my plans for an uncertain future, they  are never as good as God’s. Again, the song of Isaiah reminds us of a better future with God, “you shall draw water with rejoicing from the springs of salvation”. That is better than any contrived plan of mine. 

This morning, I’m thinking about the moments when I’m in prayer, remembering all of the things that are so easy to forget. When I pray my repetitive morning daily office, I am repeatedly interrupted from my chronic forgetting.