P n L (Ch???) Draft 7

November 4

I see faith in your eyes. Never you hear the discouraging lies. I hear faith in your cries. Broken is the promise, betrayal. The healing hand held back by the deepened nail.

                                                                                        –Follow The God That Failed by Metallica

 

 

Our Father in heaven,

Hello Darkness, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with You again. Hear O Israel, YHWH is One. I was born to serve God like a loaded gun. I fire off questions, even the wrong ones. Silence, Your answer, keeps leaving me stunned.

Do You have feelings? Do You know what I mean? How do You heal what the war vet has seen?

Minding his own business, the satan appeared in the midst of Your courts. “Where have you been?” the Judge asked. “Roaming the earth, back and forth,” did he say?  Yes. And You sicked the hounds of hell on Job Your faithful servant, then watched silently as his friends shredded his integrity.

Job, meek and mild as One holy child, who was only minding Your business, suffers forty-two chapters of Bible poetry drenched in the blood of attack! Innocence his crime, spared not reason nor rhyme or one ounce of pain or of lack.

Why?

How do You answer?

Silence. The sound of silence.

Why?

Oh, and I’m the bad guy for asking?

While I’m on it, why do Your people not hold You to account for these things? Shouldn’t Your people more than anyone ask about these matters? Yet they never mention this part in the brochures. Instead, the TV and radio preachers ask for my money and promise You will pay me back in health, wealth, and happiness. But it wasn’t so straightforward with Job, now, was it?

My questions won’t kill God, will they? This isn’t a philosophy course in some liberal institution of higher learning. Surely, God isn’t dead in my prayers! Is my prayer the smoking gun? Surely, God the Almighty can survive a couple questions. No?

It’s not the questions that kill God; it’s the immutable silence. Show us You have a pulse. What has our God done for us lately?

Job. Poor Job. He dared to ask, and his cries were met with silence–except when his friends broke it. The silence was more than they could take, but not You. You strong silent type, You! Your faithful servant languishing on the ash heap defending himself from false accusation, yearning and crying out in faith that surely his Redeemer lives! Crying into the silence, and getting no reply.

Until finally, finally, God deigns to speak. And what does God speak?

Questions. Mostly questions. Questions that shut Job’s mouth.

“Where were you, Job, when I made the world?”

Wait! What?

In the presence of God, knees knocking and brow sweating, Job hushes his mouth, but you don’t answer his questions with answers, but more questions!

Where’s Your feelings? Where’s Your empowerment? Could You not apologize for sicking the satan on him? Inquiring minds want to know!

Am I the only one to talk to You like this? Am I the first to pray this way?

I don’t mean to be out of line; I simply want to know. I don’t know who else has the answers.

I’ll be here waiting for your response until either the silence ends, or I do. Whichever comes first.

Thanks.

Amen.