“And then Job replied to the Holy One.
I know you’re able to do anything
your purpose can’t be contravened.
‘Who is this who perverts counsel without knowledge?’
I have spoken of things too wondrous for me, of which I am ignorant.
‘Hear me. You will teach me
I will listen and you will speak.’
By ear I had heard of you,
but now my eyes have seen.
And so, I stand corrected,
content being merely ashes and dust” (Job 42:1-6).
As I write this, it’s still Lent. Easter morning has not yet risen, the first blooms of spring are just making their appearance. I have no idea the context that will surround you as you read this. I’m as ignorant of what and why has occurred in your life as we have been about the tragedy of Job’s. Appropriate, I suppose, since our intent in this journey was, through confessing that we didn’t know, we might start on a journey into wisdom.
So, are we wiser? As I take my leave of this poem, I am asking myself if I do so with some greater understanding of the world, of myself, or of God. Am I more at peace or more greatly disturbed by what I’ve encountered?
Is Job? Where is he at the end of this? Physically, nothing has changed. The tragedy that set his lament into motion is not undone. Like a survivor after a tornado, his house still lies in splinters and he’s not even begun to count his losses. Like a person long ill, there is still months of recovery ahead.
And, to me, he seems more alone than when this began. His friends have wounded more than healed. Maybe the great, divine storm changed them, humbled them. Perhaps in its aftermath they realized that they’d missed the point, gotten too wrapped up in arguing and went to apologize to their friend.
Maybe they heard nothing. Like those on the Damascus road with Saul, they saw the spectacle but did not hear the Voice. That was for Job’s ears alone, and only he knows how deeply personal and relational they were. And they make of these final words what they will: as either confession of sin or admission that they were right all along.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. As it was with the Divine response, it seems we are left with more questions and answers. I can tell you, nothing here makes any more sense than the terrible, innocent suffering of our world. I will tell you that I’m not ready to say with Job that I am content with being dust and ashes. Not yet.
Being content means accepting mortality. It means there’s only so much we can do. It means we can wet the roof and the grass but not stop the fire. We can vaccinate, mask, and scrub our hands but not stop the plague when it comes to our homes. And when the skies darken at midday and the earth shakes, we can do nothing more than take cover.
In other words, we can do as little as God could do when, as our enfleshed and mortal Jesus, the soldiers came, the nails were driven, and all hope seemed lost. And that is to cry out asking if we’ve really been abandoned.
And know, as Job has learned, that even when nothing makes sense, that God is there, loving us and nearer to us than the closest friend. We know that nothing is beyond notice for the Creator-of-All, including ourselves. And that whatever happens, no matter how little sense it makes, we can cling to the reality that God is not the villain or our tormentor, but Love. An endless, unbreakable Love.
Which means we are the creation of that love. Dust and ashes given breath and movement through love alone. Mortal beings who are fragile, quite powerless, and as vulnerable as that man upon the cross.
And, perhaps, that is wisdom enough to be content.
Love Incarnate, I still do not understand the suffering and sorrow of those close to me and those I’ve never met. And, unlike Job, I am not yet content in mortality. Help me accept that there are things of which I am ignorant, but never to be foolish enough to believe your love has an end.