"After this, Job opened his mouth and cursed the day of his birth."
This is the kind of thing that keeps Job off the motivational speaker circuit. I can guarantee you that Anthony Robbins or Charlie "Tremendous" Jones never say, "When your life is hard and torn, just curse the day when you were born."
Job goes on to request that that particular day be removed from the calendar. He requests "May those who curse days curse that day." (He doesn't tell us who "those who curse days" are; it seems like a limited profession.) For the next twenty-eight chapters Job pours out a level of bitterness, confusion, sorrow, and anger toward God that is staggering. He wants to know why God has forsaken him.
This is so raw that his friends can't stand it.
The Doctrine of Retribution
Job's friends spend twenty-two chapters voicing one central idea that was actually the primary theology of their day. It was written about in Mesopotamian wisdom literature. It is sometimes called "the doctrine of retribution." The idea is that goodness results in prosperity and blessing, wickedness results in suffering. Ironically, in their silence these friends drew Job closer to God. When they spoke, they pushed him away:
So Job, if you're suffering badly — you must have brought it on yourself. If you're no longer close to God-who do you think moved? If you will repent, he will deliver you from suffering.
Philip Yancey notes that the arguments voiced by Job's friends are being repeated in Christian churches today. Suffering people have told Yancey that those who make their suffering worse are Christians:
• "The reason you're in the hospital is spiritual warfare. If you were just engaging in spiritual warfare, Satan would be defeated and you'd be delivered."
• "God promises to heal — if we have enough faith. If you just had enough faith — just prayed boldly enough — you'd be healed."
We generally associate well-being with the presence of God and assume that suffering means someone has done something wrong. No one writes a book called Where Is God When It Feels Good? No one wins the lottery and cries out, "Why me, God?" And of course, it is true that pain was not part of God's original plan, and the day is coming when he will wipe every tear from every eye.
And yet . . .
While God hates pain, he can also redeem it. It does not mean he is absent. Years ago I helped conduct a survey that asked thousands of people what had most contributed to their spiritual growth. The number one answer was pain.
In summer I am tempted to think that because of my success, wealth, reputation, virtue, faith, I'm in control. My life will unfold how and when I want it to. In winter I learn I'm not running things after all. Somebody once said that the biggest difference between you and God is that God doesn't think he's you. In pain, we get very clear about not being God.
Of course, this doesn't mean we can go up to someone in enormous pain and say, "Well, this is good news because you're going to grow a lot!" Pain is deeper and more mysterious than that.
Mini-Pain
One thing we can do is practice God's presence in moments of "mini-pain." Suppose I'm frustrated at standing in line at a 7Eleven store. That's maybe a "one" on a pain scale of a thousand, but I can, in a sense, use it as a tool. I can ask God to be present with me in my frustration at having to wait. I can look for him in the presence of the clerk behind the counter who doesn't speak English very well. The practice of walking with God in mini-pain can serve people well when larger pain comes.
Almost six years ago I had the most painful year of my life (so far) when, for a variety of reasons, long-rooted patterns of living for other peoples' approval and applause came to the surface. The emptiness and hollowness of this life was so raw for me that every morning I woke up with a ball of pain in my stomach. I began to write to it in my journal each day: "Good morning, ball of pain, I wish you would go away . . ." Even though I have a Ph.D. in clinical psychology, I had never wanted to go through receiving counseling myself. I was the help-er, not the helpee. Pain changed all that. Now I ran for help.
