floydius

I’ve been working with a congregation in Mesquite, TX for the last few months. We’re studying through a series in Ruth, and this past Sunday, I talked about some of Naomi’s suffering.

The truth, though, is that I feel like teaching on suffering is pretty pointless for me. Pointless because it’s been taught and explored by people far more intelligent and studied than myself. Pointless because to teach about suffering, you have to know of suffering. No matter how much I might feel I’m hurting at some particular point in time, I know that mine is merely a speck of sand compared to the mountains others have faced.

But perhaps more significant than any of those reasons, it feels pointless because I don’t know why God doesn’t intervene to stop it. Why doesn’t He sit down and warn us Himself before we walk into worlds of pain? If His final plan is to wipe away every tear from our eyes, why is He letting us cry so many now? And I’ll give you a heads up, this isn’t one of those posts where I have some solution waiting in the wings. I’ve got nothing. I don’t understand it. I have no answers.

Naomi lived in Israel with her husband and two sons. There was a famine, though, and so they moved to a different country to try and make ends meet. But Naomi’s husband died; so she was left with two children and no husband. She could have moved back, but what good would that do with no food to eat? So she took care of her sons, and they married women in the foreign land. After living ten years in this new place, some of which she spent alone and sad because of her husband’s death, her sons died too. That was the last straw. She was now an older widow taking care of two younger widows, neither of them even from her own country.

When she heard there was food back home, she found no more reason to stay. She told her daughters-in-law that they’d be better off staying where they were, to find new husbands, and to move on with their lives. One stayed, and the other refused; her name was Ruth.

When Naomi made it back to her home in Israel, it had been over ten years. When her people greeted her, she had some interesting things to say:

“Don’t call me Naomi,” she told them. “Call me Mara, because El Shaddai has made my life very bitter. I went away full, but the LORD has brought me back empty. Why call me Naomi? The LORD has afflicted me; El Shaddai has brought misfortune upon me.”

Naomi is a Hebrew word that means ‘pleasant’. Coming home minus two sons and a husband, Naomi didn’t feel very pleasant. Mara means ‘bitter’ — and that is how she felt. That seems fair. She had been on a very hard road. What strikes me as odd, though, is that she attributed her hurt to God. Both El Shaddai and LORD refer to the God of Israel. So, “God has made my life very bitter. God has brought me back empty. God has afflicted me. God has brought misfortune upon me.” She never says God did anything wrong here, but she believes He is responsible. By far, the most interesting thing to me is that never once, in the entire remainder of the book, does God or the author reject that claim.

I’m usually pretty reticent to lay any of my suffering on God’s shoulders, because it could be Satan, right? Or maybe someone else made choices that were wrong and it’s affecting me? Or maybe I made choices and I’m facing the consequences. Sometimes things happen for which no instigating party can be given credit. But when I hear Naomi’s assertion, I can’t help but think of Job:

Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart. The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away.

I remember that nowhere in the text of Job does God deny responsibility for taking away Job’s wealth and family. Here, we have more details than we do for Naomi; God actually allowed Satan to hurt Job and those he loved. In the end, it was Satan who instigated the pain, but God clearly let it happen. In fact, Satan had to ask God’s permission, so in this case, is God not ultimately responsible? Apparently, Job did not sin in thinking so.

For a moment, let me just assume that Naomi and Job were right… that God is responsible for your suffering and for mine. What God gives only departs when He takes it away, and when those we love are hurt, it is not without God’s permission. I’ve thought about whether that assumption makes God no longer good, or whether it makes Him too unpredictable or scary to serve. In the end, I think it really just means my assumptions about Him were wrong. The idea that a good and just and loving God could simultaneously be responsible for bad and unjust and hate-inspired suffering — that is a hard pill to swallow. Of course, it’s easier to leave that pill in its academic bottle when you, or those you truly love, are not suffering.

When it really hits home, though, when you are hurting, or when it’s someone you love (and you’ll know you love them when you truly wish you could take their place), then that hard pill grows jagged edges and lodges itself right in your throat. And how do you breathe like that, much less function? How do you keep putting one foot in front of the other without falling over?

I don’t know the answers to any of those questions. I do know this, though: whether or not I love God, whether I do good deeds or evil, I will suffer in this life. If I had to choose one entity to be responsible for that suffering, it would be the God who gave his Son.

King David, the sinner, the adulterer, the murderer, the man after God’s own heart, once found his people in trouble with God.

By the text’s own admission, God influenced David to do something that would cause Israel to suffer. David commanded his armies and fighting men to be counted, which was forbidden in the law. This count resulted in a punishment for Israel, and David was offered three possible options for that punishment: Either there would be seven years of famine, or three months of military defeat, or three days of pestilence in the land.

David did not try to get out of the punishment, but rather reasoned that if the suffering was to come from any source, He would rather it come from God and not from man, “for His mercies are great.”

In the end, that is what I choose. If I must suffer, I’d rather it be at the command of a loving God, rather than at the remorseless hands of man or Satan. If God gives, I will praise Him, and be glad. If God takes away, I will praise Him, and not be afraid to cry out in pain. God’s mercies are great, and I will trust Him to do what is best.

My younger brother was always more athletic than I, but I never truly accepted that fact until the winter Olympics of 1988. Back in 1988, one of the most exciting events was speed skating (looks like it’s headed that way again in 2010, by the way).

We lived in a house with wooden floors then, and my mother kept them clean and polished. She would always tell us to be careful, because they could get pretty slick. Barefoot, it was no problem, but with socks you could lose your traction. My brother saw this as more of a feature than anything else. He recognized the potential for a rink, and thus began his experiments with inertia.

He made it look easy. He would take a running start from our room, grab the door post as he swung out, sliding in a half oval down the hallway, and end up in the adjacent guest room. It was cool. I don’t say that just because I was 7… you would think it was cool if you saw it now.

I watched him 2 or 3 times before the thought occurred: “I can do this.” I put on some socks, and even had him give me a final demonstration to make sure I was clear on the mechanics. My running start went very well, but the thing about inertia is that it’s a real problem if you don’t manage it. My speed stayed up… my direction did not. By the time I’d picked myself up off the floor, one tooth had cut entirely through my upper lip, and I was pouring blood out of my mouth.

My Dad was out working on the car while all of this was going on. Both of my parents had told me not to run on that floor, and now there was blood all over. I couldn’t keep it from dripping through my fingers. Mom had just cleaned. I had no interest in her finding the floor that way. I wasn’t crying, because it didn’t really hurt, and I couldn’t see my own face, so I didn’t know how bad it was. My idea was to ask Dad if we had any band-aids. Once I stopped the bleeding, I was going to clean up the floor before anyone saw the mess. It was the perfect plan.

Now, my father is a very smart man. That doesn’t always come out to everyone, but it’s true. He’s smart in mathematics, physics, and radar engineering. One of his best qualities, though, is that he reacts intelligently in an emergency. He stays calm, and has a good idea about how to keep other people that way. So I know that when I asked whether we had any band-aids, he knew that a band-aid wasn’t going to cut it. He also knows me very well… he is my Dad, after all. He took a look at my mouth and told me that we needed to show Mom when she got home.

I forgot to mention that my Mom was out grocery shopping at the time. If Mom had been home, none of this would have ever happened in the first place. That mommy sixth sense of hers would have been tripped before my brother even put on the first sock. It must have been tingling anyway, because she was home within minutes of my accident (for those who don’t realize it, this was before cell phones, so we couldn’t call her). In the few seconds it took my Mom to figure out what was going on and to look at my mouth, she also knew a band-aid wasn’t going to fix this. Unfortunately, her knowledge about me was temporarily overridden by her motherly care, and she blurted out the truth: “that’s going to need stitches.” This was not what I wanted to hear.

In that moment, I transformed from a very calm little boy who was bleeding profusely out of his mouth to a very terrified one bent on avoiding the hospital. Someone sewing my skin shut was not in my game plan, and I let everyone know it. Minutes later, my poor parents were experiencing the horror of trying to get me into the car. I refused, and physically resisted every effort they made. In the process, our entire neighborhood got to spend that Saturday morning hearing my screams that my parents were trying to kill me. At one point I landed a fist into my Mom’s throat as I was flailing around and trying to get loose. Before it was over, my Dad was vocally considering tying me up with a rope, and he wasn’t kidding.

It wasn’t much better when we arrived at the hospital. I was outnumbered by my parents and doctors, but had no intention of giving up. I had my hands clamped over my mouth and felt like I could keep that up indefinitely. In retrospect, I think I probably terrified other children at the hospital that day, what with the insane look on my face and blood dripping out through my hands. In the end, they managed to pry my fingers back and confirm the need for stitches.

I remember very specifically one of the orderlies asking me whether I was going to do this “like a big boy” or whether they were going to have to “strap me down.” At 7 years old, I said: “you better strap me down.”

In the end, they sewed up my lip, but it was a lot harder than it had to be. My parents even made me go back and apologize to the doctors for my behavior.

I was just so afraid of those stitches. I didn’t like needles. I was scared of the pain.

It was clear to everyone but me that I needed them though. It’s hard to believe that I actually wanted to use a band-aid. I was so busy protecting myself that I didn’t have time to look in the mirror and see how bad it was. I was terrified.

The doctors knew what they were doing, though. They knew that even as the needle and thread pierced my flesh, it would also bind. It would put my body in a state of healing. The pain was minimal, but it would truly stop the bleeding — the way a band-aid never could. Though I resisted and fought with every ounce of my strength, they did what was best for me.

How often does this happen in our spiritual lives? The wound is there. We cannot stop the bleeding. We desperately want to cover it all up before anyone can see. We fear the pain of legitimate treatment to the point that we’re willing to accept the superficial. We are terrified.

But the God of all creation has the solution. The psalmist wrote: He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds.

I still bear the scar today from my experience in the ER. If I hadn’t struggled so much, I might not still have a fat upper lip on one side.

Our God is the master Healer, though. When He binds up, there is no scar. When He treats, there is no trace of infirmity. When He is finished, we are just as good as when He created us.

Every now and then, I still trip and fall. Even today, I nearly knocked over a girl as I was coming out of a restaurant. So it is with my spirit. I make mistakes; I stray from God’s will. I am encouraged to know that when I am bruised and broken, the Lord is gracious to me and will heal me if I am willing.

I shudder to think what would have happened if I’d been allowed to try band-aids as I wished, or if I’d been left to continue bleeding. The wound could have become infected and festered; I might even have died. May we never be so afraid of the treatment that we remain bleeding and broken. The master Healer is always ready to treat us, if we will trust Him long enough to work.