Good Guys

Why do bad things happen to good people? The question has been pondered for millennia. But I have another question: Why do good people do bad things?

The ancient story of Job deals with both questions.

The first question gets all the attention. It's the question Job demands an answer to but never receives. Job's friends are pretty sure they know the answer: it was something Job did.

I don't know that I was taught this, but I grew up thinking Job's friends were not really friends. They were mean and thoughtless, "miserable comforters," as Job says at one point. But that's not the whole story.

When they arrive, they spend seven days in silence just being there with and for Job. These are committed friends. They aren't bad guys. And just because Job sometimes berates them does not mean he doesn't care for them. He berates, yet honors, God too.

Job's friends are good guys and true friends.

I recently heard a story on The Moth Radio Hour about a grandchild's love for his grammy, who also loved him dearly but was less than purely good. It's too easy to know one aspect of a person and decide that they are either good or bad.

We are all bad guys; we are all good guys. The line between good and evil runs through every human heart, says Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Good guys do bad things. One of the qualifications for sainthood, I think, is an insistence that one is not saintly (I admit limited knowledge on this subject; perhaps canonization sometimes allows for arrogance). Good guys ought to recognize their failures. But sometimes the worst part of bad behavior is a conviction that it is righteous.

Job's friends are pious and certain about what God wants and how and why God does things. They know that if you have problems it's your fault and God is punishing you. It's their duty to warn their friend about this and set him straight.

It seems this very piety is what pisses God off. We don't realize it while they are arguing. We think, hey these guys have a point. They know their theology. When God scolds Job at length for impertinence without addressing the friends, I suspect they nod in agreement and feel justified for their judgment. Only after God tells off Job for thinking he understands what he doesn't, only then do we find out that God's bigger beef is with the friends; Job must pray for them to prevent their ruin.

Job is honest. He has the chutzpah to express his deepest, darkest thoughts and feelings. His friends, on the other hand, say what they think God wants them to say. And that's their sin! Finally God turns to the friends: "I am angry with you, because you have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has."

What?! Us? No, you don't underst... (gulp). Surprise ending.

Job's friends, good guys that they are, repent. They make their sacrifices. They eat their crow. They are not dealt with according to their folly.

When most certain that we are proclaiming God's will, we most need humility. We might well be full of folly.

Graven Images

Martin Luther taught that anything we trust, other than God, can become an idol. Anything.

In that case, we are all guilty.

I've been asking myself this question: Is it possible to be guilty of idolatry in the very act of believing in God? I suppose this seems ridiculous, so bear with me. God is beyond understanding, yet we tend to think we understand. That's a problem. We don't trust God nearly so much as we do our own perception of God.

We have a long history of doing terrible things, because we believe God agrees with our beliefs: if you disagree with me, you disagree with God and deserve his wrath. And I am all too willing to execute the judgment you obviously deserve. This has been the MO of too many religious leaders and their followers.

We are more tame (I hope) than some of our ancestors, who marched on crusades, burned witches, and tortured heretics. But there seems to be a growing intolerance of others in general, and of religious others in particular.

The title of a book by Peter Enns sounds right to me: The Sin of Certainty. Maybe I don't even need to read the book. Maybe the title is enough. The subtitle is: Why God Desires Our Trust More Than Our "Correct Beliefs."

If we are guilty of idolatry when we trust our own perspective of God, what else have we got? Perhaps worse is trusting someone else's view of God.

It's not that we shouldn't trust God. It's that whatever our perspective of God is, it's inadequate, a small bit of the truth at best. Trusting God includes a lot of wonder and, frankly, a lot of not knowing.

Listening to prominent Christians fawn over a man who makes no bones about idolizing himself has forced me to ask whether beliefs can be idols. Not only do these people defend the man, they are certain that he is to be admired. God is on his side and theirs. God sent him—and them—to judge evildoers.

I believe I should remain open to the possibility (however slim) that they are right. But I won't trust their judgment on the matter. They are too certain of themselves. They are too quick to condemn. If only they had the grace of Job's friends, who demonstrated their concern for their friend by sitting with him in silence for an entire week.

When Job's three friends did start talking, they warned Job with the best of intentions and the best theology of the day. Job argued with them, and they impressed upon him just how God does things. After all of their sermons and arguments, God finally weighs in. We are hoping for a clear answer, but there is none. Instead, Job is chided for expecting to understand God, and his friends earn God's wrath for claiming to.

While the term idolatry has been expanded on (for example, in the book Playing God, by Andy Crouch) it didn't occur to me to think of graven images as anything other than carved piece of wood or chiseled stone or molded metal—fulfilling quaint and old-fashioned notions of divine protection. We, of course, have moved beyond such silly superstitions.

Maybe not. If we don't understand that our images of God are necessarily inaccurate, we risk trusting little more than graven images.

Job

Job is the story of a good man who had everything and lost it. He doesn't see the justice in his suffering. Eventually, his wealth is restored.

I would like to see the story of Job rewritten as that of someone who has nothing, suffers immensely, and ends up with nothing. Where's the justice in that?