“We stumble and fall constantly even when we are most enlightened. But when we are in true spiritual darkness, we do not even know that we have fallen.”
Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude
This quote from the writing of Thomas Merton came to my attention today at a time when I am (once again!) desperately seeking the presence of God. A number of years ago, I went for a week-long silent retreat at an abbey on the banks of the Shenandoah River in Virginia. I wanted marching orders from God, concrete directions on what to do with my life. A moment in time is seared in my memory—standing in the driveway, swirling around searching the sky, so convinced of the presence of God that I expected to see Him drifting through the clouds. And the only message I got from that intensely connected moment was not the concrete direction I was seeking, but the words that came from my mouth, unbidden, “I just want to be closer to Him. Closer to Him.” The reality of that moment, the utter conviction of the connection to God is just as strong now as it was then.
These words written by Thomas Merton, “We stumble and fall constantly even when we are most enlightened,” were reassuring, an affirmation that it’s okay not to feel the ever-present rush of my driveway moment when God seemed to be within reach, almost visible. Sometimes I doubt His presence altogether while recognizing the spiritual darkness and knowing that—for a time—I have fallen away from Him.
These days, these months of late, have been a spiritual test. The world is in the midst of a pandemic and, for me, that means months of living a life of solitude, even more so than my pre-pandemic life. I miss my children and grandchildren so much I can feel it as a physical pain in my gut. There is no end in sight so I don’t know how long I will have to endure. And I am increasingly filled with red-hot anger toward those who are ignoring the precautions advised to avoid spreading the virus. Meanwhile our country is experiencing another wave of racism and political rancor. It’s ugly. It can’t be God’s plan. Or is it God’s plan, the only way to move us into a more loving co-existence. Can I trust that God even has a plan? Has He ever had a plan?
Today’s Daily Meditation from Richard Rohr seemed particularly on point. I will include it here in its entirety (emphasis mine):
The Wisdom of Job
Tuesday, July 7, 2020
Theology does not by itself provide wisdom in crisis. All theology must become a living spirituality to really change us or the world. It’s disappointing that we Christians have emphasized theology, catechism, and religious education much more than prayer and practice. The biblical book of Job is probably one of the greatest books on prayer that has ever been written. It breaks our stereotypes of what it means to communicate with God.
If we view Job’s story as a journey into an ever-deepening encounter with God, we keep the question of suffering from becoming an abstract debate observed at a distance. It is a text that only fully makes sense to those who’ve felt suffering, been up against the wall, at a place where, frankly, God doesn’t make sense anymore and we no longer believe “God has a plan.”
Job loses his livelihood, his savings, his family, and his health. His practical, religious friends appear as self-appointed messengers, to speak what they are sure is God’s answer to Job’s suffering. They offer the glib, pious platitudes of stereotypical clergy. What they do is try to take away the mystery, but they cannot solve the problem. God says you cannot solve the problem of suffering, you can only live the mystery. The only response to God’s faithfulness is to be faithful ourselves.
Most of the things Job says to God in his pain are not what Christians have been trained to say to God. The pretty words are mostly gone; there’s no “swirly talk,” as writer-pastor Molly Baskette calls it [1], that Christians so love to put in their prayers. Instead, Job dares to confront God, the very thing many of us were trained never to do. In fact, we called it blasphemy.
During Job’s crisis, he yells at God, accuses God of all kinds of things, speaks sarcastically, and almost makes fun of God. “If this is a game you’re playing, then you’re not much of a God! I don’t need you and I don’t want you!” It’s this kind of prayer that creates saints. Yet we can’t pray with that authority unless we know something experientially about God. We can’t pray that way unless we are assured at a deep level of the profound connection between ourselves and God.It takes one who has ventured into that arena where we say angels fear to tread.
Ultimately Job’s story reveals that God cannot really be known through theology and law. God can only be related to and known in relationship, just like the Trinity itself. Or, as the mystics assert, we know God by loving God, trusting God, and placing our hope in God. We cannot really “think” God.
Job’s religious friends and advisers have correct theory but no experience; thoughts about God, but no love of God. They believe in their theology; Job believes in the God of their theology. It is a big difference. The first is information; the second is wisdom.
I consider all the times I have shaken my fist at God, knowing that He would still love me in spite of my insolence and doubt.
I consider what it means to stop believing that God has a plan, that all of this makes sense from a worldly point of view. Maybe He doesn’t have a plan, He doesn’t micromanage earthly existence the way we think He does.
And maybe giving up this magical thinking about God’s management of creation will lead me into a deeper relationship with God.
All of these thoughts may not make sense to others. They are connected for me in a way that I am unable to communicate well. The way I experience God is undergoing some sort of transformation that I cannot yet define.
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