Mad at God

I’m not sleeping well. Actually, I’m not doing anything very well.

Decades ago, when I was in Israel, a group of us were at the Jordan River trying to meditate about Jesus’ baptism by John. It was hard, however, because construction was going on. This massive drill-like machine periodically threw itself backward and then forward with a tremendous punch into the earth beside the river. With the sound of iron meeting iron, it could not be ignored, and I found myself working its rhythmic disturbance into my prayer. What else could I do?

This is my son’s death. It is that massive machine thrusting its violent interruption into my mind multiple times per day, rending, reminding, all over again. It used to be an intolerable interruption, one I would push away with equal violence, but now my arms have grown weary. I acknowledge it. It is part of my landscape now, and it will always be. I find myself working its disturbance into my prayer.

God, I’m here, under the Juniper. I’m not waiting and watching for you. I’m angry with you. I know my son is with you. I know your mercy welcomed him. I know what pieces your mighty love worked to bring together, so he knew how loved he was in his final moments. I know all this, yes. But he’s not here with me. I can’t hold him anymore. I can’t watch him grow. I can’t see that sheepish smile, that way he walked. I can’t hear his voice. I’m mad at you.

Reflection

What are you mad at God about?

Prayer

Dear God, you are not the god some people portray you to be — all happy and light, always predictably safe. You’re not safe! We’re not safe, and I scream, “Why?” But I know I don’t really want the answer. It is beyond me. I don’t need that answer. I just need to know you’re here. In the midst of this awesome, awful world, you move in awesome, awful ways*. And we are so loved. Draw me close.

*See Walter Brueggemann’s “We Treasure What You End,” in Awed to Heaven, Rooted in Earth, p. 27.