“I will say to God ‘Don’t just condemn me – tell me why you are doing it.”
The Book of Job, 10:2
Everyone writes about the Book of Job at some point – and maybe, every one who ever writes is really just writing about the Book of Job.
A lot of people really hate this story.
Not me. I find it relieving. It tells the truth straight up, no bullshit.
The world is not fair or just. God is not merely moral. Life is feral. Fate is fickle.
If we are concerned about being “good” it better be for our own sakes, so that we can feel clean and proud of ourselves with few regrets when the shit hits the fan – because the shit will hit the fan someday, and often more than once, sometimes so repetitively that you cannot bear it. Because Life won’t be good to us just because we are so very busy trying to be good.
Being “good” protects you from nothing. Evil can win. And karma isn’t always the bitch you hope it will be.
So if you haven’t read it (just in case there is anyone who hasn’t read it) here is what happens: God bets Satan that his most faithful follower, Job, will remain faithful no matter how he is tortured. Satan takes that bet: destroys his crops and herds, kills all of his servants and children. Seven sons and three daughters in one fell swoop.
Job is traumatized beyond all imagining, but retains his faith in a just and powerful monotheistic God. So Satan asks to up the stakes: Illness? Physical suffering will surely break his faith: Sure, God says, just don’t kill him: Job is covered in boils from head to foot.
At first it seems like he is holding it together:
“Shall we receive only pleasant things from the hand of God and never anything unpleasant?”
But when Job finally speaks to his three closest friends – we learn that he is traumatized to the point of suicidal despair. He has lost everything that was ever comforting or meaningful to him. And he is grieving the destruction of a cherished fantasy that there is order and justice in the universe. It is dawning on him that whatever he thought God was, he is not an omnipotent parental God who rewards goodness and punishes evil.
And over the course of the next few chapters he will also learn how much his friends suck.
They all, one after another insist that God is both omnipotent and just. And therefore, Job is responsible for his own agony, a sinner who must repent.
None of them will stay with Job for a moment as he ponders these excruciating questions: What if God isn’t just? What if I didn’t do anything wrong, or certainly do anything wrong enough to warrant THIS – then what? What if God isn’t what or who I thought? What if I projected my own sense of morality onto an entity that is something else entirely? Does my blameless suffering, and the blameless suffering of others prove that I am more moral than a God who would torture me on a whim? How do I stay attached to Life, to a sense of meaning or purpose or beauty or awe if I live in a Universe that would allow dark forces to destroy everything I have ever held dear? If Evil is permitted to dwell in comfort and decent men are permitted to suffer – If I chose to continue to believe, what can I believe in?
And the God of Life comes to Job as a Whirlwind. And speaks of wild animals and the Big Bang, and the wind, and rain – of the firmament and lightening. And of instinct and intuition. The Sacred Whirlwind speaks of lions, of ravens, of mountain goats and wild donkeys and oxen. The Divine Hurricane roars about ostriches: who abandon their eggs without a thought, completely devoid of maternal impulse but who can run faster than the fastest horse. The Holy Tornado of Life goes on and on, about hippopotami and crocodiles (the crocodile actually gets eight full paragraphs of Jehovah’s speechifying). The most primal, powerful, lizard – a being designed purely to devour and survive – a creature that we would never dream of considering on moral terms, except in our most anthropomorphizing moments: “Oh that poor baby zebra! That terrible monster just ate him right up!”
A crocodile, a hippo, an ostrich or a hurricane are neither right or wrong, moral or immoral. They are. They just are. Beauty and horror swirl and twist together in the Awesome Cyclone.
Job and his shitty friends have it all wrong.
Once I asked my martial arts master about the role of aggression in all of the animals forms we studied: The Monkey, The Tiger, The Dragon, The Sparrow, The Snake.
“They will all kill, you ” he said “but it is not their intention to kill.”
These are the forces that the God of Job identifies with.
Life is feral. God is not in the business of justice. The Sacred is a wilder and more primal, more ancient force than Job or his cronies knew.
It is not our fault. It is not the Whirlwind’s intention.
The Whirlwind may strip us of all the things we have ever believed or loved. It may tear our lives apart. And it will be completely natural for it to do so.
The Cosmos is neither wicked, nor just. It is not fair or unfair. Life is not reasonable or unreasonable.
To ask “Why?” is simply a wrong question, and mistakenly assumes a reasonable, moral explanation.
And there is a worse question, one that will lead us to wish we were never born and to yearn for the grave. A question that compounds trauma and impotence with rage and shame:
The most destructive question we can ask, with our fists raised to the heavens:
A question as senseless as asking Why matter? Why anti-matter? Why ostrich-eggs? Why crocodiles? Why hurricanes?
When we expect that the Holy Tempest is supposed to operate within the parameters of human morality, when we imagine that we deserve justice from the Hands of Fate – we have set ourselves above nature. We imagine that we should be able to command The Storm of Life to unfurl itself neatly even though there is nothing tidy about a storm. It assumes that the balance of Nature is morally ordered.
To ask “Why me?” in a wild amoral universe – is a dead end proposition: The only possible answers – explored all through out Job – lead to the depths of despair: 1) Trauma and clusters of cumulative trauma are the fault of the individual due to sin, foolishness, or error. Or 2) The Universe, God, Fate, the Powers-That-Be are intentionally, purposively sadistic or criminally neglectful.
Fairbairn says that in this circumstance most of us will turn trauma in on ourselves – that we would prefer to eat the sin and take the blame than to live to in a universe steered by the Devil’s whims.
The only psychologically tolerable answer to “Why me?” is this:
There is no answer. The laws of probability mean that some people will experience cumulative traumas and losses and some will not. In terms of moral explanation it is an inherently unanswerable question and any answer you attempt to extract can lead you toward suicidal despair.
The Book of Job suggests that you need to ask different questions entirely:
Questions like these:
Can you look squarely at the cruelty and beauty of life – at the awesome power of a Wild God, of a Universe which is not centered in anyway around you or your comfort or your goodness and still choose Life? Can you summon the energy to find meaning in living when everything is taken from you? Can you still love a God that might strip you of your very identity? Can you feel awe for a primal force, for a Sow who will bear and suckle her piglets but who might also eat them? Can you withstand the horrors of living and stay committed to the miraculous precarious balance of the world? Can you cherish your own brokenness and suffering and the brokenness of others? Can you lose people you love, or many people you love, can you be profoundly harmed, can you suffer and still continue to love?
Can you withstand the fact that living is in no way a secure proposition and be filled with awe at its power and fragility, even as it destroys you? Can you embrace this feral universe – with all its destructiveness and creativity – as surely as the God of Job loves the potent, dangerous, glorious, primal crocodile?
We may be sacrificed like Job’s children, as the gods gamble with our fate. We may shatter like ostrich-eggs. We may also acknowledge that the fragility and destructiveness of all of nature lives in our own wild hearts. That, within us, lives the terrible crocodile and the frightened zebra that feeds him.