29:1 Job again took up his discourse and said:
Job 29:1-6,11-16; 30:1,9-11; 38:1-11
“O that I were as in the months of old,
as in the days when God watched over me,
when his lamp shone over my head,
and by his light I walked through darkness,
when I was in my prime,
when the friendship of God was upon my tent,
when the Almighty was still with me,
when my children were around me,
when my steps were washed with milk
and the rock poured out for me streams of oil!
When the ear heard, it commended me,
and when the eye saw, it approved,
because I delivered the poor who cried
and the orphan who had no helper.
The blessing of the wretched came upon me,
and I caused the widow’s heart to sing for joy.
I put on righteousness, and it clothed me;
my justice was like a robe and a turban.
I was eyes to the blind
and feet to the lame.
I was a father to the needy,
and I championed the cause of the stranger.
30:1 “But now they make sport of me,
those who are younger than I,
whose fathers I would have disdained
to set with the dogs of my flock.
“And now they mock me in song;
I am a byword to them.
They abhor me; they keep aloof from me;
they do not hesitate to spit at the sight of me.
Because God has loosed my bowstring and humbled me,
they have cast off restraint in my presence.
38:1 Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind:
“Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?
Gird up your loins like a man;
I will question you, and you shall declare to me.
“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
Tell me, if you have understanding.
Who determined its measurements—surely you know!
Or who stretched the line upon it?
On what were its bases sunk,
or who laid its cornerstone
when the morning stars sang together
and all the heavenly beings shouted for joy?
“Or who shut in the sea with doors
when it burst out from the womb,
when I made the clouds its garment
and thick darkness its swaddling band,
and prescribed bounds for it,
and set bars and doors,
and said, ‘Thus far shall you come and no farther,
and here shall your proud waves be stopped’?
My sermon from the 18th Sunday after Pentecost (October 12, 2025) on Job 29:1-6,11-16; 30:1,9-11; 38:1-11.
******
When I was little, my brother and I eagerly waited each morning for our dad to pass off the section of the newspaper that contained the comic strips. We selfishly pushed, shoved, whined, and complained so that we could read them first. The strip we always read first, regardless of where it was on the page, was about an adventurous six year old boy named Calvin and a stuffed tiger named Hobbes that only Calvin could talk to. What made this strip special was that it wasn’t limited to only one idea, theme, or gag. Instead, the fullness of a child’s imagination was able to push the boundaries of what a comic could be about. Entire weeks, for example, might be devoted to a game where the only rule was it couldn’t be played the same way twice or maybe about a snowman who came alive in the middle of the night to make snowmen of their own. Calvin regularly battled against the problem of boredom, school, and having to eat the new thing his mom made for dinner. Yet one of his primary foils throughout the entire series was his dad who loved him very much. In a vivid strip about this dynamic, we see Calvin imagine himself stranded on a distant planet as the fearless Spaceman Spiff. After being captured by a giant sludge monster, Calvin was led to a dungeon that resembled his living room. The monster sat him down and tortured Calvin with a long lecture about “wholesome principals.” “Life is tough,” the monster said, “and suffering builds character. Nothing worth having ever comes easy. Virtue is its own reward and when I was your age…” Calvin’s dad loved to give misery meaning by claiming it always builds character. And that, I think, is often what our own wisdom teaches whenever suffering comes our way. We want sorrow and grief to have some kind of purpose rather than simply being something that happens. Yet our desire to turn suffering into a teachable moment doesn’t necessarily bring us the peace and comfort we need. The wisdom we share doesn’t always meet our current moment and it can leave us feeling as if we’re completely alone.
And this experience is something a lot of us, based on the questions I asked you last week, have had to live through. When our world comes tumbling down, our shared wisdom tries to make misery meaningful by claiming this is all part of God’s will and plan. We promise each other that “everything happens for a reason,” that “God wouldn’t give you something you can’t handle,” and then follow up by telling a story of someone we think had it worse. Telling those who feel isolated and alone that “we know how they feel,” or that “their loved one is in a better place” isn’t as comforting to them as it might be to us. And that’s because when our emotions and souls are completely raw, these attempts to make meaning feel meaningless instead. The kinds of words we need to let others say are like the words we heard Job speak in our reading today. We are, in these moments, wrapped in a whirlwind of emotions, thoughts, awe, and despair pushing us to reflect on our past, lament our present, and wonder where it all went wrong. We shout into the universe questions wondering if God is maybe testing us or think God hates us or maybe this God doesn’t feel like our God at all. We search for the kind meaning that can break through the shadow overhanging our hearts. And if we had a magic wand, or a time machine, or the power of God, we’d change everything back even if our prior moments weren’t particularly kind or perfect. There’s courage, in those moments, to recognize how human we are and to admit the multitude of ways we participate in our and other people’s suffering. But when life just happens, we assume there must be a reason at the center of it all. It’s at times like these when God feels so far away. Yet what might worry us even more is the thought God might be way too close. And if this is what life is like when God is here, then what meaning or purpose does God want from us all?
Now, throughout the book of Job, this question, this worry, and this concern showed up constantly in Job’s back and forth with his friends. They assumed Job did something to cause his family, wealth, and sense of self to be taken away. The wisdom they – and we – shared is rooted in a type of retribution where only the wicked are punished, the good rewarded, and all blessings are manifested in the comfortable life we get to live. It’s the kind of wisdom we saw during our short stint in the book of Proverbs and it’s what we teach our kids when it comes to what’s good and what’s bad. We know, however, life comes with a lot of nuance and we demand a lot of grace for ourselves we don’t extend to others. When things get hard, we make it have a purpose by pointing to some future where we will – because of today – be better, stronger, holier, and more pure. But wouldn’t it be so much more peaceful if we could start at that place rather than go through all the living we do? Which is why, I think, when the extended parable we know as the book of Job finally let God speak, God responded to Job and his friends at a moment that wasn’t bright, clear, and sunny. God, instead, spoke out of a storm because that’s where God chooses to be. And in this long passage that we only hear a little of, the word for God reverted from something like a title and towards the more personal word God shared when Moses met a fiery bush that didn’t burn up. God pushed Job to see the personal relationship they had together and how no part of creation is ever outside of God’s insight and knowledge. And rather than choosing to ignore Job’s cries and concerns, God – I think – affirmed them by asking Job and his friends the same kinds of questions they raised to God. God told Job it’s okay to confront the mysteries of our lives, our world, and even the divine. And while those confrontations can be hard, God pushed Job and his friends to imagine what creation might be like if it actually followed the retributive wisdom we teach and share. When we assume all the wisdom we share is holy wisdom, we let our image of God become our God rather than letting the creator of the universe be who God chooses to be. And what this God chose to do was to experience exactly what it’s like to be born, to have friends, to grow up, to laugh, to cry, to be betrayed, to suffer, to feel, and to truly live. The wisdom we share isn’t big enough to hold the fullness of who our God chooses to be. And rather than make our suffering meaningful by pointing to something that feels value like “building character,” our true meaning comes from a God who chooses to be with and for us no matter what comes our way.
So I’d like all of us to take a few moments to (either on the pink sheets or the back of our bulletin) discover how our vision of God might have changed over the years. When we were young, what did we imagine who our God was? And then, as we lived, and experienced some of the joys – and sorrows – and all the mysteries life brings – how did our view or experience of God change? What is our God like – and how does our God continue to push us beyond the limits of our imagination and into something holy and new.