Job LXIX

 A lighthouse will always remain in a permanent fixed position. Depending on where the sailor is upon the roaring sea, however, it may seem farther or closer, off to the left or the right, but as far as the lighthouse itself, there is an unwavering permanence to it, no matter the time of year, how bad the weather, or how dark the night. The darker the night, the brighter the lights of the lighthouse, acting as a beacon and a point of reference to all upon the seas. The same goes for God and our individual relationships with Him. He is a fixed point, permanent and unwavering, yet depending on where we are in our journey, He may seem nearer or far. If He seems far, it is our duty and responsibility to draw closer to Him, and if the desire of our heart is that nearness, He will facilitate it because He is a good God.

Once they see the light of His love, wise men make their way toward Him, understanding that there is peace and joy in the light, there is wholeness and fulfillment, and comfort only He can provide. The light is never far from those who seek it. It does not hide itself; it does not dim in its intensity, nor does it attempt to conceal its illumination. Those who insist they cannot see it need only to open their eyes. The light of God is ever-present, but men choose to avert their gaze, pretend as though it’s not there, or insist that it’s something other than what it is because once you come to the light, it not only exposes the darkness of the heart but demands that the darkness be cast aside. Both cannot coexist in a closed space. Light and darkness are sworn enemies, and neither will relent until one is wholly subdued.

Job didn’t start out lightheartedly and escalated from there. There was no lightheartedness left in him, and all he knew in his current state was pain and grief. From the moment he opened his mouth, he poured out his grief, leaving no room for doubt or debate about how he currently felt. Because most of us have never been in such a dire state as to wish for death, it’s hard to relate to one such as Job on a personal level. I’ve sat alone with my thoughts for more than one entire morning trying to imagine what I would have to endure to come to that point in life, and it’s not an exercise I would recommend. Just thinking about what it would take is soul-crushing, never mind having to go through it.

We can view Job’s monologue from a position of spiritual superiority, looking down on the man and his declaration of cursing the day he was born, writing it off as weakness and lack of spiritual fortitude, or sympathizing with his state of mind taking into account all that he’d endured up to this point.

When you know someone’s going through the fire, make allowances for their grief. It’s the best advice I can give, especially when considering that your time in the fire may be just around the corner, and when you switch places with the individual contending with the pain of loss and hardship, you’d prefer that they show empathy rather than belittle you for not being so strong as to be unaffected by your current circumstance.

Doing unto others as we would have them do to us extends beyond being charitable, giving a glass of water, or buying a meal for someone. When we consider how we would like others to react to situations had we been the ones going through them, it tends to take the self-righteous air out of our quick temper or inclination to pour salt on their already painful wound.

Keep in mind Job did not sin. It wasn’t about calling out sin or bringing someone who had strayed back on the path; it was about pain and loss and grief. There are times when we must be direct and call someone out for the choices they’ve made, and there are times when we should be there for them, grieve with them, and be a shoulder upon which they can cry. It is wisdom itself to know which is which and act accordingly.

Some years back, I had a friend who would say the most hurtful things at the most inappropriate of times, and he would always follow up by saying, “I’m just being honest.” When a mutual friend showed up to lunch with a cast on his leg, after asking what had happened and being informed they’d fallen off their bike, rather than show empathy or compassion, his response was, “You should have known you’re too fat to ride a bike, I’m just being honest.” Granted, the friend who’d broken his leg was on the heavier side, but nothing so close as to render him incapable of riding a bicycle. I could see the hurt in his eyes when the comment was made, but the conversation transitioned to other topics, so nobody said anything.

A few days passed, and I got a call from my rude friend, asking if I could give him a ride from the hospital. I asked what had happened, and he told me he’d broken his ankle. I informed him I’d be there in ten minutes. After getting him situated in the car and making sure he was comfortable, I asked how it had happened. He sheepishly informed me that he was stepping off a sidewalk and didn’t notice the pothole in the street, to which I said, “You should probably watch where you’re going; I’m just being honest.”

I said it in gest, with a smile on my face, but his face turned ashen, and he remained silent for the rest of the drive. Most people who dish it out can’t take it, but sometimes, it’s good to give them a taste of their own medicine just to show them how their words affect others when they’re in the midst of hardship or struggle. It’s offputting when someone justifies being mean-spirited and hurtful by insisting it’s what their honesty demands. You chose to speak the words you spoke in the manner you spoke them. It wasn’t honesty that compelled you to do it but some latent bitterness with which you must contend.

With love in Christ,

Michael Boldea, Jr.  

Posted on 11 December 2024 | 12:41 pm