Reflection
on Job 19.21-27 and Luke 10.1-12
There’s
a story in the bible concerning a tribal chieftain of the ancient near east
called Job, who, in the prime of his life loses everything. His children are
killed when a building collapses. His livestock – his livelihood, his wealth,
his resources – are stolen by violent men who murder those employed to care for
the animals, also leaving their dependents fatherless. Quite understandably,
Job’s wife falls into a deep depression.
Four
friends of Job do something beautiful beyond words. They come to him and sit
with him, in silence – for there are no words – for seven days and seven
nights. Simply holding him in meaningful connection through their presence.
And
then they open their mouths and put their feet in it. They try to control, to
correct, Job’s thoughts and feelings. To belittle them. They attempt to fix
their friend. To explain and justify what he has gone through. Every which way,
it is ugly as hell.
Eventually
Job has had enough. He calls on them to be silent again, and emphatically
states his belief that, even having lost everything, he would see God restore
to him all that he had lost.
If
I wanted to get rich quick, I would put a swear jar in my church for every time
I asked someone how they were and they replied, oh, you know, there’s always
someone worse off.
This
is abuse, beloved. This is how abusers seek to exercise control over their
victim. By conjuring up a hypothetical someone to diminish our emotions and
responses to our emotions. To belittle us and invalidate our experience. (Even
if the hypothetical someone existed, it would not help them one bit to be told,
oh well, there’s always someone doing better than you.)
But
we have had these words spoken over us so many times over so many years, have
internalised them and spoken them over ourselves, that when I call it out as
abuse, I am questioned or dismissed, and when I call it ungodly, I am told that
I am going too far.
This
is also spiritual abuse, because we have been taught that this response is how
we put others before ourselves, as mature Christians ought to do. But Jesus
said we are to love our neighbour as – or in the same way as, or according to
the same measure by which, we love – ourselves. For the extent to which we are
able to accept and love ourselves is the extent to which we are able (the limit
on) to love our neighbour. If we habitually belittle ourselves, we will
habitually belittle them.
If
you came to me and told me that you were expecting a baby but that it had died
in the womb, or that your sister had cancer, or that your marriage was falling
apart, or that you were waiting for the results of medical tests, and I said to
you, oh well, there’s always someone worse off, would you feel heard? Would you
feel valued? Would you say I was being pastorally sensitive? Would you come
away glad that you had spoken to me, feeling that even if there was nothing to
be done – no answers – that somehow you felt more at peace? No, you would not.
And
yet, we say these very words to ourselves all the time.
Read
that again.
In
the Gospels, Jesus sends out his apprentices ahead of him, to every place he
intended to pass through. He instructs them to seek out hospitality, and to be
present to whoever welcomes them. He also instructs them not to insulate
themselves against the emotions, but to remain vulnerable – no excess
resources, no financial get-out-of-jail card, not even shoes to shield them
from feeling the ground beneath their feet. On entering a house – on being
invited into a life – they are to proclaim peace. They are not to seek to
control or fix, but to be led by the one who has welcomed their presence,
validating whatever they place on the table.
And
Jesus promises them that healing will come, wherever it is needed, through
their vulnerable presence with their neighbour. Through meaningful connection.
