There is a pragmatic logic that advises us to avoid wrestling with a force that is vastly superior to our own. This, of course, reflects the simple wisdom of self-preservation. Yet such logic is often ignored in the Judeo-Christian scriptures, for here we encounter numerous individuals who steadfastly confront their creator. In these interactions we do not find them humbly confessing their trespasses before God, but rather accusing God of trespassing against them. This rich tradition, in which one kneels before God with a clenched fist, is not only to be found in the stories of Moses and Job, along with the Psalms, but also in the work of contemporary believers who have wrestled with the singular horror of events such as the holocaust.
These violent confrontations between creation and the creator are all the more amazing in that they are often instigated by those who are faithful friends of God. We are confronted with a vast number of believers throughout history whose deep, abiding faith has sounded like infidelity, in a manner reminiscent of Christ’s cry on the cross.
The reason for this inability to comprehend such outbursts lies partly in our inability to grasp the radical nature of faith, a faith that must be marked with passion, even if that passion often seems to be directed against the source of faith. Indeed, in the book of Revelation we read that God prefers the faithful to be hot or cold rather than lukewarm. Indeed, to be ‘cold’ can actually be a sign that one is very close to God. For often a violent reaction against God signals the presence of God. Rather than thinking that genuine religious experience is always comforting, the sense that there is one who can see into the very depths of our being can cause us to turn and run from God. Such repulsion and fear arises from the actual experience of God, for to feel naked and ashamed before God presupposes some kind of relation with God.
Yet this does not exhaust the experience of a God-inspired reaction against God, for in the book of Job we witness a reaction against God that is linked not to our own misdeeds but to the seeming misdeeds of God. While the Bible often speaks of God as one who stands beyond all human accusations, this is held in tension with other portions of the text which testify to the human experience of a God who regrets, is jealous, angry and even indifferent to suffering. The fact that some biblical characters are portrayed as fighting against God in the name of justice shows that accusing God of wrongdoing has a place within the Judeo-Christian tradition. For, while God may ultimately stand beyond all accusations, our experience of the world can lead us to legitimately question this.
A long table has been placed along the stage. On its surface a dozen broken wine glasses rest in a bed of sand. One of the walls is covered by a large projection of the words, ‘You tireless watcher of humanity’, while small slips of paper and pens sit on each table. Upon entering the room we are greeted by the music of the DJ who is looping the following words into the music:
When I was hungry you gave me nothing to eat.
When I was thirsty you gave me nothing to drink.
I was a stranger and you did not invite me in.
I needed clothes and you did not clothe me.
I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.
Very gradually the music dies away while these words become louder. Before long before the words begin to drown out people’s conversation. As the room goes silent a young man approaches the mike and, once the words have died away, he begins to speak:
Once, a long time ago, I had the privilege of spending some time with an old rabbi, bent with age and way too familiar with suffering. Each evening he used to tell me the story of a Jew who escaped the Spanish Inquisition with his wife and child, making his way, in a small boat, across the stormy sea to a stony island. A flash of lightning exploded and killed his wife. A whirlwind arose and hurled his child into the heart of the sea. Alone, wretched, discarded like a stone, terrified by thunder and lightning, his hair dishevelled, his body ravaged by hunger and his hands raised to God, the Jew made his way up onto the rocky desert island and turned thus to God:
‘God of Israel,’ he said, ‘I have fled to this place so that I may serve you in peace, to follow your commandments and glorify your name. You, however, are doing everything to make me cease believing in you. But if you think that you will succeed with these trials in deflecting me from the true path, then I cry to you, my God and the God of my parents, that none of it will help you. You may insult me, you may chastise me, you may take from me the dearest and the best that I have in the world, you may torture me to death – I will always believe in you. I will love you always and forever – even despite you.
‘Here, then, are my last words to you, my angry God: None of this will avail you in the least! You have done everything to make me lose my faith in you, to make me cease to believe in you. But I die exactly as I have lived, an unshakeable believer in you.’
He lives to this day, that angry man with his God, on that little rocky island located somewhere silently in our hearts. Tonight we will endeavour to let him speak.64
As the music picks up someone walks to the mike and speaks the following scriptures as a prayer:
Am I the sea, or the wild sea beast that you should keep me under watch and guard?
Strangling I would welcome rather, and death, than these my sufferings.
Will you never take your eyes off me long enough for me to swallow my spittle?
Suppose I had sinned, what have I done to you,
you tireless watcher of humanity?
Why do you choose me as your target?
Why should I be a burden to you?
Can you not tolerate my sin, nor overlook my fault?
It will not be long before I lie on earth;
then you will look for me, but I shall be no more.65Why is my suffering continual,
my wound incurable, refusing to be healed?
Do you mean to be for me a deceptive stream with inconstant waters?66The Word of Yahweh has meant for me
insult, derision, all day long.
I used to say, ‘I will not think about him,
I will not speak in his name any more.’
Then there seemed to be a fire burning in my heart,
imprisoned in my bones.67
As this prayer comes to a close, a musician takes to the stage. He sings some songs that express a mix of both anger and passion for God. When he has finished, someone else approaches the stage and begins to read:
Naturally, the first priest duly appeared, and Ahab understood what the real threat was. To compensate for it, he instituted something he had learned from the Jews – a Day of Atonement – except that he determined to establish a ritual of his own making.
Once a year, the inhabitants shut themselves up in their houses, made two lists, turned to face the highest mountain and then raised their fists to the heavens.
‘Here, Lord, are all the sins I have committed against you,’ they said, reading the account of all the sins they had committed. Business swindles, adulteries, injustices, things of that sort. ‘I have sinned and beg forgiveness for having offended you so greatly.’
Then – and here lay Ahab’s originality – the residents immediately pulled their second list out of their pocket and, still facing the same mountain, they held that one up to the skies too. And they said something like: ‘And here, Lord, is a list of all your sins against me: You made me work harder than necessary, my daughter fell ill despite all my prayers, I was robbed when I was trying to be honest, I suffered more than was fair.’
After reading out the second list, they ended the ritual with: ‘I have been unjust towards you and you have been unjust towards me. However, since today is the Day of Atonement, you will forget my faults and I will forget yours, and we will carry on together for another year.’68
After this has been read everyone is encouraged to use the paper and pens on the tables to write something about which they are angry or frustrated with God. If this is something that they wish to keep private, they are asked to fold the paper and put an ‘X’ on the front. The pieces of paper are then gathered up and brought to two people who have come up to the stage. Everyone is told that after they have been read the pieces of paper will be symbolically handed over to God via a ritual of burning. Every time a piece of paper with an ‘X’ appears, it is burnt, unread, as a fragment of Psalm 10 is said as a prayer:
Why standest thou far off, O Lord?
Why hidest thou thyself in times of trouble?
As these prayers are being read out red wine is poured into the broken glasses that line the stage so that the wine spills over onto the sand. When all the prayers have been burnt there are a few moments of silence. Then one of the organizers approaches the stage with what appears to be a Bible. He opens it and begins to read:
On judgement day a summons went forth to the sea, commanding that she give up her dead, and a voice called out to Hades that the prisoners be released from their chains.
Then the angels gathered up all of humanity and brought them to the great white throne of God. All creation stood silently as a great angel opened the books.
The first to be judged stood up and approached the text. As the accused looked at the charges, all humanity spoke as one:
‘When we were hungry you gave us nothing to eat. When we were thirsty you gave us nothing to drink. We were strangers and you did not invite us in. We needed clothes and you did not clothe us. We were sick and in prison and you did not look after us.’
Silence descended upon all of creation as the people pronounced their judgement on God.
After reading this, the organizer closes the book and begins to speak:
We are not going to try and wrap up this evening of lament with some neat answer. Perhaps things will make sense one day, perhaps not. However, the point of this evening is not to answer for God – something only God can do. All we wish to do here is to acknowledge that in the midst of the uncertainty, we remain faithful.
Part of the reason for this fragile faithfulness perhaps lies, as with Job, in the belief that our accusations will one day turn to ash in the aftermath of God’s unsearchable presence; that our legitimate concerns will one day be silenced before the one who cannot be named but who names us. For now, all we can comfort ourselves with is the possibility that the God we accuse is a God of our own creation. It is for this reason that Slavoj Žižek claims that the God we think we understand is like a Tamagotchi toy – our own creation which subsequently makes demands upon us.
As the service comes to an end a basketful of Tamagotchi toys (purchased cheaply off ebay) is handed round for people to take home.