You know very well I’m angry with you, God. Restless. Unable to pray. Why don’t you break down the dividing wall that keeps us apart? I don’t feel any initiative from you, any outreach. All I feel is this awful lump of smoldering anger. And guilt, paralyzing guilt. How am I to enjoy the luxuries here--the ample food, the swimming pool, our carpeted and cushioned lifestyle? None of it is bad, but I can’t relax and “go with it" anymore. Being home is not working well for me.
Lately, I’ve tried admitting the pain of it, telling friends little by little. But where are you, God? Are You the comforter of the afflicted? Refuge of the poor? God-who-has-always-been-with- me? Or are you a God who sees but does nothing? God who allows sickness when there is no money for medicine. God who speaks of love but lets cruelty reign. God who extols gentleness only to watch it be crushed behind barbed wire. God who listens to the prayers of rich Christians all over the globe but does not change their hearts. God in whose name wars are waged. God who remains silent in the midst of suffering. God who sidesteps all these questions by pointing to the cross.
Which God are you? And why don’t you answer these tears? I have always wanted to love you.
God chose not to respond on my timeline. Nevertheless, the act of venting provided me some relief, and so I plowed back into academia with anger simmering on the back burner. God and I were now at a stand-off.
Then one day I experienced something like a waking dream. I was not praying, but merely sitting in a garden near the university, mulling over the mess in which I felt so mired. Without intending to, I suddenly found myself in dialog with the God whom I’d shunted aside for so many weeks.
Suppose you had a brother whom you loved, I said to God. Suppose your father lavished abundant gifts on you, but gave nothing to your brother. In fact, he locked him out in the backyard and ignored him, leaving only a small bow! of scraps for him to eat once each day. How long could you continue to enjoy all of your own comforts and privileges inside the house? How long could you abide “praying for your brother” from a distance? How long before you would begin to resent this father who supposedly loves all his children, especially the poor?
And if you spent some time outside in that empty yard with your brother and grew very close to him and felt his anguish at not being able to feed and clothe his own children, and saw that---despite the mistreatment—he still loved his father and asked imploringly, “What did I ever do to offend our father, that he should treat me this way?’
After all that, would you want to meet your father again face-to-face inside your comfortable house? Wouldn’t you be afraid that you would hate him?
And much to my surprise, God replied:
You know that’s not how it is, Marilyn, though I understand why you feel this way. I have many children. Some of them locked your brother out of the house. My heart is out there with him, but I’ve left people free. They do with me as they please. You see, love can’t force anything. I’m as powerless, really, as a quadriplegic. They surround me with linen and candles, with solemn processions and profusions of flowers, and they deluge me with their prayers. But oddly enough, only a few of them really take notice of their brothers and sisters. It breaks my heart, too.
I'm glad you've noticed them. Go ahead; be angry, but please don’t hate me. I am with you in this, more than you could ever realize. And I am with your brothers and sisters in the camps, too, even as I am blamed for the burdens they now bear. Come now, let your tears flow. See, I am weeping with you.
Our stand-off ended right then and there, as God and I wept together in that Berkeley garden. Since that moment, I have understood God differently. No matter what the theologians may say to the contrary, | know that God is not All-Powerful, at least not as most of us understand power. Why not? Because those who love never exert control over others. Because loving makes us utterly vulnerable, as C.S. Lewis described in his book The Four Loves:
To love at all is to become vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safely in the casket or coffin of your selfishness, But in that casket--safe, dark, motionless, airless space, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.
Chesterton was right. Love wants to be with the beloved. Love can’t fix things, but love always knocks and comes right in to be with the beloved in the midst of their suffering, even to the depths of hell. Love does not isolate or insulate; love chooses to be with. Love does not coerce; it can only invite. God waits: “Here I stand, knocking at the door. If anyone hears me calling and opens the door, | will enter the house and sup with her, and she with me” (Rev 3:20).
Despite our persistent and stubborn expectations to the contrary, God never promises to take away our pain, but rather pledges to remain close to us in the midst of it. The prophets invite us to “call his name Emmanuel, which means, God With Us” (Is 7:14). We have God’s word on it: “Behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age” (Mt 28:20).
On this pledge, everything depends.
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Thank you for sharing such an empowering story, sister.
You mentioned the theft by camp supervisors. How much of donations reach the refugees and how much is stolen? How can you control this?
Honored to have read this...Thank you for sharing, dear sister. Yes, He is with us and will never leave nor forsake us