Are you acquainted with grief?
He was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:3).
The Romans called her “Miseria.” To be human is to be intimately acquainted with her. She is a cruel mistress. One moment she soothes with a tender touch, next she brandishes fingers that cleave the soul. Her pangs of anguish intrude in various decibels of sorrow, like the cacophony of a tuning orchestra that escalates to a deafening pitch. She doesn’t always scream, sometimes she sits quietly in the chest, lingering in fragments of thought stitched in silence. At its heart, Grief is love with nowhere else to go. Even the Son of God did not sidestep her. Jesus wept.
Context: What did the original audience know and understand?
The problem of grief is not one you can neatly solve, then file away. Greif is with us from our first breath to the last. It roars to life every time a tornado touches down, every time a relationship disintegrates, every time a cancer diagnosis is delivered, and on, and on. In its cruelest form it is evoked by death, the unnatural rending of the body from the soul. We are born slathered in blood and bodily fluids, amid tears and cries of pain; we die in like manner; and in between birth and death we ask, Why? The book of Job is the Bible’s fullest treatment of the problem of suffering and grief, a theodicy. The story is as old as Abraham, both originate in Mesopotamia, circa 2000 BC. Abraham lived in the city of Ur, Job lived in the land of Uz, a name that means “counsel” in Hebrew. “Land of counsel” may be a metaphor, implying that the wisdom revealed is timeless. The book opens in God’s divine council where the cosmic forces are arrayed, and Job’s name comes up. The accuser, satan, challenges God to remove every blessing from Job’s life, “and he will surely curse you to your face.” No explanation is given why God accepts the wager and allows satan to test Job. Subsequently Job loses his children, his wealth, and his health. He is afflicted with severe, painful boils from head to foot. Writhing in grief and pain, he sits in ashes, scraping his boils with pottery shards. His friends abandon him, his wife turns against him demanding he “curse God and die.” But he will not. The story presents a complex, evolving view of the afterlife, initially focusing on death as a dim, final sleep in Sheol. This is consistent with the ancient Mesopotamian belief that the dead go to a shadowy, gray land of departed spirits. But then Job makes a profound pivot. He spans the conceptual divide, expressing hope for a future vindication and resurrection, believing God will call him to account, even if after death. This is reminiscent of the Second Temple Period (516 BC–70 AD), when Jewish beliefs migrated from vague Sheol concepts to clearer ideas of resurrection and judgment, with sects like Pharisees and Essenes embracing immortality and resurrection. With this in mind, Job’s statement, 2000 years before Christ, is astonishing: “I know that my redeemer lives…and in my flesh I will see God…with my own eyes” (Job 19:25-27). His declaration reveals his journey from bleak despair to profound hope in a bodily resurrection and eternal life—a belief later affirmed by Jesus Christ: first at the tomb of Lazarus, and finally on Resurrection Sunday (here). Job’s faith is rewarded; what was lost is restored. His joy is evidenced by the names he chooses for his daughters: Jemimah (dove, daylight), representing peace and the end of darkness; Keziah (cassia, fragrant cinnamon) signifying preciousness and healing; and Keren-Happuch (horn of eye paint, horn of beauty) depicting abundance and splendor. Greif came in the dark night of his soul, but joy came in the morning (Psalm 30:5).
Historical and Theological Progression:
(John 11: 1-44) Lazarus is dead. In the village of Bethany, shadows stretch across a leaden colored tomb, his final death shroud. At the entrance, the stone is rolled away. The crowd of mourners wail inconsolably. Death is an appalling horror, a stinking indignity. Aggrieved by the anguish around him, Jesus does not distance himself, he enters their agony. Death makes life himself shed tears, Jesus weeps. Lazarus’ sister whispers, “Lord if only you had been here our brother would not have died.” To which Jesus gently replies, “Martha, he will rise again.” Her voice catches in response, “Yes, I know this, Lord. At the Resurrection.” Jesus prods her, saying, “I am the one who raises the dead. Do you believe me, Martha?” “Yes, Lord. “Oh, yes, I believe. I know you and with all my heart I believe in you.” Jesus affirms her, declaring, “If you believe you will see the glory of God.” Deep in his soul he groans in silence as he contemplates his forthcoming battle with the archenemy of humanity—death. With a loud voice, he commands, “Lazarus, come out,” and Lazarus steps forth. The mourners fall silent, astonished. They lifted the stone, but only Jesus could bring the dead man out. They freed him from the grave cloths, but only after Jesus imparted life to him. Martha witnesses what Job realized two-millennia before, belief is the gateway to the glory of God, and Lazarus sees his creator with his own eyes, the Son of God, the perfect representation of who God is. Resurrection. A new beginning. Even so, there are those who will not believe “even if someone rises from the dead” (Luke 16:31).
Greif is like shifting shadows; death is the substance. You and I have a fixed appointment with death, it is unavoidable. As CS Lewis observed, the statistics on death are impressive—so far it is one out of one! In the Middle East, a fable is told of a Baghdad merchant who sent his servant to the marketplace to run an errand. When he arrived, he turned a corner and unexpectedly met Lady Death. The look on her face so frightened him that he left the marketplace and hurried home. He told his master what had happened and requested his fastest horse so that he could get as far from Lady Death as possible—a horse that would take him all the way to Sumera before nightfall. Later the same afternoon the merchant himself went to the marketplace and met Lady Death. “Why did you startle my servant this morning?” he asked. “I didn’t intend to startle your servant—it was I who was startled,” replied Lady Death. “I was surprised to see your servant in Baghdad this morning, because I have an appointment with him in Sumera tonight.” Try as we might, we can’t rid ourselves of the nagging suspicion that death, at any time and under any circumstance, is an unfair and unnatural intrusion. How can it be that this sparkling stream of conscious thought and feeling we call ourselves—this flow of loyalty and love, hatred and anger, fear and delight, sorrow and joy—should simply cease? It’s unthinkable. It’s obscene. Is it any wonder that resurrection, for all its natural, scientific, and philosophical implausibility, remains one of the most stubbornly held and deeply cherished of all human hopes and dreams? It’s not just the desire to live, strong as that is within us, that fuels this flame. It’s the longing to be reunited with the people who make our lives complete. It’s the wish for genuine and lasting community—the one wish strong and nimble enough to overleap the grave. Long ago death was God’s response to human rebellion, but it was not given out of revenge, it was given so that humanity would not be confirmed and crystallized in rebellion. Death is the looming specter that prompts human beings to seek eternity, to find God, and be transformed back into harmony with him (Acts 17: 26-27). He is not willing that any should perish (2Peter 3:9). Because of resurrection, “for old times’ sake”, such a heartbreaking and beautiful sentiment, will be uttered no more.
Conclusion: Theodicy is the journey of the living. “How long, O Lord?” is faith dressed in the garments of grief. It is a semblance of “why” , the never answered question in the story of Job. Instead, God fittingly meets Job in the midst of a storm and responds with the most beautiful poetry ever recorded (Job 38-41). “Who is this that darkens my counsel with words without knowledge?” God criticizes Job for only one thing, his limited point of view. God then maximizes Job’s view by overwhelming him with his glory, “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?” Before a page of Scripture is opened, the world itself whispers His name. The stars do not speak, yet they declare a glory they did not make. The ache for meaning in the human heart, the quiet pull toward goodness and beauty, the love that moves us to awe, none of this is an accident. Existence itself is a testimony. Creation is not silent. It sings. (X@FatherChrisVor1) The story of Job ends with enlightenment: “Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things to wonderful for me to know” (Job 42:3). Job cannot trace God’s hand, but he can trust His heart.
Be Still My Soul (Katharina von Schlegel -1752)
Be still my soul the Lord is on thy side
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain
Leave to thy God to order and provide
In every change He faithful will remain
Be still my soul thy best, thy heavenly friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end
Be still, my soul, thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as He has the past
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake
All now mysterious shall be bright at last
Be still, my soul, the waves and winds still know
His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below
Performed by Selah (here).
Sources: Bible Commentary, FF Bruce, et al; God of the Fairy Tale, Jim Ware; The Bible Jesus Read, Philip Yancey; A History of the Ancient World, Chester Starr; One Minute After You Die, Erwin Lutzer; https://faithhub.net/dan-doyle-lazarus-poem/ ; Arise O God, Andrew Stephen Damick