The Megaphone of Pain

A few weeks ago, I wrote about being more confident, about my journey of learning to stand up for myself; of removing my masks to be wholly accepted as who I am, not what others perceive me to be.

The irony is since then, I have felt my words, my convictions tested, pushed to their limits in an incubator of trial.

It’s as if some force is questioning me, saying, “Oh, really? You’re growing confident now? Let’s see about that.” And BAM! The crap hit the proverbial fan.

I experienced extreme pressure emotionally, mentally, physically.

I was insulted and degraded at work. I was ridiculed in front of my congregation. I was attacked and cursed by a friend. I almost lost my father due to a health scare. I even sprained my ankle.

And then the one person I thought would stand by me through all of this turmoil disappeared, retracting into themselves, creating a cold distance which nearly froze my weakening heart with despair.

What’s worse, for the past month, through all this extraneous stress I’ve experienced, my writing has taken a debilitating blow. And oh, how I have felt it.

To be so exhausted I am unable to extend my soul onto a page, too weary to write out my thoughts and feelings, is the worst sort of demoralisation for me.

I felt caught in a maelstrom, swirling down, down, down, down in overwhelming confusion and pain as I tried with all my might to look up and find the waning light.

Two weeks ago, I managed to write a little something about what was going on at the beginning of these unfortunate events, trying to decipher their meaning, their connection. My theory: I was being tested like Iyov (Job in English).

I guess I was right.

Like Iyov, I felt as though I was losing everything.

A part of me reasoned, “If sharing myself creates such backlashing pain, then I don’t want this. I’m tired of fighting.”

I don’t want my vulnerability, my boldness of expression, the revealing of my true face resulting in becoming a laughing stock, someone openly ridiculed, treated as less than human, my dignity threatened.

But “righteous” indignation is sometimes more harmful than helpful. Sometimes it’s wrong. What profit is there in my supposed need to be right?

I think that is the message of Iyov’s journey, his story of loss and redemption. What began as a destruction of his material possessions became a persecution of his soul. It was his soul both the adversary and Hashem were after, but to find it, all the distractions needed removal.

Hashem used the adversary as a tool to remove Iyov’s distractions not because they were in some sort of power feud, but because how else would the “yes” within Iyov’s heart be proven true? Just as gold is refined in a fire, Hashem refines our souls to see if we will continue to say “yes” even through persecution, pain, and suffering.

It is a mystery which has plagued mankind for millennia, but the wisdom of Hashem is unsearchable. Who can know his ways?

The problem with society – especially in post-modern, post-millennial, western civilization – we are too spoiled, too entitled. (No, really. We are. You are. I am. It’s a human condition.) Maybe I’m too cynical, but I often find myself questioning anyone’s claims of suffering or injustice, even my own. If we suffer, at all, we accuse. Immediately. Vehemently. Everything.

Now this is not to negate anyone’s pain, including my own, but how much of our “suffering” is merely frustrating inconvenience instead of deep trauma?

A wise man once likened us to jars of clay who too often question our Potter, “Why did you make me this way?”

But that’s the thing: we’re just clay, we’re just pots, we’re just vessels. We’re nothing special.

The only thing which makes us special is the treasure, the Divine spark, hidden within us.

That is why we are afflicted but not crushed; perplexed but not driven to despair; persecuted but not forsaken; struck down but not destroyed. We’re being molded into the perfect vessel to display our sparks as brightly as possible.

Iyov’s story just shows us this process.

In the pivotal moment just before we reach the climactic appearance of Hashem, Iyov questions G-d, asking the same questions we often do, “If you’re a G-d of justice and love, why am I suffering? Why does suffering exist?” (30:19-23)

While I could probably write an entire book on this topic, I jump to the main conclusion: I think it’s because G-d had to break Iyov to get him to think, to question, to understand, to listen.

G-d had to break Iyov to know if he would still say “yes” to Him.

The fundamental problem we have is we do not listen. Our lives are too noisy, our souls too crowded. Sometimes Hashem has to break us just to talk to us. It is when we have reached our wits’ end, when all our masks and distractions are removed, only then can Hashem talk to us.

C.S. Lewis once said, “G-d whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences, but shouts to in our pains. It is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”

Furthermore, the miracle is Iyov’s story is G-d answered.

If Hashem were so far removed from humanity as even Iyov accuses, then He would never have answered Iyov nor gone so far as to restore to him all which was stolen away from him. This is how we know Hashem to be merciful: He involves Himself in the story. (For further reading, I recommend Abraham Joshua Heschel’s book, God in Search of Man. It’ll really turn reality on its head for you.)

We also have this hope: Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto wrote one day, when we reach the other side of eternity, Hashem will reveal to us the meaning behind all our sufferings. All of them.

In the end, Iyov found the truths he clung to were nothing but vain ideologies steeped in his own pride and self-righteous indignation, and he repented.

Could we respond with such humility as Iyov? I think not.

My hope for myself is in moments like these, when I feel pressed in on every side, inexplicably in constant pain; if I were to accuse Hashem, if I were to see Him, hear Him question me as He did Iyov, would I respond with the same humility and repentance as Iyov?

And if He did not answer, would I remain faithful?

What if instead of Iyov I am like the Shulammite, the love of Shlomo, running through the city streets at night searching for the One whom my soul loves? What if I do not find Him, though He called to me? Will I keep searching?

What if instead of my beloved, I find only guards, watchmen of the city walls? What would I do then? And if they were to accuse me, ridicule me, threaten, beat, and rape me, what would my response be then? Could I answer as she did, sick with love and longing to be returned to Him?

I pray my answer is still, and always will be, “Yes”.