I’ve been doing a Bible-in-a-Year project, thanks to Logos. I’m actually just now getting to D’varim (Deuteronomy), despite the schedule saying that I should be most of the way through Shmu’el (II Samuel, specifically; Samuel isn’t really supposed to be broken up into two books, but often is for convenience’ sake).
Way, way behind. I’m here because I got sick in late February; came down with a set of killer migraines. (Obviously, not killer enough; I’m not dead yet.) Then my family went through some stressful situations; it’s great having teenagers!
And along the way, my Bible reading dropped off. And with it, my prayer life. And with it… me. I felt alone, lost.
Time to fix that, I think. It’s past time, always, really.
So I’ve been pushing myself to read a few days’ worth each day, to catch up again. Yesterday I finished Bamidbar, Numbers; if I had to say that I had a “favorite book of the Bible,” Bamidbar wouldn’t be it.
Today’s reading – well, actually, March 1’s reading – was D’varim 3-5. This is the Covenant, restated; Moshe is saying “here’s the history, here’s the stipulation, here’s the requirement.” (See Covenant Treaty Format for Near Eastern Kingdoms for what looks like a decent walkthrough on the forms of covenants.)
Along the way, D’varim 4:9 stood out like a sore thumb:
9 “Only take care, and keep your soul diligently, lest you forget the things that your eyes have seen, and lest they depart from your heart all the days of your life. Make them known to your children and your children’s children— (Deuteronomy 4:9 ESV)
It was being addressed to Israel, but it’s pierced my heart. I’ve not done that. And it shows.
There are reactions we’re all called to make, in every occurrence in our lives. Those reactions determine, and are determined by, who we are, and tell us much of what we are – and, thankfully, we have some measure of control and determination.
The Talmud, in the Mishnah, refers to the legend of the Pardes. In this, four eminent rabbis traveled to Paradise, and encountered Holiness there.
They had four different reactions: one went insane, one lost his faith, one died, and one came and went in peace.
These reactions mirror ours. When we are presented with… anything, a situation, a question, an experience, we reflect that experience and channel it in some variations of these.
Insanity
When we integrate the experience without context or understanding, we are “mad,” in a way. Imagine those who think the Easter Bunny is somehow a canonical Christian image, or that Santa Claus hung around with Jesus. Imagine those who can’t tolerate that Jesus is the Way and the Life, and think that a good Buddhist is as deserving of Heaven as a good Christian.
(Meanwhile, orthodox theology says that none of us deserve Heaven, period, but are considered co-heirs with Christ through acceptance of His death on the Cross in our stead [Romans 8:12-17]. Anyone who refuses that sacrifice, no matter how wonderful a person they are, is unsaved.)
Death
We might also endure an experience, neither adding to it nor subtracting from it. We become static, unchanging, fixed in position. This lack of growth is “dying,” in a sense.
Loss of Faith
When we reject an experience and its implications of the glory of God, we lose our faith… maybe not literally or wholly, but we might simply become jaded, or refuse to acknowledge God’s role in that experience. (Or, of course, we might literally lose faith entirely.)
The rabbi who lost faith was Elisha ben Abuyah, and he’s referred to as Acher, אחר, “the other.”
While accounts are not mechanically literal (and therefore we don’t know for sure), it seems he rejected the idea of the afterlife; one story has it that he saw a child do a good deed, and lose his life, while a man who sinned suffered no consequences.
He then became a self-declared outsider, one who rejected the teachings that he himself possessed.
It’s tragic, really, to think about.
Peace
The rabbi who “survived,” Rabbi Akiva, “came in peace and went in peace.” This suggests that he was the only one who went to the Orchard knowing who and what he was, and let that inform his actions and reactions. He preserved his faith, he extended his experience of the Holy, he grew.
The Holocaust – referring to the Nazi extermination of groups such as Jews, Gypsies, and other such ethnicities and subcultures – stands alongside the Exodus and the destruction of the Second Temple in Jewish life as hallmark events. (There are more, but for me, these are the three most impactful.)
Jews had a chance to react to the Holocaust, after its ending — and those reactions mirrored the reactions of the rabbis to the Pardes. Some Jews lost faith, rejecting God; some Jews went mad, embracing hatred. Many, many, many Jews obviously died. Some endured, retaining their faith and their essential character despite the horror.
This is me. This is us. This is everyone, to every experience.
Through Christ, we are able to achieve peace, and with His grace and mercy, we are able to go in peace, if we listen to Him and not to the chaos of our own hearts in our agonies and ecstasies.
And our reactions can tell us who we are in Him, too; if we have not His peace, then we know what we lack. We know then that we must attempt to invite Him to be nearer to us, to reach out for His Hand in our lives.
Not long ago, I read a tweet by Ricky Gervais, asking why God let terrible things happen. It was framed as a multiple choice question, with the answers stacking the deck, naturally: God must not exist, or God is allowing terrible things as punishment, or God doesn’t care, for example.
All of the choices reflected negatively on God. The answers presupposed that “terrible things” were of primal importance, as if the comfort of this very moment were the only thing about which we or God should care.
I don’t mind the sentiment, honestly. In the 1940s, most of my family disappeared in the Holocaust; I can fully sympathize with the anguish associated with terrible things.
Yet… God is responsible, but not to blame for these terrible things. He’s responsible in the sense that in the end He will create a new Heaven and a new Earth, using the construct we have at our feet.. but not to blame, in that we choose.
And blame presumes that the “terrible thing” is evil, when it may or may not be. Perhaps it was caused by evil; maybe it is evil indeed. (Or perhaps it’s a natural event which causes harm, like a tsunami or tornado.)
Regardless, the event is not normally the result of God hitting the “smite” key.
What it comes down to is this: God allows events to happen in accordance with His plan, such that an event chosen by Him will occur in His time and in His way.
That event is His reforging the earth, the “Day of the Lord,” when He returns.
Everything that has happened or will happen on earth is designed to advance His inestimable will. Every event causes a ripple in a sea that flows to His desire.
A terrible event – let’s say a tornado – happens, killing a family of five Christians. Are they being punished for their sin? The Bible says “probably not.” (It’s possible, but not very likely; “natural consequences” are by far more likely to be chosen as “punishment” rather than a tornado. If there’s abuse going on, then the consequence is normally going to be family ruin, not a natural disaster.)
Yet with this “terrible event…” what is God doing?
Honestly, I don’t know, and can’t presume to know. Yet I think God can use that terrible event – not just to usher that family into His arms, but possibly as something that leads others to Him as well. Perhaps the grief of the community leads someone to search for Him, for example.
Of course it’s possible that the event could turn some away. But someone who’s turned away by such things… their faith is in desperate need of shoring up, because they’re seeing God as some kind of magic vending machine, that disposes candy when we dance in a certain way.
God is not a vending machine. God is greater than our ability to describe; expecting Him to dance to our tune, and turning away when He does not, is more of an indictment of us than of Him.
Terrible things, indeed. Perhaps the focus shouldn’t be on the terrible events that catch our eyes, but on the terrible things that those flashes of despair illuminate through our responses.