War Against God

 “What do you think it means to surrender?” she asked. 

“To give up,” was my reply.  Being a visual person, the thought of that question immediately brings to mind a vision of someone with their hands in the air, a white flag waving in the background, walking toward their enemy.  They can go no further, they have admitted their defeat; it is pointless to continue. 

 

War.  That is the image.  And in the context of God, it is actually very appropriate.  The verse that immediately came to mind was ^“You adulteresses, do you not know that friendship with the world is hostility toward God? Therefore whoever wishes to be a friend of the world makes himself an enemy of God (James 4:4).”  It is war.  It is war against God.  My life has been a subtle yet consistent war against God.  My growing frustration, anger, and bitterness toward God regarding the shambles I have often found myself in and the obligation I have placed upon him to save me from such shambles have placed me squarely in a camp outside of God’s, unwilling to surrender, looking at the white flag with contempt, unable to raise it, even as I tell others to do the same. 

 

And I have much to complain about.  Where were you God, when things fell apart with my father?  Where were you God, when the people I trusted failed me?  Where were you, when I asked for your help?  Where were you during the countless times I balled my eyes out, looking for something (I didn’t necessarily know what, but I knew you were withholding whatever it was)?  Where were you God?   Where were you?  Where are you? 

 

Silent. 

 

I do not even begin to break into the depth of issues that leave my mind clouded with despair and depression, a desire for life’s end.  And all the time, waiting, watching, silent God.  Where is the God of the Bible?  Where is the God who saved Moses, who gave Hannah a son, who split the Red Sea, who fed five thousand people, healed the blind, raised the dead?  Do I ask that much?  I ask nothing of God.  It would be more than a notion for any person to bear, but to you, I ask nothing.  Even the dogs eat the crumbs.  Even the dogs. 

 

My pieces don’t fit.  They don’t line up.  My attitude is not right, my prayers too short, my motives too adrift, my mind to cluttered, my voice too soft, too loud, too even-keel, too this, too that.  Always altering, looking, trying, waiting, watching, but nothing… to no avail.  Here I remain, silently waiting for my silent God.

 

And the frustration grows, and the anger builds, and the roots of bitterness wind their way deeper, deeper into the depth of my soul, further poisoning my already fragile state of being. 

 

I fight, I kick, I scream.  I have been given no real weapons of war, so I am left to the devices of a toddler.  I am a David against Goliath, with no sling.  I am a Sim, shaking my hands violently in protest at the one who created me.  Is this what I have been created for?  Is this where you will leave me? 

 

The real shame of it all is that I often venture into my enemy’s camp, and reason over a cup of tea.  I realize I cannot win, and that ultimately this army will overtake me, in fact, the thought of war was ridiculous in the first place.  But there are no negotiations.  My tea grows cold as God sits silent, silent, ever silent.  So I slam the door as I violently trudge my way back to my own camp. 

 

At least there I am not insulted with silence.  I will answer myself.  Yes, pity.  I will speak with words of pity, soothing my bitter soul. 

 

But none of it matters.  God is still God, and I am nothing.  I have no power.  No power to change the past, no power to change the present, and no power to change the future.  God has declared war, and he is ever winning.  His cup of tea grows cold as I refuse time and again to surrender.  But he has not met my terms, so I have no intention of surrendering.  I disdain this world, I never asked to be part of it.  It is a terrible place, full of death, and an increasing evil that turns men into beasts.  I have certain expectations of my time in this place.  I cannot simply give up without knowing these will be met.  Will I be another Job, made to play the fool?  No, not me.

 

But none of it matters.  I have no food, no water.  I have not bathed in months, nor have I felt the pull of a razor across my face.  I am an object of public scorn.  I cannot hold out.  Every border has been breached.  I have nothing left.  His cold tea is a formality.  I am treated with more dignity than warranted, allowed to think I have a choice, when indeed there is only one, well two, but he knows I will not take my life, so it really is one. 

 

The clock ticks, the bitterness remains, the clock ticks, the hands move, the tea grows cold.  I will be Job either way, I realize, what a terrifying thought.  And how unfair life is, to deal me this hand, or is it a series of hands?  How my bitterness grows, hanging on for dear life, knowing it cannot last.  What a strange irony this is, the cache 22, damned if I do, damned if I don’t stand off with the Creator of the world. 

 

My one choice is constantly taunting me as I look in the mirror, as I wake and as I lie down.  I have no power.  I am a Sim.  I guess I’ll have to play the game. 

 

“What do you think it means to surrender?” she asked. 

“To give up,” was my reply.  I can go no further, I admit my defeat; it is pointless to continue.