Are You There God? It's Me.

In sixth grade I read Judy Blume’s teen novel Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. I was amazed by Margaret’s candor with God, her ability to converse with him like he was her sister or her best friend. I was amazed and appalled. Margaret used words like “boobs” and “period” in her conversations with God. Though I admired her guts, I couldn’t imagine speaking to God like that myself.

When I was young, I didn’t converse with God. I prayed to him -- rote, memorized prayers in church or before math tests. I confessed to him (or, more accurately, confessed to him via a priest). I feared him. But did I talk to him? No, I didn’t talk to God. My childhood God was all-knowing, all-powerful, all-seeing. A little bit like Santa Claus, but a lot less predictable.

Even now, when Pastor Greg preaches about cultivating a relationship with God, my first reaction is, “Really? You’re serious about this?” I thought I’d done well to get to the point where I believed in God, now you’re telling me I need to have a relationship with him, too? I thought I was getting to the pat-myself-on-the-back stage, the sit-back-and-relax stage, and you're telling me I'm not done? That really, I'm just beginning?

Reading the psalms last week in the Old Testament class helped shed some light on this conversing-with-God quandary. We read some of the familiar laments (familiar to the rest of the class; a first-time reading for me):

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so
far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning?
(Psalm 22)

O Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger, or discipline me
in your wrath. For your arrows have pierced me, and your hand has come down upon me. (Psalm 38)

And we talked about sharing grief, doubt, fear and even anger with God. At one point the lecturer on the DVD series asked, “How would you answer someone who asked, ‘Is it all right to be angry with God?’”

I know for sure if I had gotten that question as a kid, my response would have been, “No way, Jose!” I was taught to respect God, to fear him. I was taught that we were the lowly, insignificant humans, and he was the big, powerful God. And this is all true. I still believe this is true. But now I know it’s okay to be angry with God, too. After all, God came down to be with us lowly humans; he even took the form of a human, so that we could better relate to him. Plus, I think, what is the alternative to anger? Silence. And silence is never a good option. Silence leads to nothingness, no relationship at all. Silence leads to turning your back on God. Anger acknowledges.

The writer and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel once wrote, “The shout becomes a prayer in spite of me.” And this, I think, is the essence of the lament. The lament, though it may not be the way we think we ought to talk to God, is talking to God nonetheless. The lament is faithful because of its honesty.

Last week, on the Day of the Big Rejection, I did something that surprised me. I found that in the midst of my spiritual turmoil, in the midst of my questions and doubt, anger and sadness, I talked to God. I asked God the questions. You wouldn’t think anything positive could be said about sitting on a toilet weeping to God, but that’s just it. That’s the silver lining. When the dust had cleared and I had an inkling of perspective again, I realized I had talked to God, naturally, instinctively. I had talked to God without even really trying.