Voluntary Absence
My God, I cry out by day, but You do not answer; and by night, but I have no rest. Psalm 22:2 NASB
Cry out – Who’s responsible? That’s what we want to know. If I’m crying out day and night, if I feel the desperate emptiness of God’s absence, if I’m fixated on His reply, then isn’t it God who’s making this all so difficult? David writes:
אֵלִי אֵלִי, לָמָה עֲזַבְתָּנִי; רָחוֹק מִישׁוּעָתִי, דִּבְרֵי שַׁאֲגָתִי
You know these opening words. Eli, Eli, lama’ azavtani, or as we usually read it in Matthew’s gospel, Eli, Eli, lema sabaktanei? (“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”). Forget about the eventual prophetic usage on the cross. When David writes, he’s not penning a screenplay for Yeshua. He’s writing about his own personal experience. Doesn’t God promise to be with us? Didn’t Yeshua say that he would never leave us orphans? Then why do David’s words penetrate so deeply? Once again, Anthony Bloom offers some insight: “It is we who make ourselves absent, it is we who grow cold the moment we are no longer concerned with God. Why? Because He does not matter so much.”[1] I’m reminded of Heschel’s declaration, “God is of no importance unless He is of supreme importance . . .”[2]
But, how? How do I make God of supreme importance? I still have daily life, daily desires, daily choices, daily difficulties. I still have to function in the world. Maybe making God of supreme importance is only possible for men like Abraham Heschel; not for men like David—and me. Bloom illuminates my real stumbling block:
“There are other ways in which God is ‘absent.’ As long as we ourselves are real, as long as we are truly ourselves, God can be present and can do something with us. But the moment we try to be what we are not, there is nothing left to say or have; we become a fictitious personality, an unreal response, and this unreal presence cannot be approached by God.”[3]
“If we cannot find the kingdom of God within us, if we cannot meet God within, in the very depth of ourselves, our chances of meeting Him outside ourselves are very remote.”[4]
When I read these ancient words, “Eli, Eli, lama’ azavtani,” I need to find them in me, not just in my mouth, in my head. Is there a place where I am real enough to feel such desperation or am I pretending to be in control so that God becomes my acquaintance rather than my sustenance? Can I really say, with Bloom, “A prayer makes sense only if it is lived.”[5]
Topical Index: My God, Eli, Eli, lama’ azavtani, prayer, supreme importance, Psalm 22:2
[1] Anthony Bloom, Beginning to Pray, p. 30.
[2] Abraham Heschel, Man Is Not Alone, p. 92.
[3] Anthony Bloom, Beginning to Pray, p. 30.
[4] Ibid., p. 45.
[5] Ibid., p. 59.
