update from sparkleup
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@ -35,7 +35,7 @@ forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past</div>
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<p>If Matthew died in 2012, why was I not born then?</p>
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<p>In reply to asking myself that, I say, “If Matthew died on September of that year, then he was sick long before. This was part of his long, slow death rattle.”</p>
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<p>He’d been sick for months. He’d contracted something terminal, been infected with some terrible, memetic illness earlier that year. Words had been whispered, implications, innuendo, little hints in growing silence and distance. These drilled their way into him, teased out an immune response in the form of defensiveness, then left a husk behind.</p>
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<p>Some long winter followed. He had died and crumpled to the ground. He mouldered a while before decomposing into the soil. He lay dormant beneath the earth, waiting for a thaw. Madison began to grow during that false spring that hits at the beginning of March, those two weeks of warm weather that convince you that winter must be over, it must have passed and it was time to air out the house, to wash your jackets and hang them up for the year. We always forget about the second winter, but false spring is enough for the buds to peek out.</p>
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<p>Some long winter followed. He had died and crumpled to the ground. He mouldered a while before decomposing into the soil. He lay dormant beneath the earth, waiting for a thaw. Madison began to grow<sup id="fnref:intro-grow"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:intro-grow">11</a></sup> during that false spring that hits at the beginning of March, those two weeks of warm weather that convince you that winter must be over, it must have passed and it was time to air out the house, to wash your jackets and hang them up for the year. We always forget about the second winter, but false spring is enough for the buds to peek out.<sup id="fnref:intro-change"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:intro-change">10</a></sup></p>
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<p>Stories are as bound to time as we are, and all we can do is steal back a bit of that memory through however many words. All we can do with these memories pinned in place is regard them from a second level of distance and make guesses. All I can do now is make guesses as to the meaning of however many conversations — those very real words lost to the whims of technology — that lead to the slow and not always but often painful death of who I was.</p>
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<div class="footnote">
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<hr />
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@ -63,7 +63,7 @@ forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past</div>
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<p>The editors of the NOAB take a more sympathetic view of the exchange. Job’s wife is seen as far more sympathetic: “The outcome of all Job’s piety has been to rob his wife of her ten children, her social standing, and her livelihood.” \parencite[737]{noab} Curse God, then. Who else could be responsible? How can you continue to praise after our ten (admittedly unnamed) children have died? <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:intro-bless" title="Jump back to footnote 4 in the text">↩</a></p>
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</li>
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<li id="fn:intro-intercalary">
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<p>Between the two halves of the fable — Job’s fall and God’s reinstatement of him — lies an intercalary period of at least a week wherein his friends,<sup id="fnref:intro-friends"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:intro-friends">6</a></sup> Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar<sup id="fnref:intro-elihu"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:intro-elihu">7</a></sup> commiserate with him, sitting silent for seven days and nights, before the last chapter of the book with the conclusion of the framing device. God commands that Job’s friends offer up sacrifices on his behalf, and when they do, all of Job’s wealth is restored twice over. 14,000 sheep, 6,000 camels and so on, down to seven more sons and three more daughters (which he gives the delightful names Dove, Cinnamon, and Horn of Eyeshade). Job lives another hundred and forty years, long enough to see four generations of offspring, until he dies “aged and sated in years.” (Job 42:17, Alter) <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:intro-intercalary" title="Jump back to footnote 5 in the text">↩</a></p>
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<p>Between the two halves of the fable — Job’s fall and God’s reinstatement of him — lies an intercalary period of at least a week wherein his friends,<sup id="fnref:intro-friends"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:intro-friends">6</a></sup> Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar<sup id="fnref:intro-elihu"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:intro-elihu">7</a></sup> commiserate with him, sitting silent for seven days and nights, before the last chapter of the book with the conclusion of the framing device. God commands that Job’s friends offer up sacrifices on his behalf, and when they do, all of Job’s wealth is restored twice over. 14,000 sheep, 6,000 camels and so on, down to seven more sons and three more daughters (which he gives the delightful names Dove, Cinnamon, and Horn of Eyeshade). Job lives another hundred and forty years, long enough to see four generations of offspring, until he dies “aged and sated in years.” (Job 42:17, Alter) <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:intro-intercalary" title="Jump back to footnote 5 in the text">↩</a></p>
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</li>
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<li id="fn:intro-friends">
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<p>Though perhaps this ought to be put in qualifying quotes: “friends”. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:intro-friends" title="Jump back to footnote 6 in the text">↩</a></p>
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@ -72,14 +72,24 @@ forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past</div>
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<p>There is also Elihu, but more on him later. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:intro-elihu" title="Jump back to footnote 7 in the text">↩</a></p>
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</li>
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<li id="fn:intro-fractions">
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<p>Job’s life being torn to shreds means that his brief time here on Earth, the only time he has with nothing after it, is one that divides ones life into finite fractions, into a before, a during, and an after. Job is struck for, what, two weeks? We may only guess, as the Adversary’s second visit to the sons of God and the Lord. And yet those are two weeks out of a finite number of years.</p>
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<p>This centers God’s response as the sticking point. He spends four chapters responding to Job the conversations that have taken place between him and his friends. While these conversations make up the majority of the book, His response solely in the context of this framing device (which, we must remember, is an older folktale which has been re-cast as a framing device for the rest of the book) gives us a particular flavor of ‘God works in mysterious ways’ with more nuance than one commonly finds when that phrase is employed.</p>
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<p>God appears to Job and his friends and expounds on the fact that none of them do — nor indeed can — possibly understand the ways in which he works. They’re not just mysterious, they’re vast and incomprehensible. This makes the most sense in a panentheistic view. If He is outside time, then, from our point of view, those ways stretch both forwards and back. If they envelop and pervade all things tangible and intangible, then they are beyond even our causal domain.</p>
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<p>Even in a grounded, Jahwist, immediate and physical view of God<sup id="fnref:intro-exist"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:intro-exist">9</a></sup> (He is, after all, there in the form of a whirlwind), his entrance comes off as bizarre and unnerving. He passes through the physical plane as the Sphere does through the Square’s planar existence. Even in so physical a form, He proves His very incomprehensibility.</p>
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<p>These interpretations are doing a lot of heavy lifting, however. They accept at face value Job’s capitulation in chapter 40, where, after being thoroughly excoriated by no less than God Himself, he says, “Look, I am worthless. What can I say back to You?” (Job 40:4, Alter) and “I have spoken once, and I will not answer; twice, but will proceed no further.” (Job 40:5, NRSV) <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:intro-fractions" title="Jump back to footnote 8 in the text">↩</a></p>
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<p>Job’s life being torn to shreds means that his brief time here on Earth, the only time he has with nothing after it, is one that divides ones life into finite fractions, into a before, a during, and an after. Job is struck for, what, two weeks? We may only guess, as the Adversary’s second visit to the sons of God and the Lord. And yet those are two weeks out of a finite number of years.</p>
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<p>This centers God’s response as the sticking point. He spends four chapters responding to Job the conversations that have taken place between him and his friends. While these conversations make up the majority of the book, His response solely in the context of this framing device (which, we must remember, is an older folktale which has been re-cast as a framing device for the rest of the book) gives us a particular flavor of ‘God works in mysterious ways’ with more nuance than one commonly finds when that phrase is employed.</p>
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<p>God appears to Job and his friends and expounds on the fact that none of them do — nor indeed can — possibly understand the ways in which he works. They’re not just mysterious, they’re vast and incomprehensible. This makes the most sense in a panentheistic view. If He is outside time, then, from our point of view, those ways stretch both forwards and back. If they envelop and pervade all things tangible and intangible, then they are beyond even our causal domain.</p>
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<p>Even in a grounded, Jahwist, immediate and physical view of God<sup id="fnref:intro-exist"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:intro-exist">9</a></sup> (He is, after all, there in the form of a whirlwind), his entrance comes off as bizarre and unnerving. He passes through the physical plane as the Sphere does through the Square’s planar existence. Even in so physical a form, He proves His very incomprehensibility.</p>
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<p>These interpretations are doing a lot of heavy lifting, however. They accept at face value Job’s capitulation in chapter 40, where, after being thoroughly excoriated by no less than God Himself, he says, “Look, I am worthless. What can I say back to You?” (Job 40:4, Alter) and “I have spoken once, and I will not answer; twice, but will proceed no further.” (Job 40:5, NRSV) <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:intro-fractions" title="Jump back to footnote 8 in the text">↩</a></p>
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<li id="fn:intro-exist">
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<p>And if He does not exist? The folktale and the book as a whole do not depend on the existence of God in their interpretation. They still work to repudiate the idea that, if bad things happen to you, it is because you’re a bad person. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:intro-exist" title="Jump back to footnote 9 in the text">↩</a></p>
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<p>And if He does not exist? The folktale and the book as a whole do not depend on the existence of God in their interpretation. They still work to repudiate the idea that, if bad things happen to you, it is because you’re a bad person. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:intro-exist" title="Jump back to footnote 9 in the text">↩</a></p>
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<li id="fn:intro-change">
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<p>Our Job, though, our poor, ruined man, has he changed? Has he grown into something new? Has he integrated who he was during those weeks or months of grief with who he was before that? Has he built for himself a new identity? Has he become braver? More fearful?</p>
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<p>There is a saying that, with near-death experiences, there are two likely outcomes. One is that you become a braver, more vivacious person. You live your life all the fuller because you got so close to not living at all. After all, if you have been given a second chance, why not?</p>
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<p>But still, there’s that second option: you become consumed by fear. You freeze up and do not leave the house. Any potential source of death is a thing to become avoided.</p>
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<p>This is no value judgement. To be consumed by fear after having your own mortality stand up before you, sneer down its nose, and give you a playful shove bears no shame. It is an honest acceptance of who you are in the face of the enormity of the universe.</p>
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<p>And sure, it might be a spectrum, and there’s probably that absolute midpoint where there is no change. You make it through that brush with death and come out the other side precisely the same as you were before. There is terror in this prospect, that death might be so overwhelming that there is nothing you can do but wrap that experience up in butcher paper, tie it with twine, and set it up in the attic. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:intro-change" title="Jump back to footnote 10 in the text">↩</a></p>
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<li id="fn:intro-grow">
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<p>Alter argues that the names that Job gives his new daughters points to a change. “The writer may have wanted to intimate that after all Job’s suffering, which included hideous disfigurement and violent loss, a principle of grace and beauty enters his life in the restoration of his fortunes.” \parencite[579]{alter} This is indeed a beautiful take on it, too. Job comes out the other side and names his daughters after growing things, beautiful things. Dove and Cinnamon and Horn of Eyeshade, the most beautiful in the land and a sign of Job’s joy in living. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:intro-grow" title="Jump back to footnote 11 in the text">↩</a></p>
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</div>
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