On a warm spring evening in 1952, at his home in Swansea in Wales, David John Thomas lay on his deathbed. Once a soldier who had fought in the Second World War, later an English teacher, Thomas had become very frail in his later years. There was no doubt that he would die soon. There was no turning back the clock, no remedy for his deterioration. For his son, however, the issue was not only that his father was dying, but also that he was dying too calmly. He was not fighting the inevitable. He was not pushing back against his condition. He seemed simply to accept it. His son found that unthinkable. So the son, poet Dylan Thomas, tried to persuade his dying father to take up arms against this sea of troubles.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas experienced his father dying calm, indifferent, passive. Some of us experience that spiritually, emotionally. We discover that someone we love just doesn’t care any more. We find out that someone we are connected to has disconnected. Or maybe we feel ourselves that life is hardly worth living any more. The issues we have to face overwhelm us and make us numb. Life has turned sour. Like milk left out too long, life has turned sour, its freshness gone.
Do you know what I’m talking about? Have you seen someone’s life turned sour? And you just wanted to scream, “Do not go gentle into that good night; rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
A young man wanders the streets aimlessly: no job, no school, no direction, no purpose. Everything he has tried failed, and so what else is there but to get a cheap thrill snatching purses or shoplifting, sitting sullen in the lockup? Life has turned sour, and the sourness turns into anti-social negativity. You want to say, “Do not go there, young man!” But he does not hear.
A young woman endures the taunts of those who are slimmer, trimmer, and richer than she, and feels left out of what the smart set are doing. The snickers behind her back, the arched eyebrows – they could only mean one thing: that she is not one of the privileged few. And so what else is there but to give in to the urge to be intimate, just to have flesh touching, just to embrace a semblance of love? Life has turned sour, and the sourness turns into self-destructive behavior. You want to warn her, “Do not settle for that, young lady!” But she is deaf to that.
A couple, married long ago, and now with an empty nest, find that their banter has turned into bickering and their bickering into insults and disdain. They will tell you that they do love each other, but will quickly qualify that by commenting, “She does drive me crazy” and “He does not listen to me any more.” The marriage bond has turned into a chain. Life has turned sour, and the sourness into an armed camp of ill-disguised hostility. Do not go gentle into that dark night of the soul, good friends, lest you destroy one another; but they are stuck in this horrible habit of mutual sniping. Life has turned sour.
But I went into a hospital room to visit a man I was thought was about to die. His illness was serious and I had run several times to see him in emergency rooms. He had been a member of my church for a long time, but had always been a problem to everyone there. He had been the constant opposition. Whatever we proposed to do, he was against it. Repair and refresh the sanctuary? No, it would cost too much; he was against it. Change the order of worship to include diverse forms of music? No, he was against it; he said he did not want to sing anything that was not in the Baptist Hymnal! Twice divorced, admitting to some one-night stands, sometimes homeless but now rather prosperous, it had become clear that his was a life of opposition. Life had turned sour, and nothing, absolutely nothing, would satisfy him. So I went, expecting another torrent of bitterness.
But that is not what I heard. Not at all. From behind the tubes and the monitors he said, “Pastor, I’m pretty well pleased with my life. I’ve not been perfect. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. But out there in that church, there are people that think well of me. And my son, my daughter, they come to see me and they make me feel good. And you, pastor – I haven’t always agreed with you. I don’t like some of the things you do. But you listen to me. You hear what I have to say. It may not be much, but you listen. I think my life has been pretty good.”
So what have we here?! This chronic complainer, this bundle of negativity has now resolved to die peacefully? He is prepared to go gentle into that good night, without rage? How could that be? What did that? What is the way out of a life turned sour into a quiet sweetness?
Job was a man for whom everything went wrong. Set aside for the moment the premise on which the Biblical story of Job is built. Forget for the moment all about God and Satan making a bet, with Job the pawn in their game. The point is that everything imaginable had happened to Job – losses, bereavement, sickness, disgrace – it was all disaster. His life had turned incredibly sour. So what happened with Job’s heart and soul? How did he get through all his torments? Did he go gentle into that good night; or did he rage, rage against the dying of the light?
I
Well, first Job went into a frenzy of self-hatred. He let himself fall into the seething cauldron of low self-esteem. In as stark and brazen a sentence as you will find anywhere in the Bible, Job lays it out for all to hear, “I loathe my life.” “I loathe my life.” There is no way to make that sound good or look pretty. He just vomited out what he felt, “I loathe my life.” I do not like me.
I’ve already spoken to you about low self-esteem. I’ve already cited examples of the behavior that comes from self-hatred. Nothing commendable about the young man who steals or the young woman who sleeps around or the couple who live in an armed camp. All of them are pictures of people who do not like themselves. All of them are pictures of sin, and that cannot be varnished over.
But there is a key difference between my little examples and our friend Job. The difference is that they act out their self-loathing, they do negative things. But Job puts it out there, identifies it, names it, but does not act it out. If you understand yourself, if you know your own mind, then instead of going the anti-social route with self-hatred, you can go the redemptive route. You can get to another place in your life, if you are honest with yourself.
Have you ever felt anything like what Job felt? Everything has gone wrong, nothing is really what it ought to be, and so you say, deep down, “I am rotten. I am a mess. I hate myself. I loathe my life.” If you’ve felt that, then what did you do with that thought?
Maybe you repressed it; you wouldn’t let it stick around, so you sat on it. If you repress your self-hatred … just don’t want to think about it … it will pop up some way, some time. It won’t go away all by itself. It will come out in some kind of negative behavior.
But we do have another choice. We can look at our hearts, clear-eyed and honest, and can put everything out there for God to deal with. And deal with it He will. He will redeem us. He will take us to another place and will not leave us in the miry pit. I promise you He will get us through this miasma of self-loathing. But first we have to tell ourselves the truth. And we have to tell God the truth. No pretty prayers, no varnishing over what we feel. We have to get it said, get it out. And then the Lord can deal with it.
When life turns sour, and it seems that we cannot get anything to go our way, we may loathe life itself. But if we are going to get past that self-hatred, we’ll have to put it all out in the sunshine.
II
And then, guess what? When it’s out there, complain. Yes, that’s what I said. When we have finally told ourselves the truth, we must complain.
For just after Job cried out, “I loathe my life” he declared something else. He served notice to whomever would listen, “I will give free utterance to my complaint; I will speak in the bitterness of my soul. I will say to God, ‘Do not condemn me; let me know why you contend against me.’” Job complained, and complained not just to the world in general, but quite specifically, Job complained to God.
Brothers and sisters, a complaint to God is critical when life turns sour. When it seems as though everything has gone against you, and you find yourself with feelings of self-loathing, then turn to God, and turn in complaint. Turn in complaint and in anguish, speaking your heart, unloading your mind. And I tell you, God will hear and honor that complaint.
Let’s think a little about honest prayer. I suspect that too much of our prayer is dishonest and far too much is dispassionate. If that’s so, it can hardly even be called prayer. Prayer is an honest and passionate cry to the living God. I am sure there is much about prayer I do not understand, but this one thing I do know: that it is only when I honestly and passionately lay open my heart, speaking as Job did, “in the bitterness of my soul,” that I can expect an answer to my prayer. God wants honesty; He who sees into our hearts already knows what we need, but He wants us to acknowledge it. He wants us to discover how needy we are and to turn to Him for everything. Bottom line, He wants us to trust Him. And that will not come until we first learn to complain.
I would not be able to tell you how many counseling sessions I have done that have gone something like this: “Pastor, I just feel awful. I don’t know what I have done to deserve feeling like this.” And I reply, “You feel awful? Tell me more about that. What are you feeling?” “Oh, well, pastor, you don’t want to know all that. It’s just me. I wouldn’t want to burden you with my stuff.” To which I have to respond, “But you’re here. You wanted to burden me with something. What you really mean is that you are afraid to tell somebody who represents God the whole truth. Isn’t that right?” And then, after a while, the complaints come tumbling out. The bitterness, stored up for years, pours forth. The venom and the vomit that fill us up and choke us start to flow. And when it does … when life turns sour and we are able to cry out, “Lord, it’s not fair!” … that’s when healing begins to take place. It’s called catharsis. It’s called cleansing. It’s about letting go of all the negative feelings by which we have defined and shaped ourselves for years.
Brothers and sisters, our God is a great God. He can take it when we grumble. He will not be shattered if we tell Him that in our finite minds we cannot grasp what He is doing. Our God let Job just rant and rave. Listen to a few of the things Job complained about: “Does it seem good to you, [Lord], to oppress … now you turn and destroy me … you bring fresh troops against me … “. Oh, Job complains bitterly. And God lets him do it. The Lord allows it all to flow. The floodgates of catharsis have been opened, and nothing restrains them.
But now, again, this is not mere complaint; this is complaint toward God. This is not merely a bitter soul; this is complaint-filled prayer. This is a cry to the heavens for help. This is a rage, rage against the dying of the light, but it is made to the Light of the World.
III
And so when we complain like that, opening up exactly who we are before God, then we are going to find that, despite our suspicions, God is just, God is loving, and God is able. We are not alone, nor are we left to strangle on our own vomit. God is with us, and God will deliver. When life turns sour, acknowledge how you feel, then complain to God, and He will deliver.
Job is exhausted from his complaining and makes his final plea, “Are not the days of my life few? Let me alone, that I may find a little comfort before I go, never to return, to the land of gloom and deep darkness.” He’s tired, worn out, but he has been honest before his God. And a while later, a few chapters over, we see something new, for Job can speak of things more wonderful than he could ever have imagined, “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.” My Redeemer lives.
When life turns sour, and first you tell yourself the truth and then you tell it to God, you discover that the justice of God will be done, and you will be redeemed. For God is with us, and God will deliver.
You remember Moses, who complained that he was not ready to do what God had called him to do, and then the people of Israel, who complained when Moses did do what he was called to do. They complained because they had no food, and then they complained because they had the same food all the time. But God brought them, in His own time, to a land flowing with milk and honey. When life turns sour, and first you tell yourself the truth and then you tell it to God, you discover that the resources of God are exceedingly abundantly above all that we can ask or think. God is with us, and God will deliver.
You remember Elijah, who was so frustrated that the priests of Baal and Queen Jezebel opposed everything he stood for. What did he do with that? Elijah complained, “I, even I only, am left a prophet of the Lord, and now they seek to take away my life.” Then Elijah discovered, to his astonishment, that the voice of the Lord was not in the dramatic things of earthquake, wind, or fire, but in the still small voice of calm. When life turned sour for Elijah, he told himself the truth and then he told it to God, and discerned that the presence of God would be with him and feed him. God is with us, and God will deliver.
And you remember too that in a garden one night there stood a young man, troubled by what was ahead of Him. In a garden, flanked by sleepy friends and overshadowed by the distant sound of soldiers’ clanking armor, a young man whose career of teaching and ministry had taken an ominous turn. Life had turned sour for Him. He knew it. He knew it so well He even rebuked one of His friends who insisted it should not happen. He knew it and He complained to His God, “Lord, let this cup pass from me.” Yes, even Jesus complained to God. Jesus got it out of His system. Jesus poured out the anguish of His soul before the Father. And in Him God is with us and God is delivering.
Do not go gentle into that good night; rage, rage against the dying of the light. Tell yourself the truth. Tell it to God, good and loud. And then wait to see what will happen. For in God’s own time, in God’s own way – redemption, release, restoration, resurrection. New life!
When life turns sour, say so. When life turns sour, turn to God the giver of life and plead for justice. When life turns sour, turn and turn to God the author of all things good and perfect, and cry out for His mercy. When life turns sour, turn and turn and turn again to the God who listens. Turn, turn, turn, and you will be heard.
And then, like my friend in that hospital bed, who had complained about everything under the sun, but who knew that he had been heard and loved, you will know that it has been a good life after all. And that in the One who is with us and who will deliver us, there is a life to come that can never turn sour.
