Longing for Permanence
Today is a day for remembrance. Each Memorial Day, our nation pauses from our everyday distractions to honor the lives lost in the pursuit of freedom. Before officially becoming a holiday, the day was once referred to as “Decoration Day.” At its inception in 1868 thousands of citizens traveled to adorn the gravesites of their fellow Americans whose lives were cut short in the carnage of the Civil War. The fresh-cut flowers on chiseled stone declared their lives weren’t forgotten.
Years later, in a world that seems as disposable as the paper products we consume each day, we might fear that our own difficult sacrifices will be forgotten. What more could be expected when we watch life and death flash before our eyes at increasing speeds. Another distinguished actor reaches the end of their battle with cancer only to be quickly replaced by a viral TikTok video. A shooting in our community leaves families and friends grieving only to be forgotten when the next tragedy comes around. We scroll through social media and see the words of a friend in deep suffering only to continue browsing and become distracted by fleeting celebrity gossip.
This impermanence leads those of us who have felt deep suffering to ask, Who will build our memorials? Who will remember my pain?
Longing for a Memorial
This is precisely what the sufferer Job asks himself in Scripture. He was crushed by the loss of his children, livestock, and physical health all at once. Not only did he suffer these tragedies but Job also had to endure the chiding and chastisement of his friends’ hurtful speeches. Job was broken and alone. In desperation Job pleads, “Oh that my words were written! Oh that they were inscribed in a book!” (Job 19:23–24).
Job longed for an account of his suffering to be recorded—with an iron pen, etched into the face of a rock. Job desired permanence. Robert Fyall writes, “Job wants something that will not only vindicate him and his integrity, but that in after ages will be a memorial to his fight for justice” (Robert Fyall, Now My Eyes Have Seen You, 46).
“Job longed for an account of his suffering to be recorded—with an iron pen, etched into the face of a rock. Job desired permanence.”
Surely we have all felt the same at times, for it’s the feelings of our own story-driven culture. Log onto Instagram or Facebook and you’ll find someone memorializing their story. Some might use their personal stories simply to amass followers, but it's also clear the prevalence of personal stories provides a glimpse into the deep desire for our trials to be known and, moreover, remembered. We all do it too. We share about our traumatic time in the NICU with a child or reach out with stories of our struggles with cancer or infertility. We long for some sense to be made from the hurt we’ve experienced—a meaning that is stronger than whatever part of us was lost.
Yet despite our attempts to talk, post, or share our way into lasting meaning, we will find even this is eventually fleeting. That Facebook post gets forgotten, the book or memoir disappears on a shelf at the library, and even the memorials we decorate each May are quickly pushed to the side by potlucks and barbecues. Ecclesiastes bears the bitter truth that “there is no remembrance of former things, nor will there be any remembrance of later things yet to be among those who come after” (Eccles. 1:11).
Our Living Memorial
Job knew this, and it’s why he wasn’t content with only an inscription. Directly after pleading for a memorial, Job proclaims, “For I know my Redeemer lives, and that at last he shall stand upon the earth” (Job 19:25). Job’s true hope was not in the lifeless etching on a stone but rather in a living Redeemer.
It’s not a scroll or rock that will ultimately comfort him, but the living God. It is God who Job longs to look upon, and it is God who is the object of his true hope. While many scholars argue the Redeemer Job names can’t be referring to Christ, others believe Job has a dim knowledge of the true Redeemer that he “welcomes from a distance” (Heb. 11:13).
Ultimately Job had faith in a hope to come, one that involved life and not death. Throughout the Old Testament, the Lord is often referred to as the living God. The Israelites declared no flesh could hear the voice of the living God (Deut. 5:26), and David proclaimed his soul “thirsts for the living God” (Ps. 42:2). The apostle Peter most famously made this connection to Jesus by boldly proclaiming, “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God” (Matt. 16:16).
“The great memorials of ancient civilizations may be worn away, yet the living God by his definition lives.”
Stones may deteriorate, books may burn, and the great memorials of ancient civilizations may be worn away, yet the living God by his definition lives. He is the Alpha, the Omega, the beginning and the end (Rev. 22:13).
Hold to the Living
We don’t need books or stones to give purpose to our pain. Whatever hurt, injustice, or loss we’ve suffered in this life will not be forgotten when our life is hidden in the living Christ (Col. 3:3). His shed blood and atoning work has inscribed our name in a better place—the book of Life (Rev. 21:27).
Who will know and remember the pain you’re in right now? Who will decorate a faithful life tainted by the valleys of deep pain? Your living Redeemer will. That word Redeemer is one used throughout the Old Testament. It is used in the story of Ruth to describe Boaz, who brought Ruth into a relationship with him, removing her shame and bringing her into a place of security (Ruth 4:1–6). In other instances it’s used to convey one who rights or avenges wrongs done against a family member (Num. 35:19).
We have a Redeemer, and he lives now, tomorrow, and forever. He draws us near as his own in a covenant relationship. He will be our avenger of disorder and evil in the world. He will be the comforter and satisfaction of our hearts when others fail us, just as Job’s friends failed him. He is the one who holds each of our tears in a bottle and takes note of each tossing in the night (Ps. 56:8).
He lives not as one who is far off but one who is near, near enough to take the humiliation of a created body in a fallen, sorrow-filled world. Christ knows our sufferings, for he suffered himself, being scourged, beaten, and killed for our sake.
It is only because of our Redeemer’s life, death, and resurrection that we are able look at our grief and pain and view it as a “light, momentary affliction” as Paul describes (2 Cor. 4:17–18). Because his Redeemer lived, Job was able to look past the painful suffering and sorrow around him and instead fix his eyes on what is unseen—that which was eternal. And so can we, for we too have this living hope. It is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, just like our Redeemer (1 Pet. 1:3–5).
Do you long for your pain to be remembered? Take the hand of the living Redeemer. The scars on his body will never fade or wear away. Those scars give lasting meaning to our own, for their owner lives. And because he does, we will too.
Brianna Lambert is a wife and mom to three, making their home in the cornfields of Indiana. She loves using writing to work out the truths God is teaching her each day. She is a staff writer with GCD and has contributed to various online publications, such as Christianity Today and The Gospel Coalition. You can find more of her writing paired with her husband’s photography at lookingtotheharvest.com.