When God ignores your phone calls
Cool Hand Luke's trouble with God
In reading through the Psalms over the past few weeks, a verse struck me. It’s Psalm 35:22:
Lord, you have seen this; do not be silent. Do not be far from me, Lord.
Like many other Psalms, chapter 35 is about David seeking God’s help to fend off his enemies. Seems like the shepherd turned giant-slayer turned king is frequently in need of God’s assistance. But this verse is striking to me for one reason: LORD and Lord.
LORD appears in capital letters over 6,000 times in the Old Testament. It translates as the Hebrew “YHWH” (Yahweh) and signifies a personal name for God. We see it first when God shows up in a burning bush, declaring to Moses his name: “I AM”. The lowercase form of Lord, capitalizing just the first letter, refers to a master. Someone in authority. A person in charge. It’s translated as “Adonai”.
The easiest way to think of the difference is this: Yahweh represents God’s faithfulness, Adonai represents his sovereignty. I’m not sure how often in scripture a verse uses both, but the plea in Psalm 35:22 is relatable. Not because we’re on the run, ducking into caves to hide from people looking to kill us. We can relate because we’ve often skewed God’s character to be one or the other, not fully both.
In the 1967 classic prison film Cool Hand Luke, Paul Newman plays the role of Luke Jackson. Luke is a decorated war hero who, in an act of drunken stupidity, was arrested for cutting the heads off parking meters. He gets sentenced to a chain gang where, over time, he earns the respect of his fellow prisoners.
Luke has a prickly relationship with God. His punishment doesn’t seem to really fit the crime. When he finds out that his ailing mother passes away, Luke isn’t granted the freedom to at least go to the funeral. He’s given a night of solitary confinement “in the box”.
Luke’s authority is clear. Every minute of each day, he has someone watching him. There’s the boss over new prisoners. There’s the floor boss, watching over affairs within the prisoners’ bunkhouse. There’s the walking boss, the “man with no eyes” overseeing the prisoners as they work the roads each day. Then there’s the captain, the main boss, overseeing everything.
Generally speaking, Luke respects the bosses. He has little choice. But he does recognize a bigger boss. One without eyes, sure, but also without a face. A boss, a Master, that directs the wind and rain and roaring thunder.
In the midst of the storm, while all the other prisoners huddle tight into the back of the trucks, Luke stands out in the rain, shouting half-mockingly at the sky. Dragline, an unspoken leader among the prisoners, yells at Luke for yelling at God.
Dragline: “You can’t talk about him that way!”
Luke: “Ah, you still believe in that big-bearded boss up there? You think he’s watching us?”
Dragline: “Get in here! Ain’t you scared? Ain’t you scared of dying?”
Luke: “Dying? Boy, he can have this little ol’ life anytime he wants to.”
Luke then directs his conversation back to the bearded boss, the sky, or the Lord.
Luke: “You hear that? Come on! You’re welcome to it, old-timer! Let me know you’re up there. Come on! Love me, kill me, hate me, anything. Just let me know it!”
A few seconds pass. The rain soaks the state-issued blues Luke’s wearing. The prisoners sit in the back of the truck watching. The walking boss, the “man with no eyes” stares through windshield wipers, watching Luke’s tirade. Luke looks down and, as if speaking only to himself but just loud enough for the big-bearded boss to hear, says “Just standing in the rain…talking to myself.”
It’s quite a scene. It’s evocative that these prisoners, so often afraid of nothing, now rush to a truck to get out of the storm. The Walking Boss, never saying a word, sits in the dry cab of his work truck. But here Luke, who to this point has been fairly tame, lashes out at the Lord begging him to show himself as his LORD. Love me. Kill me. Hate me. Just let me know it.
David did this more than once himself. The Psalms are full of wonderful praise choruses. But they’re chock-full with moments of despair. Moments of intense longing. Moments of deafening silence. Moments of screaming in the rain “God, where are you? Lord, are you even there?”
Psalm 88, for example, has no silver lining. It’s not one of the chapters beginning with a plea for help then wrapping up with God’s favor and blessing. But here, it’s pure despair. It’s man crying out, and God hitting ignore on the phone call.
But I cry to you for help, Lord;
in the morning my prayer comes before you.
Why, Lord, do you reject me
and hide your face from me? (Psalm 88:13-14)
I cry to Yahweh, but he’s not responding. I beg for Adonai, my Master, to come. Yet he remains hidden. He’s far off. He’s slinging lightning bolts while the rain soaks my bones.
In one of the final scenes of Cool Hand Luke, Luke’s on the run. He’s escaped three times now, and the bosses are fresh on his trail again. He’s alone in some small town. It’s night time. He finds a church building and steps inside where he has another conversation with the old-timer, the big-bearded boss.
He talks to the Lord. He prays. He confesses his wrongs. And then looks up at the church ceiling. Nothing. No whisper from the Lord. No booming thunder. Just cold, cold quiet. The LORD, the God of the covenant, seems to be absent. Adonai, the Master and Lord, has stepped away.
What we don’t readily admit out loud is how close our souls are to how Luke feels. We feel slighted by the world and while we smile our way through it, our souls are screaming in the midst of a storm. We feel our Lord, our Master there. But where’s the God who is faithful to love us and care for us? We cry O God, do not keep silent; be not quiet, O God, be not still. (Psalm 83:1)
Sometimes we experience the sweet moments of Yahweh. We have days, weeks even, of nearness. We feel him beside us, tenderly touching our shoulders when the world weighs heavy on them. But we’re not sure the same God caring for our souls is sovereign enough to chase away our enemies.
I don’t believe this is a symptom of our faith being shallow. I think it’s more a case of us being human. We’re met with silence when we’re begging God to simply pick up the phone. We’re pouring out our hearts and God has left the text on “read”. We need a friend, but God’s sending lightning bolts. We need a change in circumstances, but God asks us to gaze on the beauty of a sunset.
But then we remember what God has done for us before. We remember he parted the Red Sea. We remember he gave up his only Son. We remember he healed us from sickness time and time and time again. We remember he’s blessed us with family, with friends, with food to eat and places to work. And even when those fruitful places feel barren, God is there, listening. He’s there watching.
One of my religion professors had a conversation with his granddaughter about God. She was around 5 at the time. He asked her, “What do you think God is like? How does he look?”
The little girl responded: “I think God sits in a big chair and has a long gray beard. And I think he drinks Dr. Pepper.” At this, my professor chuckled and looked at her. “Why does he drink Dr. Pepper?”
She responded. “Well, I like Dr. Pepper and I think God would like the things that I like!”
God is there. God is the big-bearded boss. God is the faithful covenant-maker. God is powerful and mighty and just. God is kind and loving and joyful. God is loud. God is quiet. God listens. And God responds. Not when we want or expect, but when he deems it proper to do so. And when he does, he invites us into his majestic presence to talk or scream or weep and while doing so, maybe sip on a Dr. Pepper.
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