We’re a country obsessed with mistakes. Flubbed song lyrics find prime real estate on news websites and blogs; political speech slip-ups become Twitter fodder for years. If a public personality makes a snafu, a camera probably recorded every syllable.
Given my propensity to bungle a line or two in personal conversation (foot-in-mouth genes run deep in my family), I’d hate to imagine a camera-touting interloper capturing every single one. No need to play those over and over.
As I’ve been studying the book of Job, I’ve found this same obsession with mistakes. Job’s friends, instead of comforting him in his misery, ask him to think back and figure out what he did wrong. They mourn with him, but they don’t offer a single tissue or back scratch or anything.
They’re too worried about being right.
And that reminds me too much of me. When people I know face problems, my mind often zips back over the past to dig up the things that may be “causing” these problems. I want to justify the reason for their suffering.
But that’s not how it works. The man born blind wasn’t that way because he deserved it—he was that way to show God’s ability to spark synapses and make eyes work.