“I hate you for what you did
And I miss you like a little kid.”
So begins the song “Motion Sickness” on Phoebe Bridgers’ 2017 album Stranger in the Alps. If you haven’t heard it, the song has a folk-rock sound, with a little alt-country in the guitar – an upbeat juxtaposition to lyrics that express anger, sadness, and, well, emotional motion sickness.
Full disclosure: I love this song. While many of my friends were listening to Bridgers, 27, years ago, I’m still newly arrived at her catalogue, and I have been listening to “Motion Sickness” a lot recently. It feels apt right now, when I have hit another wall of pandemic fatigue and frustration; when our country continues to restrict access to voting rights, reproductive care, social welfare programs, and climate infrastructure; when our city grapples with on-going violence, grief, and stunning inequities; and when, to top it off, it is cold and dark and spring feels far away. Turing the song up in my car or while I do the dishes, I get that floaty, perfect, free feeling that the right song at the right time can elicit. The chorus sums my emotions up perfectly:
“I have emotional motion sickness,
Somebody roll the windows down.
There are no words in the English language
I could scream to drown you out.”
The phrase “emotional motion sickness” so wonderfully captures how a barrage of emotions feel, shaken up together and desperate for release but not quite articulable, the frantic noise of the world seemingly unceasing. Maybe you can relate.
In addition to listening to this song on repeat, I have also been reading up on theodicy, in the form of Bryan Bliss’s book Bad Things, Good People, and God: A Guide for Teens (2022). (Beyond the specifics of my call at Redeemer, I find that theology books meant for younger readers can be excellent introductions or refreshers for people of any age. Plus, they’re fun. The chapter titled “The (Mostly) Dead Theologians Answer Club” was both highly amusing and a succinct way of exploring really big theological concepts that have evolved over thousands of years.)
Theodicy means, more or less, if God is good then how do we explain sin and evil? Or, why do bad things happen? Why is there suffering? If God loves us, why? As I started the book, I immediately thought of the beginning of “Motion Sickness” – “I hate you for what you did / And I miss you like a little kid.” Why, God? Aren’t you our loving parent? Aren’t you supposed to be in charge? Where are you – I miss you.
These are real, hard, and often painful questions. Maybe you have asked them before. Maybe you are still asking them. They are questions that require serious wrestling, like Jacob and the angel; questions that people have been wrestling with for thousands of years. They are uncomfortable and there aren’t easy answers. Bliss writes that, like Jacob, we might be left with an injured hip for taking the risk of engaging with such questions (Bliss, 5). Questioning God can feel scary, especially if you’ve been raised never, ever to do that. But God is big enough for the struggle – for the questions, the doubts, the anger, the grief. Jesus certainly experienced those emotions, and the Psalms are full of them. And, maybe, getting that up close and personal will ultimately draw us closer to God, invite us into new ways of experiencing or knowing God, or lead us to new ways of living.
There are many, many different approaches to answering questions of theodicy (see “The (Mostly) Dead Theologians Answer Club” for a few), far more than I could offer in this post. Some of them resonate with me, some don’t – some are part of our tradition in the Episcopal Church, others aren’t. But sometimes a theological answer isn’t really what I want. Sometimes I want my anger, sadness, and emotional motion sickness to be heard. I want God to listen and get in the car with me and sing along as loud as we can.
And I believe that that is true. I am indeed convinced that “neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus” (Romans 8:38-39). I am convinced that God is sitting next to me in the car, singing – God, blessedly incarnate, who has felt this same tune. I am convinced God is sitting next to you, too. And I know it doesn’t always feel that way. So when it is hard to hear the harmony, know that there’s a highway full of people waiting to lend their voices to the chorus with you. God will be singing along with them, too.
Love,
Rebecca+
P.S. Two books if you want to read more: The one I mentioned above is Bad Things, Good People, and God: A Guide for Teens (Morehouse Publishing, 2022) by Bryan Bliss, a YA author, theologian, and doctoral student who is in the process of becoming an Episcopal priest. Another very readable book that grapples with similar questions is the memoir Everything Happens for a Reason (and Other Lies I’ve Loved) (Random House, 2018), by Kate Bowler, a professor at Duke Divinity School and creator of the podcast “Everything Happens.” If you have any recommendations or favorite places where you’ve gone to wrestle with these questions, I’d love to hear about them.