The gospel according to Squid Game

 

Job 42: 1-6, 10-17
New Ark United Church of Christ, Newark, DE
October 24, 2021

Job is one of the most problematic books in the Bible. Every story has its own genre, and the genre of the book of Job is theodicy, the problem of evil and suffering. In the 4th century BCE, the philosopher Epicurus put it this way, and I’m paraphrasing: If God is unable to prevent evil, God cannot be all powerful. If God is not willing to prevent evil, then God is not all good.



If God is loving and good, why does evil exist? How does God create humankind in the divine image and yet evil resides in human hearts? In the second creation story in Genesis, human beings chose the knowledge of good and evil, we chose free will. If we are going to be loving and good, we will come to it of our own free will.



Like many stories in the Bible, the story of Job reveals something about the human condition and our ideas about God. The story opens with an account of Job’s blameless character, his large family, and the wealth he possesses. To put his wealth in contemporary terms, Job is on par with Jeff Bezos. He has more wealth than he can possibly use in his lifetime. But Job is also righteous; he fears God, he’s checked his ego, and commits no evil. He has what would’ve been and still is considered a perfect life. This is how we know we are dealing with a folktale or parable rather than some sort of historical fiction. But the book of Job is more than a simple folktale; it is part of the poetic wisdom literature of the Bible, along with Proverbs, the book of Psalms, the Song of Solomon, and Ecclesiastes. It is intended to get us to think about life and what is good and holy and true, not only for ourselves but life lived in relationships and in community.

The plot of the story is revealed when the Satan or the Adversary proposes to God that if everything was taken away from even the most righteous of human beings, that one would curse God face to face. And after a series of debates with three companions, Job does indeed curse the day he was conceived. However, God does not answer for the wager between God and the Adversary, nor does God satisfy our longing to know why there is evil and suffering. Rather, with a voice that speaks out of a whirlwind, we are given a wide view of the creation, that it is full of both beauty and violence, comfort and cruelty, and that our knowledge is limited. Like so many dilemmas, the story of Job asks difficult questions, it does not give easy answers, and leaves us with more questions than when we began. What makes wisdom literature so wise is that it trusts us to keep asking difficult questions, to keep probing the mystery in which we live, and to find our own answers in community.



A contemporary story that is asking its own difficult questions about evil and suffering is the Netflix series out of South Korea titled Squid Game. I think it’s important to talk about shows like this in faith communities for two reasons. One, it is the number one television series on Netflix in 90 different countries. Like a folktale or parable, it has the power to shape conversations and the way people think but on a global scale. And two, this series is asking pointed questions about capitalism, the dignity and worth of human beings, violence, and the rules by which we structure society. There are also interesting twists and parallels to the story of Job.

It is not a story for everyone. It is disturbing, brutal, and bloody. It’s not the kind of show I would normally watch. Even as the first episode horrified me, and I watched the last twenty minutes with my hand blocking most of the screen except for the subtitles, the questions this series asks are not ones to be taken lightly. And if it gets people talking, all the better. I plan on hosting a Zoom discussion about it on one of our Wednesday evening gatherings but in its own breakout room.



If you’re going to watch it, the less you know about it, the better, but I will at least introduce the storyline and some of the overall character of the show. It begins with a divorced father who lives with his mother, and he is overwhelmed with gambling debts. One night a stranger in a business suit engages him in a childhood game, promising him billions in prize money if he agrees to participate in an ambiguous competition. When he awakes the next day, he finds himself in a very large dormitory style room with 455 other contestants, all competing for this cash prize.



After they all sign a bare minimum contract, they are told that if they make it through six games without being eliminated, they will win $45 billion won or about $38 million dollars. At first these games appear to be simple childhood games, but the contestants quickly learn that to be eliminated means that they will be killed.



Like Job, these people have lost everything, yet when given the choice to leave the game, they return to it, having found that taking their chances on the outside is just as lethal as playing the game. Like Job, there are powerful decision makers at work and bets are made. Like those in our own world throughout history who have next to nothing, these contestants put their trust in the rules agreed upon but then those who have power change the conditions of the game. Like the story of Job, human lives are taken indiscriminately and without remorse. We object to such violence on our screens, to invite such brutality into our hearts and minds, and yet every page of human history and world news is stained with blood and violence because of greed, self-interest, and our idolatry of guns.

Most of all, in both stories it is assumed that restored wealth, restored community, family life, gained after extreme humiliation, signifies an end to suffering and grief. And yet we know from our own suffering and grief that nothing can bring back the life we had before our deep loss. Divine justice is not about getting back what was lost, but taking all the time needed to recognize trauma, to make courageous, caring space for the naming of wounds, and to create the possibility of healing and moving forward despite all the uncertainty. Divine justice forgives us our debts, and when we are not yet ready, also forgives our debtors. Divine justice restores us.



So much has been lost because of this pandemic: millions of lives and livelihoods, what used to constitute “normalcy”, a sense of security and predictability, frequent feelings of belonging and connectedness, what some might call inner peace. Make no mistake, all of us have been traumatized in some way which reawakens earlier trauma in our lives, just as any loss reminds us of previous ones.

Like the story of Job, it’s tempting to reach back to what was, double its worth, and call that restoration. As most of us know, living through deep loss is hard work. The Church is changing from something we knew like an old friend into something as yet unknown. This world is beautiful and violent, comforting and cruel, and though we don’t know what the Church of the future will look like, we will always need communities of care and justice. We can no longer rely on a model in which a small group of people ensures there is Church for everyone else. If there is going to be Church for everyone, everyone will need to take the time they need to grieve and to heal.



Do we have energy enough to not rush to solutions but sit with the questions and be community for each other? Can we make courageous, caring space in which we listen rather than fix, be curious rather than judge, and be present to each other? Rather than search for silver linings, can we simply acknowledge that we are tired and we need restorative practices and each other? For this too is the holy work of God and God’s people. Amen.

Benediction – enfleshed.com


Go forth not with easy answers for suffering,
nor trite explanations for pain, but in consolation —
that here on this Earth, we have each other.
Though our heartbreak may be unique,
we are not alone in heartbrokenness.
Though we cannot fix the sorrow of another,
we can share what we have as we are able —
our presence, our resources, and our determined compassion.
Let us go with God who goes with us.