Torn

The thing I like about the book of Hosea is the very thing I used to hate. In one verse-unmitigated disaster; in the next verse-unparalleled blessing. A pushing away. A drawing into passionate embrace. No literary signposts.

The reader suffers vertigo. The indifferent bail out somewhere toward the end of Chapter 1, where the first inexplicable emotional inversion takes place. There are divine divorce proceedings: "I will no longer have mercy. … I will not be your God" (1:6-9). Then, affronting our high school English sensibilities: "Yet the number of the children of Israel shall be as the sand of the sea … sons of the living God" (verse 10).

The narrative heaves and lists the whole journey through. No sooner the rhapsody to sands of the sea than this: "Bring charges against your mother" (2:1).

The substance of the grievance is disclosed piecemeal: There has been adultery (2:5). Seems like serial adultery and betrayal (2:13). There is deception, lies (4:1,2), ingratitude (8:4) treachery (10:4). The spurned Lover is full or wrath.

But then the counterpoint of brokenheartedness: "O Ephraim, what shall I do to you? Your faithfulness is like a morning cloud, and like the early dew it goes away" (6:4). "How can I give you up, Ephraim? ... My heart churns within me; my sympathy is stirred. I will not execute the fierceness of my anger …" (11:8).

How can the narrative behave, and yield the Lilliputian coherence we demand? Its paroxysms are the paroxysms of the author himself, who is torn between his justice and his great heart's love!

And that is why I'm now so glad about this most unruly book. It shows a God who longs for sinners-longs for me. My stumbles he hates, but my repentances he loves. The Almighty is torn, and his torn-ness is my only hope.