“Obliterate the day I was born. Blank out the night I was conceived! Let it be a black hole in space. May God above forget it ever happened. Erase it from the books! May the day of my birth be buried in deep darkness, shrouded by the fog, swallowed by the night. And the night of my conception—the devil take it! Rip the date off the calendar, delete it from the almanac. Oh, turn that night into pure nothingness— no sounds of pleasure from that night, ever! May those who are good at cursing curse that day. Unleash the sea beast, Leviathan, on it. May its morning stars turn to black cinders, waiting for a daylight that never comes, never once seeing the first light of dawn. And why? Because it released me from my mother’s womb into a life with so much trouble.

What a Blessing When God Corrects You!

“If I were in your shoes, I’d go straight to God, I’d throw myself on the mercy of God. After all, he’s famous for great and unexpected acts; there’s no end to his surprises. He gives rain, for instance, across the wide earth, sends water to irrigate the fields. He raises up the down-and-out, gives firm footing to those sinking in grief. He aborts the schemes of conniving crooks, so that none of their plots come to term. He catches the know-it-alls in their conspiracies— all that intricate intrigue swept out with the trash! Suddenly they’re disoriented, plunged into darkness; they can’t see to put one foot in front of the other. But the downtrodden are saved by God, saved from the murderous plots, saved from the iron fist. And so the poor continue to hope, while injustice is bound and gagged.

There’s Nothing to My Life

“Human life is a struggle, isn’t it? It’s a life sentence to hard labor. Like field hands longing for quitting time and working stiffs with nothing to hope for but payday, I’m given a life that meanders and goes nowhere— months of aimlessness, nights of misery! I go to bed and think, ‘How long till I can get up?’ I toss and turn as the night drags on—and I’m fed up! I’m covered with maggots and scabs. My skin gets scaly and hard, then oozes with pus. My days come and go swifter than the click of knitting needles, and then the yarn runs out—an unfinished life!

“God, don’t forget that I’m only a wisp of air! These eyes have had their last look at goodness. And your eyes have seen the last of me; even while you’re looking, there’ll be nothing left to look at. When a cloud evaporates, it’s gone for good; those who go to the grave never come back. They don’t return to visit their families; never again will friends drop in for coffee.

“And so I’m not keeping one bit of this quiet, I’m laying it all out on the table; my complaining to high heaven is bitter, but honest. Are you going to put a muzzle on me, the way you quiet the sea and still the storm? If I say, ‘I’m going to bed, then I’ll feel better. A little nap will lift my spirits,’ You come and so scare me with nightmares and frighten me with ghosts That I’d rather strangle in the sheets than face this kind of life any longer. I hate this life! Who needs any more of this? Let me alone! There’s nothing to my life—it’s nothing but smoke.

Bildad’s Response

Does God Mess Up?

Bildad from Shuhah was next to speak: “How can you keep on talking like this? You’re talking nonsense, and noisy nonsense at that. Does God mess up? Does God Almighty ever get things backward? It’s plain that your children sinned against him— otherwise, why would God have punished them? Here’s what you must do—and don’t put it off any longer: Get down on your knees before God Almighty. If you’re as innocent and upright as you say, it’s not too late—he’ll come running; he’ll set everything right again, reestablish your fortunes. Even though you’re not much right now, you’ll end up better than ever.

Job Continues

How Can Mere Mortals Get Right with God?

Job continued by saying: “So what’s new? I know all this. The question is, ‘How can mere mortals get right with God?’ If we wanted to bring our case before him, what chance would we have? Not one in a thousand! God’s wisdom is so deep, God’s power so immense, who could take him on and come out in one piece? He moves mountains before they know what’s happened, flips them on their heads on a whim. He gives the earth a good shaking up, rocks it down to its very foundations. He tells the sun, ‘Don’t shine,’ and it doesn’t; he pulls the blinds on the stars. All by himself he stretches out the heavens and strides on the waves of the sea. He designed the Big Dipper and Orion, the Pleiades and Alpha Centauri. We’ll never comprehend all the great things he does; his miracle-surprises can’t be counted. Somehow, though he moves right in front of me, I don’t see him; quietly but surely he’s active, and I miss it. If he steals you blind, who can stop him? Who’s going to say, ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ God doesn’t hold back on his anger; even dragon-bred monsters cringe before him.

If We Die, Will We Live Again?

“We’re all adrift in the same boat: too few days, too many troubles. We spring up like wildflowers in the desert and then wilt, transient as the shadow of a cloud. Do you occupy your time with such fragile wisps? Why even bother hauling me into court? There’s nothing much to us to start with; how do you expect us to amount to anything? Mortals have a limited life span. You’ve already decided how long we’ll live— you set the boundary and no one can cross it. So why not give us a break? Ease up! Even ditchdiggers get occasional days off. For a tree there is always hope. Chop it down and it still has a chance— its roots can put out fresh sprouts. Even if its roots are old and gnarled, its stump long dormant, At the first whiff of water it comes to life, buds and grows like a sapling. But men and women? They die and stay dead. They breathe their last, and that’s it. Like lakes and rivers that have dried up, parched reminders of what once was, So mortals lie down and never get up, never wake up again—never. Why don’t you just bury me alive, get me out of the way until your anger cools? But don’t leave me there! Set a date when you’ll see me again. If we humans die, will we live again? That’s my question. All through these difficult days I keep hoping, waiting for the final change—for resurrection! Homesick with longing for the creature you made, you’ll call—and I’ll answer! You’ll watch over every step I take, but you won’t keep track of my missteps. My sins will be stuffed in a sack and thrown into the sea—sunk in deep ocean.

Eliphaz Attacks Again

You Trivialize Religion

Eliphaz of Teman spoke a second time: “If you were truly wise, would you sound so much like a windbag, belching hot air? Would you talk nonsense in the middle of a serious argument, babbling baloney? Look at you! You trivialize religion, turn spiritual conversation into empty gossip. It’s your sin that taught you to talk this way. You chose an education in fraud. Your own words have exposed your guilt. It’s nothing I’ve said—you’ve incriminated yourself! Do you think you’re the first person to have to deal with these things? Have you been around as long as the hills? Were you listening in when God planned all this? Do you think you’re the only one who knows anything? What do you know that we don’t know? What insights do you have that we’ve missed? Gray beards and white hair back us up— old folks who’ve been around a lot longer than you. Are God’s promises not enough for you, spoken so gently and tenderly? Why do you let your emotions take over, lashing out and spitting fire, Pitting your whole being against God by letting words like this come out of your mouth? Do you think it’s possible for any mere mortal to be sinless in God’s sight, for anyone born of a human mother to get it all together? Why, God can’t even trust his holy angels. He sees the flaws in the very heavens themselves, So how much less we humans, smelly and foul, who lap up evil like water?

“Maybe you’d all like to start over, to try it again, the bunch of you. So far I haven’t come across one scrap of wisdom in anything you’ve said. My life’s about over. All my plans are shattered, all my hopes are snuffed out— My hope that night would turn into day, my hope that dawn was about to break. If all I have to look forward to is a home in the graveyard, if my only hope for comfort is a well-built coffin, If a family reunion means going six feet under, and the only family that shows up is worms, Do you call that hope? Who on earth could find any hope in that? No. If hope and I are to be buried together, I suppose you’ll all come to the double funeral!”

“Here’s the rule: The light of the wicked is put out. Their flame dies down and is extinguished. Their house goes dark— every lamp in the place goes out. Their strong strides weaken, falter; they stumble into their own traps. They get all tangled up in their own red tape, Their feet are grabbed and caught, their necks in a noose. They trip on ropes they’ve hidden, and fall into pits they’ve dug themselves. Terrors come at them from all sides. They run dazed and confused. The hungry grave is ready to gobble them up for supper, To lay them out for a gourmet meal, a treat for ravenous Death. They are snatched from their home sweet home and marched straight to the death house. Their lives go up in smoke; acid rain soaks their ruins. Their roots rot and their branches wither. They’ll never again be remembered— nameless in unmarked graves. They are plunged from light into darkness, banished from the world. And they leave empty-handed—not one single child— nothing to show for their life on this earth. Westerners are aghast at their fate, easterners are horrified: ‘Oh no! So this is what happens to perverse people. This is how the God-ignorant end up!’”

I Know That God Lives

“God alienated my family from me; everyone who knows me avoids me. My relatives and friends have all left; houseguests forget I ever existed. The servant girls treat me like a deadbeat off the street, look at me like they’ve never seen me before. I call my attendant and he ignores me, ignores me even though I plead with him. My wife can’t stand to be around me anymore. I’m repulsive to my family. Even street urchins despise me; when I come out, they taunt and jeer. Everyone I’ve ever been close to abhors me; my dearest loved ones reject me. I’m nothing but a bag of bones; my life hangs by a thread.

“Oh, friends, dear friends, take pity on me. God has come down hard on me! Do you have to be hard on me, too? Don’t you ever tire of abusing me?

“But now I’m the one they’re after, mistreating me, taunting and mocking. They abhor me, they abuse me. How dare those scoundrels—they spit in my face! Now that God has undone me and left me in a heap, they hold nothing back. Anything goes. They come at me from my blind side, trip me up, then jump on me while I’m down. They throw every kind of obstacle in my path, determined to ruin me— and no one lifts a finger to help me! They violate my broken body, trample through the rubble of my ruined life. Terrors assault me— my dignity in shreds, salvation up in smoke.

Elihu Speaks

God’s Spirit Makes Wisdom Possible

Job’s three friends now fell silent. They were talked out, stymied because Job wouldn’t budge an inch—wouldn’t admit to an ounce of guilt. Then Elihu lost his temper. (Elihu was the son of Barakel the Buzite from the clan of Ram.) He blazed out in anger against Job for pitting his righteousness against God’s. He was also angry with the three friends because they had neither come up with an answer nor proved Job wrong. Elihu had waited with Job while they spoke because they were all older than he. But when he saw that the three other men had exhausted their arguments, he exploded with pent-up anger.

“But even then an angel could come, a champion—there are thousands of them!— to take up your cause, A messenger who would mercifully intervene, canceling the death sentence with the words: ‘I’ve come up with the ransom!’ Before you know it, you’re healed, the very picture of health!

“He snorts and the world lights up with fire, he blinks and the dawn breaks. Comets pour out of his mouth, fireworks arc and branch. Smoke erupts from his nostrils like steam from a boiling pot. He blows and fires blaze; flames of fire stream from his mouth. All muscle he is—sheer and seamless muscle. To meet him is to dance with death. Sinewy and lithe, there’s not a soft spot in his entire body— As tough inside as out, rock-hard, invulnerable. Even angels run for cover when he surfaces, cowering before his tail-thrashing turbulence. Javelins bounce harmlessly off his hide, harpoons ricochet wildly. Iron bars are so much straw to him, bronze weapons beneath notice. Arrows don’t even make him blink; bullets make no more impression than raindrops. A battle ax is nothing but a splinter of kindling; he treats a brandished harpoon as a joke. His belly is armor-plated, inexorable— unstoppable as a barge. He roils deep ocean the way you’d boil water, he whips the sea like you’d whip an egg into batter. With a luminous trail stretching out behind him, you might think Ocean had grown a gray beard! There’s nothing on this earth quite like him, not an ounce of fear in that creature! He surveys all the high and mighty— king of the ocean, king of the deep!”