Again there was a day when the sons of God came to
present themselves before the Lord, and the Adversary came also among them to
present himself before the Lord. The Lord said to the Adversary, “From where do
you come?”
And the Adversary answered the Lord, saying, “From
roaming on the earth, and from walking up and down on it.”
The Lord said to the Adversary, “Have you considered
My servant Job, that there is none like him on the earth, a blameless and an
upright man, who fears God and avoids evil? He still holds fast his integrity,
although you moved Me against him, to destroy him without cause.”
The Adversary answered the Lord, saying, “Skin for
skin; yes, all that a man has he will give for his life. Put forth Your hand
now and touch his bone and his flesh, and he will curse You to Your face.”
The Lord said to the Adversary, “Very well, he is in
your hand, but spare his life.”
Therefore, the Adversary went out from the presence of
the Lord, and he afflicted Job with severe sores from the sole of his foot to
the top of his head. 8 So he took a piece of broken pottery with which to
scrape himself while he was sitting among the ashes.
His wife said to him, “Are you still maintaining your
integrity? Curse God and die.”
He said to her, “You talk like one of the foolish
women talks. Will we indeed accept the good from God but not accept the
adversity?”
In all this Job did not sin with his lips.
Three friends of Job heard about all this evil that
had come upon him, and each one came from his own place: Eliphaz the Temanite,
Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite. They had agreed together to come
to mourn with him and to comfort him. They saw him from a distance and did not
recognize him, so they wept aloud. Each one tore his robe, and they tossed dust
into the air above their heads. Then they sat down with him on the ground seven
days and seven nights. Meanwhile, no one was speaking to him at all because
they saw that his pain was severe.
Job 2:1-13 Modern English Version (MEV)
We find the following in the Expositor’s Bible Commentary:
THE
DILEMMA OF FAITH
As the
drama proceeds to unfold the conflict between Divine grace in the human soul
and those chaotic influences which hold the mind in doubt or drag it back into
denial, Job becomes a type of the righteous sufferer, the servant of God in the
hot furnace of affliction. All true poetry runs thus into the typical. The
interest of the movement depends on the representative character of the life,
passionate in jealousy, indignation, grief, or ambition, pressing on exultantly
to unheard of success, borne down into the deepest circles of woe. Here it is
not simply a man’s constancy that has to be established, but God’s truth
against the Adversary’s lie; the "everlasting yea" against the
negations that make all life and virtue seem the mere blossoming of dust. Job
has to pass through profoundest trouble, that the drama may exhaust the
possibilities of doubt, and lead the faith of man towards liberty.
Yet the
typical is based on the real; and the conflict here described has gone on first
in the experience of the author. Not from the outside, but from his own life
has he painted the sorrows and struggles of a soul urged to the brink of that
precipice beyond which lies the blank darkness of the abyss. There are men in
whom the sorrows of a whole people and of a whole age seem to concentrate. They
suffer with their fellow men that all may find a way of hope. Not
unconsciously, but with the most vivid sense of duty, a Divine necessity
brought to their door, they must undergo all the anguish and hew a track
through the dense forest to the light beyond. Such a man in his age was the
writer of this book. And when he now proceeds to the second stage of Job’s affliction
every touch appears to show that, not merely in imagination, but substantially
he endured the trials which he paints. It is his passion that strives and
cries, his sorrowful soul that longs for death. Imaginary, is this work of his?
Nothing so true, vehement, earnest, can be imaginary. "Sublime
sorrow," says Carlyle, "sublime reconciliation; oldest choral melody
as of the heart of mankind." But it shows more than "the seeing eye
and the mildly understanding heart." It reveals the spirit battling with
terrible enemies, doubts that spring out of the darkness of error, brood of the
primaeval chaos. The man was one who "in this wild element of a life had
to struggle onwards; now fallen, deep abased; and ever with tears, repentance,
with bleeding heart, rise again, struggle again, still onwards." Not to
this writer, any more than to the author of "Sartor Resartus,"
did anything come in his dreams.
A second
scene in heaven is presented to our view. The Satan appears as before with the
"sons of the Elohim," is asked by the Most High whence he has come,
and replies in the language previously used. Again he has been abroad amongst
men in his restless search for evil. The challenge of God to the Adversary
regarding Job is also repeated; but now it has an addition: "Still he
holdeth fast his integrity, although thou movedst me against him, to destroy
him without cause." The expression "although thou movedst me against
him" is startling. Is it an admission after all that the Almighty can be
moved by any consideration less than pure right, or to act in any way to the
disadvantage or hurt of His servant? Such an interpretation would exclude the
idea of supreme power, wisdom, and righteousness which unquestionably governs
the book from first to last. The words really imply a charge against the
Adversary of malicious untruth. The saying of the Almighty is ironical, as
Schultens points out: "Although thou, forsooth, didst incite Me against
him." He who flings sharp javelins of detraction is pierced with a sharper
javelin of judgment. Yet he goes on with his attempt to ruin Job, and prove his
own penetration the keenest in the universe.
And now
he pleads that it is the way of men to care more for themselves, their own
health and comfort, than for anything else. Bereavement and poverty may be like
arrows that glance off from polished armour. Let disease and bodily pain attack
himself, and a man will show what is really in his heart. "Skin for skin,
yea, all that a man hath will he give for himself. But put forth Thine hand
now, and touch his bone and his flesh, and he will renounce Thee openly."
The
proverb put into Satan’s mouth carries a plain enough meaning, and yet is not
literally easy to interpret. The sense will be clear if we translate it
"Hide for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he give for himself."
The hide of an animal, lion or sheep, which a man wears for clothing will be
given up to save his own body. A valued article of property often, it will be
promptly renounced when life is in danger; the man will flee away naked. In
like manner all possessions will be abandoned to keep one’s self unharmed. True
enough in a sense, true enough to be used as a proverb, for proverbs often
express a generalisation of the earthly prudence not, of the higher ideal, the
saying, nevertheless, is in Satan’s use of it a lie-that is, if he includes the
children when he says, "all that a man hath will he give for
himself." Job would have died for his children. Many a father and mother,
with far less pride in their children than Job had in his, would die for them.
Possessions indeed, mere worldly gear, find their real value or worthlessness
when weighed against life, and human love has Divine depths which a sneering
devil cannot see. The portraiture of soulless human beings is one of the recent
experiments in fictitious literature, and it may have some justification; when
the design is to show the dreadful issue of unmitigated selfishness, a
distinctly moral purpose. If, on the other hand, "art for art’s sake"
is the plea, and the writer’s skill in painting the vacant ribs of death is
used with a sinister reflection on human nature as a whole, the approach to
Satan’s temper marks the degradation of literature. Christian faith clings to
the hope that Divine grace may create a soul in the ghastly skeleton. The
Adversary gloats over the lifeless picture of his own imagining and affirms
that man can never be animated by the love of God. The problem which the Satan
of Job long ago presented haunts the mind of our age. It is one of those
ominous symptoms that point to times of trial in which the experience of humanity
may resemble the typical affliction and desperate struggle of the man of Uz.
A grim
possibility of truth lies in the taunt of Satan that, if Job’s flesh and bone
are touched, he will renounce God openly. The test of sore disease is more
trying than loss of wealth at least. And, besides, bodily affliction, added to
the rest, will carry Job into yet another region of vital experience. Therefore
it is the will of God to send it. Again Satan is the instrument, and the
permission is given, "Behold, he is in thine hand: only save his
life-imperil not his life." Here, as before, when causes are to be brought
into operation that are obscure and may appear to involve harshness, the
Adversary is the intermediary agent. On the face of the drama a certain formal
deference is paid to the opinion that God cannot inflict pain on those whom He
loves. But for a short time only is the responsibility, so to speak, of
afflicting Job partly removed from the Almighty to Satan. At this point the
Adversary disappears; and henceforth God is acknowledged to have sent the
disease as well as all the other afflictions to His servant. It is only in a
poetic sense that Satan is represented as wielding natural forces and sowing
the seeds of disease; the writer has no theory and needs no theory of malignant
activity. He knows that "all is of God."
Time has
passed sufficient for the realisation by Job of his poverty and bereavement.
The sense of desolation has settled on his soul as morning after morning
dawned, week after week went by, emptied of the loving voices he used to hear,
and the delightful and honourable tasks that used to engage him. In sympathy
with the exhausted mind, the body has become languid, and the change from
sufficiency of the best food to something like starvation gives the germs of
disease an easy hold. He is stricken with elephantiasis, one of the most
terrible forms of leprosy, a tedious malady attended with intolerable
irritation and loathsome ulcers. The disfigured face, the blackened body, soon
reveal the nature of the infection; and he is forthwith carried out according to
the invariable custom and laid on the heap of refuse, chiefly burnt litter,
which has accumulated near his dwelling. In Arab villages this mezbele
is often a mound of considerable size, where, if any breath of wind is blowing,
the full benefit of its coolness can be enjoyed. It is the common playground of
the children, "and there the outcast, who has been stricken with some
loathsome malady, and is not allowed to enter the dwellings of men, lays
himself down, begging alms of the passers by, by day, and by night sheltering
himself among the ashes which the heat of the sun has warmed." At the
beginning Job was seen in the full stateliness of Oriental life: now the
contrasting misery of it appears, the abjectness into which it may rapidly
fall. Without proper medical skill or appliances, the houses no way adapted for
a case of disease like Job’s, the wealthiest pass like the poorest into what
appears the nadir of existence. Now at length the trial of faithfulness is in
the way of being perfected. If the helplessness, the torment of disease, the
misery of this abject state do not move his mind from its trust in God, he will
indeed be a bulwark of religion against the atheism of the world.
But in
what form does the question of Job’s continued fidelity present itself now to
the mind of the writer? Singularly, as a question regarding his integrity. From
the general wreck one life has been spared, that of Job’s wife. To her it
appears that the wrath of the Almighty has been launched against her husband,
and all that prevents him from finding refuge in death from the horrors of
lingering disease is his integrity. If he maintains the pious resignation he
showed under the first afflictions and during the early stages of his malady,
he will have to suffer on. But it will be better to die at once.
"Why," she asks, "dost thou still hold fast thine integrity?
Renounce God, and die." It is a different note from that which runs through
the controversy between Job and his friends. Always on his integrity he takes
his stand; against his right to affirm it they direct their arguments. They do
not insist on the duty of a man under all circumstances to believe in God and
submit to His will. Their sole concern is to prove that Job has not been
sincere and faithful and deserving of acceptance before God. But his wife knows
him to have been righteous and pious; and that, she thinks, will serve him no
longer. Let him abandon his integrity; renounce God. On two sides the sufferer
is plied. But he does not waver. Between the two he stands, a man who has
integrity and will keep it till he die.
The
accusations of Satan, turning on the question whether Job was sincere in
religion or one who served God for what he got, prepare us to understand why
his integrity is made the hinge of the debate. To Job his upright obedience was
the heart of his life, and it alone made his indefeasible claim on God. But
faith, not obedience, is the only real claim a man can advance. And the
connection is to be found in this way. As a man perfect and upright, who feared
God and eschewed evil, Job enjoyed the approval of his conscience and the sense
of Divine favour. His life had been rooted in the steady assurance that the
Almighty was his friend. He had walked in freedom and joy, cared for by the
providence of the Eternal, guarded by His love, his soul at peace with that
Divine Lawgiver whose will he did. His faith rested like an arch on two
piers-one, his own righteousness which God had inspired; the other, the
righteousness of God which his own reflected. If it were proved that he had not
been righteous, his belief that God had been guarding him, teaching him,
filling his soul with light, would break under him like a withered branch. If
he had not been righteous indeed, he could not know what righteousness is, he
could not know whether God is righteous or not, he could not know God nor trust
in Him. The experience of the past was, in this case, a delusion. He had
nothing to rest upon, no faith. On the other hand, if those afflictions, coming
why he could not tell, proved God to be capricious, unjust, all would equally
be lost. The dilemma was that holding to the belief in his own integrity, he
seemed to be driven to doubt God; but if he believed God to be righteous he
seemed to be driven to doubt his own integrity. Either was fatal. He was in a
narrow strait between two rocks, on one or other of which faith was like to be
shattered.
But his
integrity was clear to him. That stood within the region of his own
consciousness. He knew that God had made him of dutiful heart and given him a
constant will to be obedient. Only while he believed this could he keep hold of
his life. As the one treasure saved out of the wreck, when possessions,
children, health were gone, to cherish his integrity was the last duty.
Renounce his conscience of goodwill and faithfulness? It was the one fact
bridging the gulf of disaster, the safeguard against despair. And is this not a
true presentation of the ultimate inquiry regarding faith? If the justice we
know is not an adumbration of Divine justice, if the righteousness we do is not
taught us by God, of the same kind as His, if loving justice and doing righteousness
we are not showing faith in God, if renouncing all for the right, clinging to
it though the heavens should fall, we are not in touch with the Highest, then
there is no basis for faith, no link between our human life and the Eternal.
All must go if these deep principles of morality and religion are not to be
trusted. What a man knows of the just and good by clinging to it, suffering for
it, rejoicing in it, is indeed the anchor that keeps him from being swept into
the waste of waters.
The
woman’s part in the controversy is still to be considered; and it is but
faintly indicated. Upon the Arab soul there lay no sense of woman’s life. Her
view of providence or of religion was never asked. The writer probably means
here that Job’s wife would naturally, as a woman, complicate the sum of his
troubles. She expresses ill-considered resentment against his piety. To her he
is "righteous over much," and her counsel is that of despair.
"Was this all that the Great God whom he trusted could do for him?"
Better bid farewell to such a God. She can do nothing to relieve the dreadful
torment and can see but the one possible end. But it is God who is keeping her
husband alive, and one word would be enough to set him free. Her language is
strangely illogical, meant indeed to be so, -a woman’s desperate talk. She does
not see that, though Job renounced God, he might yet live on, in greater misery
than ever, just because he would then have no spiritual stay.
Well,
some have spoken very strongly about Job’s wife. She has been called a helper
of the Devil, an organ of Satan, an infernal fury. Chrysostom thinks that the
Enemy left her alive because he deemed her a fit scourge to Job by which to
plague him more acutely than by any other. Ewald, with more point, says:
"Nothing can be more scornful than her words which mean, ‘Thou, who under
all the undeserved sufferings which have been inflicted on thee by thy God,
hast been faithful to Him even in fatal sickness, as if He would help or
desired to help thee who art beyond help, - to thee, fool, I say, Bid God
farewell, and die!"’ There can be no doubt that she appears as the
temptress of her husband, putting into speech the atheistic doubt which the
Adversary could not directly suggest. And the case is all the worse for Job
that affection and sympathy are beneath her words. Brave and true life appears
to her to profit nothing if it has to be spent in pain and desolation. She does
not seem to speak so much in scorn as in the bitterness of her soul. She is no
infernal fury, but one whose love, genuine enough, does not enter into the
fellowship of his sufferings. It was necessary to Job’s trial that the
temptation should be presented, and the ignorant affection of the woman serves
the needful purpose. She speaks not knowing what she says, not knowing that her
words pierce like sharp arrows into his very soul. As a figure in the drama she
has her place, helping to complete the round of trial.
The
answer of Job is one of the fine touches of the book. He does not denounce her
as an instrument of Satan nor dismiss her from his presence. In the midst of
his pain he is the great chief of Uz and the generous husband. "Thou
speakest," he mildly says, "as one of the foolish, that is, godless,
women speaketh." It is not like thee to say such things as these. And then
he adds the question born of sublime faith, "Shall we receive gladness at
the hand of God, and shall we not receive affliction?"
One might
declare this affirmation of faith so clear and decisive that the trial of Job
as a servant of God might well close with it. Earthly good, temporal joy,
abundance of possessions, children, health, -these he had received. Now in
poverty and desolation, his body wrecked by disease, he lies tormented and
helpless. Suffering of mind and physical affliction are his in almost
unexampled keenness, acute in themselves and by contrast with previous
felicity. His wife, too, instead of helping him to endure, urges him to
dishonour and death. Still he does not doubt that all is wisely ordered by God.
He puts aside, if indeed with a strenuous effort of the soul, that cruel
suggestion of despair, and affirms anew the faith which is supposed to bind him
to a life of torment. Should not this repel the accusations brought against the
religion of Job and of humanity? The author does not think so. He has only
prepared the way for his great discussion. But the stages of trial already
passed show how deep and vital is the problem that lies beyond. The faith which
has emerged so triumphantly is to be shaken as by the ruin of the world.
Strangely
and erroneously has a distinction been drawn between the previous afflictions
and the disease which, it is said, "opens or reveals greater depths in
Job’s reverent piety." One says: "In his former trial he blessed God
who took away the good He had added to naked man; this was strictly no evil:
now Job bows beneath God’s hand when he inflicts positive evil." Such
literalism in reading the words "shall we not receive evil?" implies
a gross slander on Job. If he had meant that the loss of health was "evil"
as contrasted with the loss of children, that from his point of view
bereavement was no "evil," then indeed he would have sinned against
love, and therefore against God. It is the whole course of his trial he is
reviewing. Shall we receive "good"-joy, prosperity, the love of
children, years of physical vigour, and shall we not receive pain-this burden
of loss, desolation, bodily torment? Herein Job sinned not with his lips.
Again, had he meant moral evil, something involving cruelty and unrighteousness,
he would have sinned indeed, his faith would have been destroyed by his own
false judgment of God. The words here must be interpreted in harmony with the
distinction already drawn between physical and mental suffering, which, as God
appoints them, have a good design, and moral evil, which can in no way have its
source in Him.
And now
the narrative passes into a new phase. As a chief of Uz, the greatest of the
Bene-Kedem, Job was known beyond the desert. As a man of wisdom and generosity
he had many friends. The tidings of his disasters and finally of his sore
malady are carried abroad; and after months, perhaps (for a journey across the
sandy waste needs preparation and time), three of those who know him best and
admire him most, "Job’s three friends," appear upon the scene. To
sympathise with him, to cheer and comfort him, they come with one accord, each
on his camel, not unattended, for the way is beset with dangers.
They are
men of mark all of them. The emeer of Uz has chiefs, no doubt, as his peculiar
friends, although the Septuagint colours too much in calling them kings. It is,
however, their piety, their likeness to himself, as men who fear and serve the
True God, that binds them to Job’s heart. They will contribute what they can of
counsel and wise suggestion to throw light on his trials and lift him into
hope. No arguments of unbelief or cowardice will be used by them, nor will they
propose that a stricken man should renounce God and die. Eliphaz is from Teman,
that centre of thought and culture where men worshipped the Most High and
meditated upon His providence. Shuach, the city of Bildad, can scarcely be
identified with the modern Shuwak, about two hundred and fifty miles southwest
from the Jauf near the, Red Sea, nor with the land of the Tsukhi of the
Assyrian inscriptions, lying on the Chaldaean frontier. It was probably a city,
now forgotten, in the Idumaean region. Maan, also near Petra, may be the Naamah
of Zophar. It is at least tempting to regard all the three as neighbours who
might without great difficulty communicate with each other and arrange a visit
to their common friend. From their meeting place at Teman or at Maan they
would, in that case, have to make a journey of some two hundred miles across
one of the most barren and dangerous deserts of Arabia, clear enough proof of
their esteem for Job and their deep sympathy. The fine idealism of the poem is
maintained in this new act. Men of knowledge and standing are these. They may
fail; they may take a false view of their friend and his state; but their
sincerity must not be doubted nor their rank as thinkers. Whether the three
represent ancient culture, or rather the conceptions of the writer’s own time,
is a question that may be variously answered. The book, however, is so full of
life, the life of earnest thought and keen thirst for truth, that the type of
religious belief found in all the three must have been familiar to the author.
These men are not, any more than Job himself, contemporaries of Ephron the
Hittite or the Balaam of Numbers. They stand out as religious thinkers of a far
later age, and represent the current Rabbinism of the post-Solomonic era. The
characters are filled in from a profound knowledge of man and man’s life. Yet
each of them, Temanite, Shuchite, Naamathite, is at bottom a Hebrew believer
striving to make his creed apply to a case not yet brought into his system, and
finally, when every suggestion is repelled, taking refuge in that hardness of
temper which is peculiarly Jewish. They are not men of straw, as some imagine,
but types of the culture and thought which led to Pharisaism. The writer argues
not so much with Edom as with his own people.
Approaching
Job’s dwelling the three friends look eagerly from their camels, and at length
perceive one prostrate, disfigured, lying on the mezbele, a miserable
wreck of manhood. "That is not our friend," they say to each other.
Again and yet again, "This is not he; this surely cannot be he." Yet
nowhere else than in the place of the forsaken do they find their noble friend.
The brave, bright chief they knew, so stately in his bearing, so abundant and
honourable, how has he fallen! They lift up their voices and weep; then, struck
into amazed silence, each with torn mantle and dust-sprinkled head, for seven
days and nights they sit beside him in grief unspeakable.
Real is
their sympathy; deep too, as deep as their character and sentiments admit. As
comforters they are proverbial in a bad sense. Yet one says truly, perhaps out
of bitter experience, "Who that knows what most modern consolation is can
prevent a prayer that Job’s comforters may be his? They do not call upon him
for an hour and invent excuses for the departure which they so anxiously await;
they do not write notes to him, and go about their business as if nothing had
happened; they do not inflict upon him meaningless commonplaces." It was
their misfortune, not altogether their fault, that they had mistaken notions
which they deemed it their duty to urge upon him. Job, disappointed by and by,
did not spare them, and we feel so much for him that we are apt to deny them
their due: Yet are we not bound to ask, What friend has had equal proof of our
sympathy? Depth of nature; sincerity of friendship; the will to console: let
those mock at Job’s comforters as wanting here who have travelled two hundred miles
over the burning sand to visit a man sunk in disaster, brought to poverty and
the gate of death, and sat with him seven days and nights in generous silence.
