Study Desk

His sons used to take turns hosting parties in their homes, always inviting their three sisters to join them in their merrymaking. When the parties were over, Job would get up early in the morning and sacrifice a burnt offering for each of his children, thinking, "Maybe one of them sinned by defying God inwardly." Job made a habit of this sacrificial atonement, just in case they'd sinned.

"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.

"Why didn't I die at birth, my first breath out of the womb my last? Why were there arms to rock me, and breasts for me to drink from? I could be resting in peace right now, asleep forever, feeling no pain, In the company of kings and statesmen in their royal ruins, Or with princes resplendent in their gold and silver tombs. Why wasn't I stillborn and buried with all the babies who never saw light, Where the wicked no longer trouble anyone and bone-weary people get a long-deserved rest? Prisoners sleep undisturbed, never again to wake up to the bark of the guards. The small and the great are equals in that place, and slaves are free from their masters.

"Instead of bread I get groans for my supper, then leave the table and vomit my anguish. The worst of my fears has come true, what I've dreaded most has happened. My repose is shattered, my peace destroyed. No rest for me, ever—death has invaded life."

"Think! Has a truly innocent person ever ended up on the scrap heap? Do genuinely upright people ever lose out in the end? It's my observation that those who plow evil and sow trouble reap evil and trouble. One breath from God and they fall apart, one blast of his anger and there's nothing left of them. The mighty lion, king of the beasts, roars mightily, but when he's toothless he's useless— No teeth, no prey—and the cubs wander off to fend for themselves.

"‘How can mere mortals be more righteous than God? How can humans be purer than their Creator? Why, God doesn't even trust his own servants, doesn't even cheer his angels, So how much less these bodies composed of mud, fragile as moths? These bodies of ours are here today and gone tomorrow, and no one even notices—gone without a trace. When the tent stakes are ripped up, the tent collapses— we die and are never the wiser for having lived.'"

"Call for help, Job, if you think anyone will answer! To which of the holy angels will you turn? The hot temper of a fool eventually kills him, the jealous anger of a simpleton does her in. I've seen it myself—seen fools putting down roots, and then, suddenly, their houses are cursed. Their children out in the cold, abused and exploited, with no one to stick up for them. Hungry people off the street plunder their harvests, cleaning them out completely, taking thorns and all, insatiable for everything they have. Don't blame fate when things go wrong— trouble doesn't come from nowhere. It's human! Mortals are born and bred for trouble, as certainly as sparks fly upward.

"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.

"All I want is an answer to one prayer, a last request to be honored: Let God step on me—squash me like a bug, and be done with me for good. I'd at least have the satisfaction of not having blasphemed the Holy God, before being pressed past the limits. Where's the strength to keep my hopes up? What future do I have to keep me going? Do you think I have nerves of steel? Do you think I'm made of iron? Do you think I can pull myself up by my bootstraps? Why, I don't even have any boots!

"When desperate people give up on God Almighty, their friends, at least, should stick with them. But my brothers are fickle as a gulch in the desert— one day they're gushing with water From melting ice and snow cascading out of the mountains, But by midsummer they're dry, gullies baked dry in the sun. Travelers who spot them and go out of their way for a drink end up in a waterless gulch and die of thirst. Merchant caravans from Tema see them and expect water, tourists from Sheba hope for a cool drink. They arrive so confident—but what a disappointment! They get there, and their faces fall! And you, my so-called friends, are no better— there's nothing to you! One look at a hard scene and you shrink in fear. It's not as though I asked you for anything— I didn't ask you for one red cent— Nor did I beg you to go out on a limb for me. So why all this dodging and shuffling?

"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 puff 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.

"What are mortals anyway, that you bother with them, that you even give them the time of day? That you check up on them every morning, looking in on them to see how they're doing? Let up on me, will you? Can't you even let me spit in peace? Even suppose I'd sinned—how would that hurt you? You're responsible for every human being. Don't you have better things to do than pick on me? Why make a federal case out of me? Why don't you just forgive my sins and start me off with a clean slate? The way things are going, I'll soon be dead. You'll look high and low, but I won't be around."

"Put the question to our ancestors, study what they learned from their ancestors. For we're newcomers at this, with a lot to learn, and not too long to learn it. So why not let the ancients teach you, tell you what's what, instruct you in what they knew from experience? Can mighty pine trees grow tall without soil? Can luscious tomatoes flourish without water? Blossoming flowers look great before they're cut or picked, but without soil or water they wither more quickly than grass. That's what happens to all who forget God— all their hopes come to nothing. They hang their life from one thin thread, they hitch their fate to a spider web. One jiggle and the thread breaks, one jab and the web collapses. Or they're like weeds springing up in the sunshine, invading the garden, Spreading everywhere, overtaking the flowers, getting a foothold even in the rocks. But when the gardener rips them out by the roots, the garden doesn't miss them one bit. The sooner the godless are gone, the better; then good plants can grow in their place.

"So how could I ever argue with him, construct a defense that would influence God? Even though I'm innocent I could never prove it; I can only throw myself on the Judge's mercy. If I called on God and he himself answered me, then, and only then, would I believe that he'd heard me. As it is, he knocks me about from pillar to post, beating me up, black-and-blue, for no good reason. He won't even let me catch my breath, piles bitterness upon bitterness. If it's a question of who's stronger, he wins, hands down! If it's a question of justice, who'll serve him the subpoena? Even though innocent, anything I say incriminates me; blameless as I am, my defense just makes me sound worse.

"My time is short—what's left of my life races off too fast for me to even glimpse the good. My life is going fast, like a ship under full sail, like an eagle plummeting to its prey. Even if I say, ‘I'll put all this behind me, I'll look on the bright side and force a smile,' All these troubles would still be like grit in my gut since it's clear you're not going to let up. The verdict has already been handed down—‘Guilty!'— so what's the use of protests or appeals? Even if I scrub myself all over and wash myself with the strongest soap I can find, It wouldn't last—you'd push me into a pigpen, or worse, so nobody could stand me for the stink.

"But you never told me about this part. I should have known that there was more to it— That if I so much as missed a step, you'd notice and pounce, wouldn't let me get by with a thing. If I'm truly guilty, I'm doomed. But if I'm innocent, it's no better—I'm still doomed. My belly is full of bitterness. I'm up to my ears in a swamp of affliction. I try to make the best of it, try to brave it out, but you're too much for me, relentless, like a lion on the prowl. You line up fresh witnesses against me. You compound your anger and pile on the grief and pain!

"So why did you have me born? I wish no one had ever laid eyes on me! I wish I'd never lived—a stillborn, buried without ever having breathed. Isn't it time to call it quits on my life? Can't you let up, and let me smile just once Before I die and am buried, before I'm nailed into my coffin, sealed in the ground, And banished for good to the land of the dead, blind in the final dark?"

"Still, if you set your heart on God and reach out to him, If you scrub your hands of sin and refuse to entertain evil in your home, You'll be able to face the world unashamed and keep a firm grip on life, guiltless and fearless. You'll forget your troubles; they'll be like old, faded photographs. Your world will be washed in sunshine, every shadow dispersed by dayspring. Full of hope, you'll relax, confident again; you'll look around, sit back, and take it easy. Expansive, without a care in the world, you'll be hunted out by many for your blessing. But the wicked will see none of this. They're headed down a dead-end road with nothing to look forward to—nothing."

"I'm ridiculed by my friends: ‘So that's the man who had conversations with God!' Ridiculed without mercy: ‘Look at the man who never did wrong!' It's easy for the well-to-do to point their fingers in blame, for the well-fixed to pour scorn on the strugglers. Crooks reside safely in high-security houses, insolent blasphemers live in luxury; they've bought and paid for a god who'll protect them.