Study Desk

"God, you've made me the talk of the town— people spit in my face; I can hardly see from crying so much; I'm nothing but skin and bones. Decent people can't believe what they're seeing; the good-hearted wake up and insist I've given up on God.

"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 helter-skelter. 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!'"

"Look at me—I shout ‘Murder!' and I'm ignored; I call for help and no one bothers to stop. God threw a barricade across my path—I'm stymied; he turned out all the lights—I'm stuck in the dark. He destroyed my reputation, robbed me of all self-respect. He tore me apart piece by piece—I'm ruined! Then he yanked out hope by the roots. He's angry with me—oh, how he's angry! He treats me like his worst enemy. He has launched a major campaign against me, using every weapon he can think of, coming at me from all sides at once.

"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 bum 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?

"If only my words were written in a book— better yet, chiseled in stone! Still, I know that God lives—the One who gives me back my life— and eventually he'll take his stand on earth. And I'll see him—even though I get skinned alive!— see God myself, with my very own eyes. Oh, how I long for that day!

"They savor evil as a delicacy, roll it around on their tongues, Prolong the flavor, a dalliance in decadence— real gourmets of evil! But then they get stomach cramps, a bad case of food poisoning. They gag on all that rich food; God makes them vomit it up. They gorge on evil, make a diet of that poison— a deadly diet—and it kills them. No quiet picnics for them beside gentle streams with fresh-baked bread and cheese, and tall, cool drinks. They spit out their food half-chewed, unable to relax and enjoy anything they've worked for. And why? Because they exploited the poor, took what never belonged to them.

"Such God-denying people are never content with what they have or who they are; their greed drives them relentlessly. They plunder everything but they can't hold on to any of it. Just when they think they have it all, disaster strikes; they're served up a plate full of misery. When they've filled their bellies with that, God gives them a taste of his anger, and they get to chew on that for a while. As they run for their lives from one disaster, they run smack into another. They're knocked around from pillar to post, beaten to within an inch of their lives. They're trapped in a house of horrors, and see their loot disappear down a black hole. Their lives are a total loss— not a penny to their name, not so much as a bean. God will strip them of their sin-soaked clothes and hang their dirty laundry out for all to see. Life is a complete wipeout for them, nothing surviving God's wrath. There! That's God's blueprint for the wicked— what they have to look forward to."

"It's not you I'm complaining to—it's God. Is it any wonder I'm getting fed up with his silence? Take a good look at me. Aren't you appalled by what's happened? No! Don't say anything. I can do without your comments. When I look back, I go into shock, my body is racked with spasms. Why do the wicked have it so good, live to a ripe old age and get rich? They get to see their children succeed, get to watch and enjoy their grandchildren. Their homes are peaceful and free from fear; they never experience God's disciplining rod. Their bulls breed with great vigor and their cows calve without fail. They send their children out to play and watch them frolic like spring lambs. They make music with fiddles and flutes, have good times singing and dancing. They have a long life on easy street, and die painlessly in their sleep. They say to God, ‘Get lost! We've no interest in you or your ways. Why should we have dealings with God Almighty? What's there in it for us?' But they're wrong, dead wrong—they're not gods. It's beyond me how they can carry on like this!

"Still, how often does it happen that the wicked fail, or disaster strikes, or they get their just deserts? How often are they blown away by bad luck? Not very often. You might say, ‘God is saving up the punishment for their children.' I say, ‘Give it to them right now so they'll know what they've done!' They deserve to experience the effects of their evil, feel the full force of God's wrath firsthand. What do they care what happens to their families after they're safely tucked away in the grave?

"But who are we to tell God how to run his affairs? He's dealing with matters that are way over our heads. Some people die in the prime of life, with everything going for them— fat and sassy. Others die bitter and bereft, never getting a taste of happiness. They're laid out side by side in the cemetery, where the worms can't tell one from the other.

"You agree, don't you, that God is in charge? He runs the universe—just look at the stars! Yet you dare raise questions: ‘What does God know? From that distance and darkness, how can he judge? He roams the heavens wrapped in clouds, so how can he see us?'

"Are you going to persist in that tired old line that wicked men and women have always used? Where did it get them? They died young, flash floods sweeping them off to their doom. They told God, ‘Get lost! What good is God Almighty to us?' And yet it was God who gave them everything they had. It's beyond me how they can carry on like this!

"Give in to God, come to terms with him and everything will turn out just fine. Let him tell you what to do; take his words to heart. Come back to God Almighty and he'll rebuild your life. Clean house of everything evil. Relax your grip on your money and abandon your gold-plated luxury. God Almighty will be your treasure, more wealth than you can imagine.

"You'll take delight in God, the Mighty One, and look to him joyfully, boldly. You'll pray to him and he'll listen; he'll help you do what you've promised. You'll decide what you want and it will happen; your life will be bathed in light. To those who feel low you'll say, ‘Chin up! Be brave!' and God will save them. Yes, even the guilty will escape, escape through God's grace in your life."

"But he is singular and sovereign. Who can argue with him? He does what he wants, when he wants to. He'll complete in detail what he's decided about me, and whatever else he determines to do. Is it any wonder that I dread meeting him? Whenever I think about it, I get scared all over again. God makes my heart sink! God Almighty gives me the shudders! I'm completely in the dark, I can't see my hand in front of my face."

"But if Judgment Day isn't hidden from the Almighty, why are we kept in the dark? There are people out there getting by with murder— stealing and lying and cheating. They rip off the poor and exploit the unfortunate, Push the helpless into the ditch, bully the weak so that they fear for their lives. The poor, like stray dogs and cats, scavenge for food in back alleys. They sort through the garbage of the rich, eke out survival on handouts. Homeless, they shiver through cold nights on the street; they've no place to lay their heads. Exposed to the weather, wet and frozen, they huddle in makeshift shelters. Nursing mothers have their babies snatched from them; the infants of the poor are kidnapped and sold. They go about patched and threadbare; even the hard workers go hungry. No matter how backbreaking their labor, they can never make ends meet. People are dying right and left, groaning in torment. The wretched cry out for help and God does nothing, acts like nothing's wrong!

"They are scraps of wood floating on the water— useless, cursed junk, good for nothing. As surely as snow melts under the hot, summer sun, sinners disappear in the grave. The womb has forgotten them, worms have relished them— nothing that is evil lasts. Unscrupulous, they prey on those less fortunate. However much they strut and flex their muscles, there's nothing to them. They're hollow. They may have an illusion of security, but God has his eye on them. They may get their brief successes, but then it's over, nothing to show for it. Like yesterday's newspaper, they're used to wrap up the garbage. You're free to try to prove me a liar, but you won't be able to do it."

"All the buried dead are in torment, and all who've been drowned in the deep, deep sea. Hell is ripped open before God, graveyards dug up and exposed. He spreads the skies over unformed space, hangs the earth out in empty space. He pours water into cumulus cloud-bags and the bags don't burst. He makes the moon wax and wane, putting it through its phases. He draws the horizon out over the ocean, sets a boundary between light and darkness. Thunder crashes and rumbles in the skies. Listen! It's God raising his voice! By his power he stills sea storms, by his wisdom he tames sea monsters. With one breath he clears the sky, with one finger he crushes the sea serpent. And this is only the beginning, a mere whisper of his rule. Whatever would we do if he really raised his voice!"

Having waited for Zophar, Job now resumed his defense: "God-Alive! He's denied me justice! God Almighty! He's ruined my life! But for as long as I draw breath, and for as long as God breathes life into me, I refuse to say one word that isn't true. I refuse to confess to any charge that's false. There is no way I'll ever agree to your accusations. I'll not deny my integrity even if it costs me my life. I'm holding fast to my integrity and not loosening my grip— and, believe me, I'll never regret it.