Study Desk

"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?

"Confront me with the truth and I'll shut up, show me where I've gone off the track. Honest words never hurt anyone, but what's the point of all this pious bluster? You pretend to tell me what's wrong with my life, but treat my words of anguish as so much hot air. Are people mere things to you? Are friends just items of profit and loss?

"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 bedclothes 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.

"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.

"God and I are not equals; I can't bring a case against him. We'll never enter a courtroom as peers. How I wish we had an arbitrator to step in and let me get on with life— To break God's death grip on me, to free me from this terror so I could breathe again. Then I'd speak up and state my case boldly. As things stand, there is no way I can do it."

Job prayed: "Here's what I want to say: Don't, God, bring in a verdict of guilty without letting me know the charges you're bringing. How does this fit into what you once called ‘good'— giving me a hard time, spurning me, a life you shaped by your very own hands, and then blessing the plots of the wicked? You don't look at things the way we mortals do. You're not taken in by appearances, are you? Unlike us, you're not working against a deadline. You have all eternity to work things out. So what's this all about, anyway—this compulsion to dig up some dirt, to find some skeleton in my closet? You know good and well I'm not guilty. You also know no one can help me.

"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?"

"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.

"Yes, I've seen all this with my own eyes, heard and understood it with my very own ears. Everything you know, I know, so I'm not taking a backseat to any of you. I'm taking my case straight to God Almighty; I've had it with you—I'm going directly to God. You graffiti my life with lies. You're a bunch of pompous quacks! I wish you'd shut your mouths— silence is your only claim to wisdom.

"So hold your tongue while I have my say, then I'll take whatever I have coming to me. Why do I go out on a limb like this and take my life in my hands? Because even if he killed me, I'd keep on hoping. I'd defend my innocence to the very end. Just wait, this is going to work out for the best—my salvation! If I were guilt-stricken do you think I'd be doing this— laying myself on the line before God? You'd better pay attention to what I'm telling you, listen carefully with both ears. Now that I've laid out my defense, I'm sure that I'll be acquitted. Can anyone prove charges against me? I've said my piece. I rest my case.

"Please, God, I have two requests; grant them so I'll know I count with you: First, lay off the afflictions; the terror is too much for me. Second, address me directly so I can answer you, or let me speak and then you answer me. How many sins have been charged against me? Show me the list—how bad is it? Why do you stay hidden and silent? Why treat me like I'm your enemy? Why kick me around like an old tin can? Why beat a dead horse? You compile a long list of mean things about me, even hold me accountable for the sins of my youth. You hobble me so I can't move about. You watch every move I make, and brand me as a dangerous character.

"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.

"I've a thing or two to tell you, so listen up! I'm letting you in on my views; It's what wise men and women have always taught, holding nothing back from what they were taught By their parents, back in the days when they had this land all to themselves: Those who live by their own rules, not God's, can expect nothing but trouble, and the longer they live, the worse it gets. Every little sound terrifies them. Just when they think they have it made, disaster strikes. They despair of things ever getting better— they're on the list of people for whom things always turn out for the worst. They wander here and there, never knowing where the next meal is coming from— every day is doomsday! They live in constant terror, always with their backs up against the wall Because they insist on shaking their fists at God, defying God Almighty to his face, Always and ever at odds with God, always on the defensive.

"O God, pledge your support for me. Give it to me in writing, with your signature. You're the only one who can do it! These people are so useless! You know firsthand how stupid they can be. You wouldn't let them have the last word, would you? Those who betray their own friends leave a legacy of abuse to their children.

"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.

"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 smashed, 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 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!'"