I Know My Redeemer Lives

I've heard and read this verse quoted more times than I care to count, and I'm sure a fair number of those times attributed the quote to Job, uttered from the pit of his suffering in chapter 19. (Aside: I've been wondering if I could get through an entry on Job without using the word suffering, but it's obviously not going to be today. I'll try again tomorrow.) 

The over-emotional reactionary within all of us wants to cry out, "Yes! Job trusted in the Lord Jesus even when all hope was lost!" All the rational commentaries are quick to clarify that Job wasn't talking about his Redeemer redeemer, just someone to vindicate him, someone who would prove his innocence, or reclaim him from the ranks of the "told you so" files. But they still capitalize the word, don't they? So maybe it's a bit out of context to use that verse to talk about Jesus . . . but not so far gone that the scholars won't agree Job expected to get his long-awaited shout-out from the Lord Himself. The emotional and the rational both seem to agree that the Redeemer of verse 25 is the God of verse 26.

Another quick nonspiritual observation: it kinda cracks me up that the general attitude toward Job's rants, grumblings, and utterings is kind of "Hey, the dude was suffering. You would expect him to say a few things he didn't mean. He didn't understand, he was under duress." So when Job is talking about God treating him like an enemy, we look the other way. But when Job mentions the Redeemer and the idea of seeing him after he died, suddenly the theologians pounce on that bit of ancient poetry like it's the juiciest piece of doctrinal red meat since the word literal was first spoken into existence. I understand that this is the Word of God. And I know it's a significant couple of verses. But in the context from which Job expressed these thoughts, can we really expect systematic theology 101? Is there any need to dissect the finer points of this seemingly prophetic blurb with any more scrutiny than his observation eight verses earlier that his wife found his breath to be cause for suffering on its own?

Within the context of this book, Job's umpteenth response to his so-called friends' umpteenth critique, I'm not seeing a didactic theology dancing off Job's lips. What really puts a knot in my chest is Job's earnest statement of faith. Without a written Word in any form (that we know of) Job was longing for his own cries of pain and trust to be recorded for all time (they were). And although he had no chapter and verse to back him up, Job knew that no matter when or how he died, he believed that his Redeemer lived. He believed that he would meet him face to face, eye to eye, and that He would behold God Himself. He believed that God would . . . what? Vindicate him? Redeem him? Protect him? Does it really matter what the distinction was? The point I cling to is that Job believed God would, in the end, still be with Job as an advocate instead of an accuser.

I don't know if Job ever would have come up with that statement had he not gone through the trials recorded in this book. But I do know this: I can think of nothing better than to know I have a friend who will stick with me until the end. The fact that I can count on God Himself to be that friend . . . well, that just makes me want to break down and cry.

No One Mourns the Wicked

Bildad is probably my least favorite friend of Job's. If I ever lose everything, I'm definitely not inviting him to my pity party. His response to Job in chapter 18 is a tad strange in that he doesn't exactly call Job wicked . . . but he does go on and on about what happens to the wicked.

I'm not proud to say it (yes, I am; I am, I am, I am!) but I love the musical Wicked. I saw it in Chicago. I bought the soundtrack. I listen to it way too often. My personal Broadway issues aside, the opening song sets the theme for the story:

No one mourns the Wicked

No one cries, "They won't return!"

No one lays a lily on their grave.

The good man scorns the Wicked!

Through their lives, our children learn

what we miss, when we misbehave.

And Goodness knows

The Wicked's lives are lonely.

Goodness knows

the Wicked die alone.

It just shows when you're Wicked

you're left only . . . on your own.

Yes, Goodness knows

the Wicked's lives are lonely.

Goodness knows

the Wicked cry alone.

Nothing grows for the Wicked;

They reap only what they've sown.

. . .

And Goodness knows

we know what Goodness is.

Goodness knows

the Wicked die alone.

Woe to those

who spurn what Goodness they are shown.

No one mourns the Wicked.

That song doesn't quote Bildad at all, really, but the spirit of the lyrics is identical to this passage in Job. The idea is this: the easiest way to see the clear cut difference between the Good and the Wicked is to look how they wind up. The Wicked suffer supremely and die tragic deaths. The Good live in luxury, shaking their heads in disgust as they peer down on the ashes of the doomed.

One of the reasons I highly recommend Wicked is the heartfelt, thoughtful way it makes its point: that the ones we think are Wicked, the ones who are scorned and dismissed and tortured, are often quite good. And the Good who lord their so-called Goodness over all who revere them . . . those can be some of the Wickedest people in the land.

Bildad, as usual, was wrong. Sometimes, the Wicked prosper. A lot of times, the Good suffer. The one constant among mankind seems to be that we give far too much advice.

The Pit of Despair

Lashing out brings satisfaction at its fastest fleeting. Job went from frustration to desperate hope rather swiftly in chapter 16, but in chapter 17, despair set in pretty fast. He saved the most heartbreaking question for last, when he asked if hope would die and descend into the afterlife right along with him.

Excuse my French, but I've been quoted as saying, "Hope is a whore." She's always available to anyone who will have her. But how many times have you seen your dreams dashed and, as the clouds of reality dust settle back down to the ground on which you lay flat, watched hope saunter off into someone else's wistful delusions? Hope can be a breath of sweet, clean air or the tantalizing whiff of a menacing carrot. Hope is a ray of light one minute, a complete mirage the next. You can't spell hope without ho. The same is also true of . . .

However, hope . . . genuine, pure, unadulterated hope . . . is real and it is spectacular. I don't have a life verse, but I think this passage in Romans (5:1-5) is my favorite:

Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.

Now, I know the first half of that passage is oh so New Testament and therefore of very little intuitive help to Job. But not the second half. No, Paul was speaking very generally there about hope and suffering. Suffering makes you persevere! Perseverance builds character. And it is character, not weakness or foolishness or denial or simple brain-addled lunacy--no, it's character that produces hope. 

Hope isn't just the currency of desperate Cub fans (although it most definitely is that, I assure you). Hope is the stuff of weathered, emboldened, deeply scarred heroes who hold true to the only One who hasn't changed, the only One worth pursuing, the One who didn't turn away from Job despite his objections . . . the One who has suffered.

So yeah, today, Job suffered to the point of despair, and tomorrow he received no relief. And the answer to his question is, Yes. Hope would descend along with him to the gates of Sheol and right on through into the darkness. What Job didn't know was that even after death, Hope wouldn't let go of Job. And, with Job in tow, Hope would rise again.

Job Rules

Job is a little bit difficult to follow at times, but not in Chapter 16 when Job delivers one of the great verbal smackdowns of the patriarchal era. It boils down to, "Dude, you guys suck at counseling! If I were consoling one of you on the loss of your family, possessions, and health, I'd try the novel approach of actually trying to make you feel better!" 

And as I read along with Job's lament over all that he is suffering, his comment from earlier in the book comes back to me: "Will we accept the good from God and not also the bad?" Why is it that when something amazing happens, we credit God; but when something terrible happens, we don't link it to God at all. No, we say, "This is part of God's plan," in a way that really means, "God will come up with a way to make up for these bad things happening." But we don't attribute the badness to God any more than we would blame a doctor for our illness. 

The fact I'm not escaping, the fatal elephant roaming the room waiting to sit on us and kill us, is the fact that we all die. We die. There's a bad, nasty ending awaiting each and every one of us. God knows this. He knew it when He breathed life into Adam that Adam and everyone after him would lose that breath and return to the lifeless dirt. Yay! Do you have a problem with that?

It's not my favorite realization, but God has something better for us than the sheer joy and comfort of avoiding all suffering . . . Him.

Then comes what truly amazes me about Job. He points toward an advocate, arguing on his behalf at the throne of God, as a friend would argue. How did he know? How did he know that Jesus would be arguing the case of all His people?

I'd like to think God gave him that truth in the midst of his suffering, when none of his friends had a single word of comfort for him. I like that. I'm glad I've got more than an inkling. I've got the Bible . . . how can I ignore it so much?

Typical

I've come across rants like these in literature, in real life, and sometimes even coming out of my own mouth. It's the "Oh, now you've done it" diatribe people spout off when someone deliberately departs from the will of God as we have mapped it out in our minds. Eliphaz goes off on Job in chapter 15.

This is the stuff of keenly crafted false humility, unveiled in three key points: 1) Everyone is lower than God; 2) You are speaking against God and are therefore putting yourself above God; 3) Allow me (as someone who recognizes what being meek and lowly and humble is all about) to speak on God's behalf in the form of a spirited, finger-wagging rebuke.

It's the most beautifully backward theology known to man: It is impossible to be truly right before God, but if you were more like me, you would be.

What really stinks about Eliphaz's application (and that of so many of us modern-day prophets) is that Job's big sin was nothing more than thoughtful honesty. Rather than numbing his mind to the reality of his suffering, Job asked the questions and spewed the complaints his pain could no longer allow him to contain. And in that sense, Job was given a gift, albeit one with the crappiest wrapping job in the history of the world. 

God showed Job why he loved God. It wasn't, as Satan alleged, the luxury, the joy, and the thriving family he had enjoyed. It wasn't the health and prosperity and ease. No, all that stuff was merely the fringe excess of God's grace. Job's love was deeper than even he knew. When his relationship with God was stripped down naked, all he had was his suffering, his lousy friends, his unwelcome life, and the nagging assurance that he couldn't turn his back on God. Job learned that the pinnacle of human spirituality on earth (which, let's face it, Job had achieved) was still a humiliation under the gaze of a holy God.

And this so-called friend of Job was telling him to stop being a rebel, come back down to the land of the blissfully ignorant, and wait for everything to go back to normal. 

If it's comfort in anything but the love of God, rebel away, I say.

Until My Change Comes

I'm not saying it's impossible or impractical to study Job 12-14. You could break it down verse by verse, divide it into sections, key messages, and themes, and even compare the translation issues of some of the more problematic Hebrew phrases. I did those things in spots, but then I found myself just wanting to read this response by Job from beginning to end. It is, after all, poetry. 

And here in these three chapters, Job expresses some gems of the human struggle. He opens by waxing, "duh." He wonders about justice. He observes that the rest of nature knows what mankind can't admit. He has an out-of-body (or even out-of-universe) experience where he watches all of man's existence swirl about according to the conduction of God's will. He asks his friends to shut up and stop playing God's advocate. He once again approaches the throne of God, hoping for an answer. And he ponders his own death, hoping for something more.

This portion of Job, like Ecclesiastes, begs the question of what lies beyond the veil of death. Both Job and Solomon express a yearning, ignorant and uninformed, for something more meaningful than experience, something better than the now, something untouched by death. Solomon died without knowing what that was. But Job . . .

Look, we all know this story ends well for Job, and that's because he became a living picture of the resurrection. The heart of the book chronicles Job's deathly suffering,  but it ends with a brand new wonderful life. What a wonderful picture! Of course, it was also just a picture. He still died. And death is not cool.

That's the lesson Job learns and teaches in this book, one delivered powerfully in these three chapters. With death in the picture, life is programmed to degenerate into a big pile of stink. That's just the way it is. As wonderful as Job's life was, as faithful as he was, he probably never before came to terms with the fact that the closing curtain is putrid, unforgiving, and relentless. It may have been a great play, but the afterparty is gonna suck.

We have to long for something more. The man who had everything, the man who lost everything . . . they both agree that there simply must be something more. And the beauty that they are only now appreciating (hopefully) is that there most certainly is.

Zophar, Zo Bad

In a contest between Job and his friends, Zophar wins two awards: coolest name and worst advice. He is the guy that, upon hearing about your problems, immediately assumes that A) you messed up, B) you're lucky things aren't worse, and C) if you would just straighten yourself out, everything would be fine.

I'm turning away from Job the character (who received these precious pearls of Zopharian wisdom in Chapter 11) to focus on Zophar. I'm wondering if I'm ever that kind of friend. The guy who tries to over-apply my theology to people's lives. I think theology is awfully dangerous, because it is, in the first place, an oversimplification of an infinite being. When we turn our observations about God into rules He must follow, the logic tends to get real scary. (Example: God is good, all the time. Suffering is not good. Therefore, if you're suffering, you must have wandered away from God.)

When I encounter someone whose life experience challenges my beliefs about God, the immediate reaction is, without fail, to think of how he might be lying, what she could be hiding, what they haven't yet considered that would clearly point to how screwed up they are and how perfect my interpretation of Scripture is. And while I definitely don't condone the redefining of the Bible to accomodate the whims of every soul, I also hope to be ever open to the possibility that I'm dead wrong.