For the past few years, I have slowly been making my way through Robert Alter’s translation (with commentary) of the Hebrew Bible, and it just so happened that I began the book of Job in mid-January. Job can be a difficult book for many reasons, but, somewhat surprisingly, I have found the Job poet’s words to be particularly relevant and meaningful as I journey through Lent this year. 

Kate Bowler recently published a book entitled The Lives We Actually Have, and this phrase pretty much sums up what Lent has come to signify to me. In the wilderness, one comes face-to-face with reality. No easy answers. No sugar-coating the difficult things. No miracle shortcuts. No escaping the ache of being human. 

During Lent, we are invited to look discomfort and complexity and injustice and confusion and suffering straight in the eye. When the tidy narratives we tend to superimpose onto our messy lives are disrupted (and they inevitably will be), I find Job to be a good companion. But more than that, I want to be an attentive companion to Job.

I witness his hard work and admire his spotless reputation as well as his extraordinary devotion to his family. And I also notice his wealth and status. I sense his desire to always do the right, the good, and the perfect thing. I observe his anxiety, even when everything seems just fine. I identify with his insistence on going the extra mile, just in case he or someone he loves inadvertently says or does the wrong thing. So much energy is spent (wasted?) making sure God is pleased with him. I delight in his abundance and how he shares it with so many. And I let his privilege and comfort unsettle me, too.

I ache at his compounded losses, too much for anyone to bear, and wonder at his dignity and steadfastness in it all. I ponder his adamant proclamation of innocence. Is it a bit too defensive? Or is it justified? I flinch at the cruel words that come from his wife, his friends, his neighbours, and his servants. I wonder if his loss of social status and respect is as painful as the sores on his back. I hope not. I hope he lets his reputation slide away easily.

I feel for him as he sits in anguish for seven days and nights, silent, surrounded by companions who have come to comfort him. I relive the shock of having these same friends change from allies to accusers. I echo his pleas to be heard, to be listened to, to be believed.

I share his disdain for cliches and platitudes; words previously claimed and proclaimed now sound hollow and cheap. I am amused by his sarcasm, his clever putdowns, and his witty way with words. I marvel at his extensive vocabulary and inventive metaphors. And I am slightly bothered by his apparent lack of humility and his harshness in speaking to long-time friends, misguided and obstinate as they may be.

I sigh with exasperation as the heated conversation between Job and his companions goes on and on with no apparent progress or change in anyone’s position or thinking. And I notice Job becoming more desperate in his sense of aloneness, clinging to the hope that he is not losing his mind along with everything else. 

I hear his bold, defiant, bitter prayers. I wince as he paints God as the villain, the thief, the hitman, the enemy. And I applaud his brazenness, his brutal honesty, his ability to hold nothing back. I, too, want to believe that God not only withstands but welcomes my rants and accusations. I am moved by Job’s ability to contend with an unintimidated and unintimidating God.

I cherish the intimacy of Job’s belligerent relationship with God. He gets up in God’s face and stays there. And God does not remain silent; God does not ignore the troubled and troublesome Job. God contends with Job just as Job has contended with God. And I find that both unsettling and comforting.

Recently, someone asked me about the protracted speeches offered by Job and his friends. They take up most of the book but seem superfluous to the story. What’s the point, they wondered? And I responded by saying that I think they are the point. Robert Alter suggests that “[t]he old folktale, then, about the suffering of the righteous Job is merely a pretext, a narrative excuse, and a pre-text, a way of introducing the text proper….”[1] The interactions are there so that we might see ourselves in them. 

Perhaps we are suffering, grieving, in need of comfort.

Perhaps we are comfortable. 

Perhaps we feel alone.

Perhaps we use platitudes and easy answers to alleviate our anxiety. 

Perhaps we are questioners.

Perhaps we find it hard to question our assumptions.

Perhaps we are afraid.

Perhaps we find it easier to judge people instead of trying to understand them.

Perhaps we need someone to listen to us, to believe us.

Perhaps we need to listen.

Perhaps we find it hard to acknowledge the messy, broken lives we actually have.

Perhaps finally being honest about our lives is a relief. 

Whatever our situation, we have a companion in Job. 

We are not alone.

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