Job the Patient

The Portrait of Job has been attributed to every date between the extremes of a thousand years — from the call of Abraham to the calling back of Judah’s bondage. My own opinion is that it dates from the Persian period I think that an artist of that day delineated the facts of a real historic tradition; but I believe that he used them to express an allegory. Job is to me not merely an individual; he is that and something more. He is the personification of the Jewish race in captivity. Through the personality of Job the artist aims to show that the afflictions of his people ought not to be attributed to any special sin, and

1 This chapter is an abstract of my Myrtle Lecture delivered in the Mitchell Hall, Aberdeen University, on December 15, Igol.

that the exile they have been doomed to bear may itself have been a part of their mission from the Highest. The fact that when the Portrait was being painted the national clouds were already beginning to be parted by streaks of sunshine, may have lent inspiration to the thought. I turn, however, from the critical to the human. I will view this not as the portrait of a nation, but as the portrait of a man, and I will only consider in it those qualities which belong to the individual heart; Judah has passed away, but Job abides.

There have been four typical notes of despair in the region of literature. The first and most intense is the voice of Omar Khayyam. It is despair absolute, despair of life all round, despair whose only relief is to drown itself in wine. The second is the Book of Ecclesiastes. I would call it despair of results. It does not deny that it is a pleasant thing to see the light of the sun; it does not dispute that there is a time to dance as well as a time to weep; but it asks, What is the good of it; does it not all end in vanity! The third is the cry of Pascal. It is despair of everything finite — finite reason, finite love, finite pleasure; the only possible joy is joy in God. The fourth is that dramatic portraiture which we call the Book of Job. I would describe it as the despair of old theories. It is the “ast despondent of the group. It does not say that the world is bad; it does not say that life is vanity; it does not even say that finite things cannot bring joy. What it does say is that all the past theories to explain the evils of the universe have been utterly powerless to account for these evils, that none of them is fit to sustain the weight of human woes, and that all of them put together are inadequate to wipe the tear from a single eye. The Book of Job is not strictly a pessimistic book. It does not despair of the universe — spite of all its sorrows! What it does despair of is the adequacy of any one of man’s existing theories, or of all these theories united, to furnish a solution of its sorrows. It does not deny that there may be summer somewhere beyond the sea; but it refuses to accept the doctrine that any of the previous swallows have ever touched the gilded shore.

Now, observe carefully why the Book of Job rejects old theories of the origin of pain. It is because it has found a newtheory. All the former ones had explained suffering as the result of defect in the creature. Here, the bold view is advanced that it had its origin in a need felt by the Creator — the Divine need for love. With startling originality, and for the first time in history, this book declares that the pains of earth were born in heaven, that they originated in the counsels beyond the veil. Let us stand before this Picture in the Great Gallery; it is one of the most striking, not only in all Scripture, but in all literature! It reveals in the foreground a day in heaven. It is a great day — a day of presentations. All quarters of the universe are represented. Each has sent up a deputy to stand before the throne of God. Looking round the vast assembly, the eye of the Almighty lights upon a strange figure; it is that of Satan. ‘Where do you come from,’ says the Almighty; ‘what part of

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the universe has made you its representative?’ Satan answers, ‘I represent the earth — the length of it, the breadth of it. ‘Not in its whole extent,’ says the Almighty; ‘there is a man called Job down in the land of Uz who loves Me fervently.’ ‘Oh!’ cries Satan, ‘nobody loves you for yourself — not even Job! You have made it worth while to serve you. You have given to those who obey you houses and brethren and lands. You have crowned them with glory and honour; you have promised them long life and prosperity. Take away from Job the dowry he gets for loving you — take away the rich possessions that have rewarded his fidelity, and he will curse you to your face!’

The Almighty accepts this criticism. Satan has put his hand upon a real weakness of the Hebrew race — its association of Divine love with temporal rewards. God tells Satan to go forth and create a set of new conditions — conditions unfavourable to Man’s love of the Divine. He bids him put this man Job under a testing probation — a probation in which he

Z will be denuded of every outward joy and made to experience the fact that a man may serve the Lord and get nothing in return. So Satan goes out from the presence of the Lord, and in the changing of Job’s environment he constructs a unique figure in the Old Testament Gallery — a figure which has the stamp of a distinctively new conception. Job is the only man of the Old Gallery whose mission is simply to bear. All the other men of the group are men of action. Enoch had the wreath of immortality; but Enoch’s life was a walk with God. Elijah had a chariot of fire; but Elijah was the prophet of fire. Noah rose above the floods of fortune; but Noah was an active shipbuilder. Abraham was highly blessed; but Abraham was the founder of a kingdom. Moses communed with God on the Mount as a man talks with his friend; but Moses was the maker of practical laws. All these were great by reason of their working. But this man Job comes upon the scene to do nothing — simply to bear. To the eye of the beholder it does not appear that the bearing has

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any practical purpose. He is not weighted, as Isaac was, with the cares of a household. He is weighted seemingly for the sake of nobody, but just with a view to his own pain. What we see is a process of divestiture — and the reason is known only to the spectator. He comes to be dismantled. One by one the beautiful robes are taken off, until every thread of former majesty is gone, until the king becomes a pauper and the millionaire a beggar for bread. Let us follow the process.

First the outermost robe is removed —

worldly wealth takes wings and vanishes away; the labour of the olive fails and the field supplies no meat. Job stands the test; his love for God wavers not. Then an inner robe is removed — the ties of home are broken by death. His had been a happy domestic circle — a circle of family reunions. They met at these reunions once a year in the rotation of each son’s birthday. We all know the increasing sadness of these gatherings — the sadness of hearing voices that are no longer there. Job had to bear this. Year by year the vacant chairs increased in prominence, and the touch of vanished hands became more frequent. Still he wavers not; no cry escapes his lips. Then a more inward robe still is taken — health breaks; bodily strength gives way. I call that a more inward privation, because it prevented him from recuperating. When a man’s heart goes down, it may rise again if his body keeps wp; but if his body falls too, the heart will zof rise. That is what I understand our Lord to mean when He says, ‘If the sa/¢ has lost its savour, wherewith shall zt be salted!’ — if the vital stream itself is low, what can restore joy! Still Job blanches not. Nocomplaint falls from him. His deepest sense is that of acquiescence in the Divine will, ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away: blessed be the name of the Lord!’

Then comes the removal of a fourth garment — human sympathy. Job’s friends visit him, and, in accordance with the Jewish view of suffering, they assume that he must be a special sinner. At first by gesture, and then by

words, they convey their impression that he has done something to deserve it. And now for the first time his great heart gives way. You have seen a cloud that has hovered overhead all the afternoon touched at last by a freezing vapour and burst forth in torrents. So is it with Job. He has borne up all through the day — borne poverty, bereavement, sickness; but, when the freezing vapour touches him, the fountains of the great deep are opened and the flood descends. He has endured calamity; but that his calamity should be made a sign of worthlessness is zoo much! The explosion is simply terrific; it sweeps all before it. Yet it is not illogical; there is a method in its gusts Ofe passion. Let me try to gather up the threads of argument which the blast carries on its bosom. Let me endeavour to paraphrase the spirit of these remarkable utterances in which Job expresses his indignation at the theory of his friends.

‘Tell me not, he cries, ‘that I have deserved it! Do not say that in any special sense I have incurred the displeasure of the Almighty!

I know I have sinned after the manner of

Adam’s race. How shall a man be just before God! — if called to the bar of judgment, could he answer for one, of a thousand, faults! But that is not what you mean. You want me to believe that I have been a sfeczal sinner, a sinner above the average. My life refutes the charge. Measured by the common standard, my record is pure. The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me, and I caused the heart of the widow to sing for joy. I was eyes to the blind and feet to the lame. When the poor heard, then they blessed me; when the eye saw, then it gave witness. I delivered the fatherless and the widow and him that had no helper. Mine integrity I will hold fast and never let it go; my heart will not reproach me as long as live. But suppose it were otherwise, suppose I were the deep-dyed sinner you picture, is this pain the way to convict me! If your God wishes me to feel my sin, why does He send me a physical suffering and physical weakness which make it impossible for me to feel anything at all! Why does He seal up my transgressions in a bag — where they cannot be seen! Why does He sew mine iniquities in sackcloth — where they cannot be felt! Why does He break me with a tempest if He wants me to, have a vivid consciousness of anything whatever! Does the sense of sin come from mutilation, from curtailment, from paralysis of the nerves! Does it not come from expansion, from exaltation, from increasing nearness to God! If I am to abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes, it must be, not in the hour of depression, but in the hour of revelation — the hour when I meet with God. I cannot accept your explanation of my great and grievous pain,’

But now, in the light of this outcry, the question arises, Why do we speak of Job’s patience? He has borne bravely three calamities — the three sent from God; why has he sunk before the one sent by Man? He has accepted penury, bereavement, sickness; why has he cried out at the mere suggestion that these are penalties; and why, in spite of

that vociferation, has his name been handed down as a synonym for patience! He has stood the hurricane and the tempest; but he has been made to cry out by the lashing of a single wave! Does not the fact of being fretted by so weak a foe deprive him of all right to be the representative of those who wait for God?

I answer, No; and I feel sure. that the answer will be echoed by the Great Gallery. I am convinced that, in the view of the artist, the patience of Job is never so conspicuous as in his outcry. Not in spite of, but by reason of, that outcry has he earned his right to a place among those who wait for God. Why did Job cry out? Was it not in the zzzerest of patience. Was it not patience that made him cry out. His friends wanted to vod him of his patience — to take away his power to wazt without a veason. Is not that just the definition of intellectual patience — the power to trust when there is no light, the ability to possess. ‘one’s. soul in ‘the absence sotemat explanation of that which afflicts it. Unless we grasp this thought, the personality of Job is meaningless — he is simply an impatient child. But if his impatience springs from the fact that his friends wish to rob him of his patience, if his outcry is caused by his desire to be allowed to wait for God, then, religiously and artistically, the whole Portrait is illuminated and the claim of Job to his traditional virtue receives triumphant vindication.

Now, the friends of Job are really in this position. They want to alter his attitude of patience. They say: ‘It is not enough for you to believe that it will be all right some day. You must be able to trace the cause of your calamity. You must be able to put your hand upon some dark deed of your past life, or’ — as Elihu puts it — ‘upon some unspoken principle of evil which has not yet issued in a deed, but which God sees in the silence of your soul,’ Put yourself in the place of Job under these circumstances. Imagine that you were passing through a season of bereavement. The light of your eyes has been extinguished, and you are sitting disconsolate in a silent room.

Suddenly a solemn bell rings; and, draped in black, there enter three figures — Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar. They take you by the hand and say: ‘My friend, God is dealing with you in chastisement. You have been too fond of the world. You have been living for the hour. You have been giving to earthly things the honour which is due to His name. Therefore He has spoken to you in His anger; He has withered your gourd. Humble yourself, and confess your sin!’ Would you not be disposed to answer: ‘Am I dound to take such a view! In a world where so much seems arbitrary, where for a time “the tabernacles of robbers prosper,’ where the good are often clothed in sackcloth and the wicked wear the purple robe, am I bound to believe that this is a chastisement to me! Will you not let me keep my patience! Will you not let me trust my God without a theory! Will you not let me believe that in some way unknown to me things are working together for good! Why do you deny me the privilege of the men who watt for God!’

Even such is the voice of Job. He utters a protest in favour of patience. He appeals from the God of his friends to his own God. He says, in the spirit of a Greater: ‘My Father! behold, Thou comest to me in clouds! Life has been overcast for me; the hosannahs are hushed, the palm-leaves are withered, the friends of summer days have made their flight in the winter. Men want me to ¢race Thee, “Prophesy unto us, thou Christ; who is he Elauesmotetncer mm Dut hl will? aoc s trace Thee, “The cup which my Father has given me to drink, shall I not drink it!” I accept in the darkness the burden Thou hast laid upon me; I take it unexplained. I come to Thee in the night — the unvindicated night. I come in the cold that has no explanation, in the snow that is not accounted for. I accept Thee in Thy mean attire, in Thine unattractive raiment, in Thy repulsive dress, I do not seek to comprehend Thee; I take Thee with Thy mystery. Though Thou slay me, yet will I trust in Thee, and believe that I keep Thy favour.’

But there is a second respect in which the patience of Job is vindicated by his outcry. Can there be any patience without a certain amount of inward outcry! If Job has ceased to ‘ pray for his friends ’ — in other words, if he has ceased to care what his friends think of him — where is there room for patience! Is it not just this presence of the inner outcry which distinguishes the patience of Christ from what St. John’s Gospel calls ‘the peace which the world gives’ — Stoicism. The Stoic says: ‘If you will only keep down your feelings, if you will only practise the restraining of the bird when it is about to fly, you will come in course of time to have zo emotions; you will be able to walk in the funeral cortége, fearless, tearless, passionless.’ Yes, and I would add, ‘ patienceless. For, what you have lost in this case is really patience. You have ceased to wazt for anything; you have given up the game. You see a man undergoing one of those little operations which flesh is heir to. He never winces. ‘What admirable nerve!’ you say. And yet, in reality, the calmness comes from

exactly the opposite cause. The nerve, so far from being admirable, is dead; the man has lost the necessity for patzence.

There is a question which must often have occurred to an inquiring mind. Why is it that we Christians, to whom the patience of Christ is a watchword and the surrender of His will a glory, are yet eager to select that part of His life in which the outcry is most loud and the struggle most apparent? Why do we make our pilgrimage in crowds to the Garden of Gethsemane? Why is to us the dearest spot, the most sacrificial spot, precisely that place where He poured forth His soul with strong crying and tears? We could understand why men who admire patience should repair to the scene of the death of Socrates; but it seems a strange thing that they should always take their journey to a place of human outcry like the Garden of Gethsemane!

But the answer, I think, is clear. We go to Gethsemane in the zuterest of patience. We feel that the outcry is the proof of the sacrifice. Socrates has become deadened in the nerve that gives pain; therefore he has no outcry.

But the outcry of Jesus proves that He has xoé lost His nerve, not lost His youth, not lost His love of human things. It is easy to be crucified by the world if you have ceased to love the world. It is easy to be crucified by your friends if your friends are looked upon by you as simply so many flies to be brushed aside and forgotten. But the glory of Gethsemane is that life is still beautiful to Jesus — that, with all its sins and sorrows, it still keeps to Him its pristine glow — that the colour has not gone out of the flower, nor the song of the bird become silent, nor the freshness vanished from the breezes. The world is yet worth living in — bright and beautiful with possibilities, fair with promise, radiant with hope. That is what makes it so hard to be crucified by the sons of men; that is what gives value to the sacrifice. We measure the patience by the strength of the cry.

Job also had the spirit of youth. However dark his sky, he had not lost his sense of life’s possibilities. Deep down in his heart there

was the conviction that the world in which he suffered was an unnatural world. He felt that things ought not so to be, and that therefore they would not always so be. Clear through the night his voice kept ringing: ‘I know that my Vindicator liveth, and that He shall stand at the last upon the earth; and, though the process of destruction penetrate even beneath the skin, yet in my flesh shall I see God, whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold and not another!’ These are the words of hope, not despair. They show that the nerve is zo¢ dead, that the love of life is not extinguished, that the spirit of youth remains. If patience implies an outcry, it is because it implies an outlook. It refrains from tracing the way, but none the less does it believe in the goal. So long as a man keeps his love, he will keep his capacity for pain; but he will also keep his freedom from despair. Where love is, there is no despair. The wind may be raging fierce and cold around us, there may be no star in our night and no present rest in our journey — pbut if J/ove be not

quenched, the ground for hope is still abiding.

The gate of egress may be unseen, the avenue of outlook may be undetected, but already beyond the tombstone there will gleam the Garden, and above the blood-stained heights of Calvary there will glitter the sunlit peaks of Olivet.

ORD, help me to keep my dove! Whatever else I lose, may I never lose ¢hat! Though all the lights go out from my life, let not ¢hkzs torch be extinguished! There is a peace which comes by the death of patience — by ceasing any longer to wait or to, expect. There is a peace which is zo¢ patience, because it Zooks for nothing, longs for nothing, prays for nothing — a peace which is painless because it is numb, and is free from struggle because it is dead. I would not have that gift, O my Father! I have passed through the autumn woods and heard no waving of the leaves, not because there was no wind to blow, but because there was no sap to nourish. I would not have ¢hat gift, O my Father! That is the peace ‘of the grave. But Thy peace is the peace of the ocean. It is the calm that holds depths beneath it. It is not the rest of life- lessness, but the rest of balance. Thy patience is the patience not of spentness, but of expectancy; it rests ‘in hope. Bring me that peace of Thine,O God! Bring me the peace of pulsation, the calm of courage, the endurance that springs from energy! Bring me the fortitude of fervour, the repose through inner radiance, the tenacity that is born of trust! Bring me the silence that comes from serenity, the gentleness that is bred of joy, the quiet that has sprung from quickened faith! When I hear 7hee in the whirlwind, there

will be a great calm!

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