Why? or Harold Crick Questions the Author

 T he book of Job immediately stirs up the age-old question: What came first, the sequel or the prequel? Unlike an Indiana Jones adventure, no dates conveniently pop up to let us know when these events occurred. And while the text is full of James Halliday Easter eggs, no one has been able to break the code yet. Scholars are still debating where the book belongs in the scriptural timeline. Job’s story is to Scripture what Fury Road is to the Mad Max franchise. Its placement in the chronological narrative remains unclear. But there’s no shortage of theories. The most popular one claims Job was around before Technicolor and may have even passed the Grey Poupon with Abraham. But thanks to numerous references to Tony Stark’s favorite metal—uncommon prior to the 12th century B.C.E.—there’s a distinct possibility the story didn’t go down until the era of the judges (our assumption here). Another theory suggests it might’ve happened in Solomon’s lifetime or later. We’re talking about the span of an entire millennium. That’s a lot of calendars. You could randomly insert the book of Job anywhere in the Tanach and still have a 62% chance of getting it right. And yeah, that’s assuming it’s not a BS story Immortan Joe made up to keep the War Boys on their toes.

Here’s what we do know: Job isn’t Hebrew, he’s a spin-off character. He doesn’t have the Q-Rating of patriarchs like Moses or Abraham, but we’re still willing to buy into his story based on the reputation of the franchise. Basically, Job is the Aaron Cross of the Jason Bourne series. When we’re introduced to him in chapter 1, the text says “he feared God and shunned evil”* (v. 1). As a result, he’s got it all going on: a big family, good reputation, lots of money, property and cattle—the works. Job is a regular Mary Poppins. He’s practically perfect in every way. He even goes around preemptively making amends for his adult kids on the off chance they’ve upset God by watching a Woody Allen flick (v. 5).

But just when it looks like we’re in for a straight-forward good ol’ boy story, the scene shifts to God’s living room, where all of his emissaries have gathered to discuss their favorite episodes of Touched By An Angel. Interestingly, God’s adversary, “the Satan,” is also in the room (v. 6). It’s like Superman and Zod meeting up for tea in the Fortress of Solitude. Next thing you know they’re placing bets on human behavior like otherworldly versions of Randolph and Mortimer Duke, with nothing more than a dollar and bragging rights at stake. God kick-starts the plot by naming Job as a possible candidate for their next wager: “Have you considered My servant Job? For there is no one like him on the earth, a blameless and upright man” (v. 8). Satan accepts the challenge, thinking a little adversity will make Job crack harder than Hilary Faye Stockard. And God permits it, with the one exception he isn’t hurt physically in the process (v. 12). It’s almost like the book of Job picks up where Men In Black left off, with an alien god playing marbles with the universe.

Back on earth, Job has no idea he’s about to be subjected to the mother of all tests. As Howard Payne would say, “Pop quiz, hotshot!” He’s carrying on in his usual manner when a series of unfortunate events worse than anything that ever happened to the Baudelaire children disrupts his life. One after another, sole survivors bring Job increasingly worse news: rustlers stole his cattle, fire burned his sheep, an army seized his camels and a tornado destroyed the house where his kids were throwing a Project X party, killing everyone in attendance (vv. 14-19). Yep. Job’s idyllic life is coming apart faster than Fly Guy’s pimp walk. But just when it looks like the news will break him, he drops the line that likely earned him his spot in Scripture: “Naked did I emerge from my mother’s womb, and naked I shall return … Hashem has given, and Hashem has taken away, blessed be the name of Hashem”* (v. 21).

The bad news is there’s still more to come. As J.J. McQuade would say, “My kind of trouble doesn’t take vacations.” That’s right. Chapter 2 sees God and Satan renegotiating the terms of their wager and this time Job’s health isn’t off limits (v. 6). Satan immediately uses his all-access pass to infect Job with a supercharged strain of herpes that makes him break out worse than Dom Woganowski. It’s so bad his wife makes a cameo in verse 9, encouraging him to “curse God and die!” At this point, it’s hard to differentiate Job from an occupant of room 1408.

Job is laying around in full Oscar the Grouch mode when his friends Eliphaz, Bildad and Zophar show up (v. 11). He greets them with a Captain Binghamton “Why me?” speech in chapter 3 and one after the other his pals respond. It’s obvious they’ve been friends for a while, because no casual acquaintance could get away with the stuff these guys say to each other. The book of Job turns into an episode of Impractical Jokers as soon as they open their mouths: “Warning: The following program contains scenes of graphic stupidity among four lifelong friends…”

Eliphaz kicks things off in chapter 4 with an Earl J. Hickey karma speech. By his estimation Job did something wrong and now it’s come back to bite him on the ass. The other friends aren’t any better. Bildad sounds like George Bailey laying into Mr. Potter and Zophar all but accuses Job of turning to the dark side. The verbal beatdown goes on for ten chapters. But Job holds his own. He rap battles his friends to a standstill and doesn’t shy away from throwing a little shade at God either: “I will not restrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit, I will complain in the bitterness of my soul” (7:11). But every time it looks like he’s on the brink of having a Graham Hess crisis of faith, he comes up with another epic one-liner that proves everyone wrong: “Though [God] slay me, I will hope in Him” (13:15). You gotta give the guy credit. He’s like Ned Flanders on steroids.

But the debate isn’t over. Not even close. Job and his friends continue to argue back and forth like Mike Lowrey and Marcus Burnett. There’s way more insults than compliments here. Job maintains his innocence, but his buddies are convinced he’s hiding something. They’re more dedicated to getting a confession than Perry Mason. They take turns cross-examining Job for twelve long chapters. Eliphaz accuses him of lying more compulsively than Fletcher Reede. Bildad tries to intimidate him with the lyrics to “Highway to Hell.” And Zophar takes it all the way up to eleven, associating Job with Pinhead’s godless Cenobites. Once again, Job calls BS and disses his friends for being unsympathetic douchebags. As Dirk Calloway would say, “With friends like you, who needs friends?”

Job has officially run out of people to confide in. His wife has thrown in the towel, his best friends don’t believe him and his maid treats him more disrespectfully than Florence Johnston (not even kidding. See 19:15). But as bad as things are, he’s still got the balls to question God’s fairness. Job knows he can’t win the argument, but that doesn’t stop him from pleading his case. He wants to know why he’s getting the Larry Gopnik treatment. In chapter 29, he defends his nice guy reputation with an impressive list of humanitarian achievements. As it turns out, Job volunteers at the same soup kitchen as Claire Phillips, he helps Edna Spalding save the farm, plays Daddy Warbucks with orphans and even stops the Goon Docks from being turned into a golf course (see vv. 12-17). But none of it tips the scales in his favor.

He hits rock bottom in chapter 30. When every attempt to rationalize his circumstances comes up short, he settles on a Bruce Nolan conclusion: “God is a mean kid sitting on an anthill with a magnifying glass” (see v. 21). Job’s statement seems to indicate there’s nothing more to talk about, but chapter 32 keeps the discussion alive by introducing a brand-new character. It’s like the book of Job suddenly realizes it’s your dad’s favorite show and decides to appeal to a younger demographic. But don’t get your hopes up. It’s not Richard Grieco. It’s a guy named Elihu. As the youngest of the friends he’s been biting his tongue out of respect, but that quickly changes when he launches into an epic Hannibal Lector speech that spans six chapters. Elihu’s rant goes down easy thanks to his young adult approach, but it doesn’t break any new ground. No one even bothers to respond when he finishes.

Once everyone has had their say, God shows up in a whirlwind (no, really) and responds to all of the speculation like Billy Madison’s decathlon judge: “What you’ve just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it.” Yep. God is in full snark mode. In chapter 38, he turns the tables on Job with a few questions of his own: “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?”* (v. 4). It’s the ultimate burn. Three thousand years later there’s still not a good comeback for it.

Impressively, Job’s criticisms don’t get him written out of the show. Instead, God gives a few dozen reasons why Job isn’t qualified to bust his chops. He lays out his expertise for the unexplainable like Gregory House. To be fair, his target audience is a bunch of flat-earthers, so a question like “Have you understood the expanse of the earth?” is an easy win for him (v. 18). In chapter 40, Job admits he’s out of his league, at which point God drops the sarcasm and proceeds to school him with a virtual tour of the cosmos. Job comes out the other side like a highly enlightened Stephen Strange: “I am insignificant … I lay my hand on my mouth” (v. 4).

But God isn’t done yet. He shifts the focus back to earth by bragging about some of his favorite animals. They read like Eldritch Abominations on paper, but that doesn’t stop him from gushing excessively. First up is the Behemoth. Scholars speculate God is describing a hippopotamus, but with a “tail like a cedar” it sounds more like something out of Jurassic Park (v. 17). The next thing on his list is the Leviathan, a sea creature that bears a striking resemblance to the Sando Aqua Monster. And it’s not just a big fish story, because, according to chapter 41, this bad boy knows how to breathe fire (vv. 18-21). One can only hope God is taking a little poetic license here. Scholars dial it way back, saying the Leviathan is just a crocodile. If that’s the case, it’s a croc Delores Bickerman would be proud of.

This is an unexpected tactic. God sounds like Maui belting out “You’re Welcome.” In all of this, he never bothers addressing why bad things happen to good people. He responds to Job’s “Why?” questions like Inspector Sledge Hammer: “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” This has been his motto from the start, but it’s a little harder to swallow this time around. Job has lost everything because God turns into Alex Freed every time he hangs out with Satan. If anyone has ever had a reason to hit the eject button, it’s Job. But getting a behind the scenes glimpse of God’s workload changes his mind. He realizes now how little he understands, much less controls. In chapter 42, he retracts all of his previous statements: “I have declared that which I did not understand” (v. 3). Quick, somebody cue up Drivin’ N’ Cryin’. Job is officially scarred but smarter.

The good news is he isn’t punished for questioning the system. In fact, God compensates Job for his honesty by doubling everything he lost. Whether or not this justifies his season as Louis Winthorpe III is still up for debate. But it could always be worse. Just ask Job’s friends. After pushing their luck to Admiral Motti extremes, God is on the verge of Force choking them: “[Y]ou did not speak properly about Me as My servant Job did”* (v. 7). He’s only able to refrain because Job says a few words on their behalf. In the end, everyone gets a pass. Job may not be a franchise character, but God is invested enough to renew the series for another 140 years (v. 16)! Not bad for a spin-off character.

And that’s it. After providing more exposition than a James Bond villain, the book of Job ends abruptly enough to cause Audrey Griswold’s first period. There’s no big payoff. Job doesn’t win or lose, he just survives. The takeaway is simple: shit happens. And yeah, God allows it. The story shakes out like a high-stakes episode of What Would You Do? We’re left to make the final decision. But you’ve gotta give God credit for pulling back the curtain. Once again, his trustworthiness is on the line. The damage is only minimal because, according to Scripture, pain and death have been part of life since before Adam and Eve sneaked the apple from Mr. McGregor’s garden. That’s right. As bad as Job gets it, his situation doesn’t go beyond the parameters of life as it’s laid out in the early chapters of Genesis. It all goes back to Job’s observation in 2:10, “[S]hall we accept the good from God and not accept the bad?”* I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking it, too. This isn’t the question we showed up for. Somehow the text manages to subvert the whole thing. For a book filled with so many questions, answers are more elusive than Frank Abagnale, Jr. If you’re anything like me, this probably won’t convince you to climb down off the fence. But it doesn’t exactly qualify as a deal breaker either. If the book of Job does one thing really well, it’s that it leaves you wanting more.