By Brian Allred
Imagine it’s the day after Christmas and you’re riding in a car on U. S. Highway 67 in Johnson County, Texas. Your 28-year-old cousin is driving and your wife, your two children – 10 and 9 years old – and both in-laws are also passengers. Suddenly, a truck swerves into a no-passing zone and collides with your car head-on. You’re the only one in your vehicle who survives the crash – though you’ve sustained critical injuries yourself. This is what happened to 43-year-old Lokesh Potabathula in late December 2023. Even if he recovers from his physical injuries, how does he recover from the loss of his loved ones? Just after reading about this devastating incident, I came across another news story online about a 13-year-old girl who vanished while vacationing with her family in Los Angeles. Family and police are conducting a desperate search to locate her.
That people experience such harrowing losses is sobering and heart-wrenching. It’s particularly disquieting when you realize that there’ll be similar tragedies next week, or the week after, or the week after that. Disaster can visit anyone at any moment without warning, bringing unimaginable pain, loss, and grief. When it does, we search for explanations. This is often because if we can discern a reason for suffering, we can endure it. We’ll even deliberately choose suffering if we believe good will come from it – think of voluntarily undergoing the pains of childbirth, surgery, or physical training. Suffering is much more tolerable if there’s a measure of confidence there will be a result that justifies the pain. The problem is that in much of our affliction we don’t possess such confidence in a favorable outcome. It is often hard, if not impossible, to imagine how some kinds of suffering have any good purpose. Losing six close family members in an automobile accident. Having a child abducted without ever finding out the child’s whereabouts or what happened. Simply devastating. In the absence of discernable reasons for such excruciating pain, we can only describe certain events as “senseless” and achingly ask, “Why?”
In the book of Job, we encounter a man who knew disaster and affliction. Acutely. He lost all of his wealth and possessions. Then he lost his children. No, not one child – which is itself life shattering – but all 10 of them. In one day. And when you think it couldn’t possibly get worse, he lost his physical health. Like us, Job wants a reason, an explanation for his suffering. But not the shallow explanation his companions provide him with. They contend that his suffering is the result of personal sin and they counsel Job to confess. But Job denies any wrongdoing that would merit his suffering.
Unfortunately, such denial leaves him in the absence of any discernable reasons for his affliction. So we find him wrestling with God throughout the book. But we must not mistake his wrestling as a sign of unbelief. On the contrary, his wrestling is a sign of faith. Rather than curse God and die (as Satan predicted he’d do in Job 1:11 and 2:5, and his wife counsels him to do in Job 2:9), Job clings to God as he seeks vindication against false accusations, seeks understanding in horrible anguish, and seeks answers for unexplained pain. While Job sinks into darkness through much of the book, expressions of unextinguished faith still punch through the shadows on occasion.
One occasion is found in Job 23:1-10. As Job longs to gain a hearing with God by which he might acquire an explanation that makes sense of his misfortune, we read:
Then Job answered and said: “Today also my complaint is bitter; my hand is heavy on account of my groaning. Oh, that I knew where I might find him, that I might come even to his seat! I would lay my case before him and fill my mouth with arguments. I would know what he would answer me and understand what he would say to me. Would he contend with me in the greatness of his power? No; he would pay attention to me. There an upright man could argue with him, and I would be acquitted forever by my judge.
He laments in vv. 8-9: “Behold, I go forward, but he is not there, and backward, but I do not perceive him; on the left hand when he is working, I do not behold him; he turns to the right hand, but I do not see him.” Then faith breaks through in v. 10: “But he knows the way that I take; when he has tried me, I shall come out as gold.”
These verses in Job 23 provide us with valuable insights into what it means to live by faith in the face of affliction. The first thing we can consider is faith’s confusion in affliction.
Faith’s CONFUSION in Affliction
In our attempts to understand affliction, we tend to be like Job’s companions. We imagine that all suffering can be neatly explained as cosmic retribution or divine punishment for personal transgressions. Not only was this the view of Job’s companions, it persisted in the Judaism of Jesus’ day. In John 9:1-3, Jesus and his disciples encounter a man blind from birth. Jesus’ disciples ask him, “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Their assumption is that this man’s blindness could be directly attributed to someone’s personal sin – either his parents’ sin or his own. Jesus dismissed this reductionistic understanding when he answered the disciples’ question by explaining, “It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him.” If Jesus dismissed this view so should we. Yet these assumptions can persist in our own thinking today.
For his part, Job stubbornly resists this analysis, yearning to obtain an audience with God in order to be vindicated and have such accusations against him repudiated. Now it’s true, of course, that our suffering is caused by sin in a general way. We inhabit a world that has been plunged into misery because of sin and no one escapes heartbreak and pain. But the idea that personal suffering is always the direct result of some specific personal sin isn’t something posited in Scripture.
It’s clear that God doesn’t govern the universe by a principle of strict retributive justice where people always get exactly what they deserve. It may be true that good things happening to godly people and bad things happen to wicked people. But at least as often, bad things happen to godly people and good things happen to wicked people. This reality can leave us in confusion. The suffering in the world seems random and without reason. It lacks any discernible pattern. And it is unevenly distributed. We’re left to wonder why the blessings of family, companionship, children, physical and sensory health, intelligence, psychological soundness, peace of mind, and a general sense of happiness and well-being are liberally bestowed on some and denied to others. Why are those who lack any devotion to God, his kingdom, or his righteousness – including those outspokenly opposed to him – spared from afflictions that some of his faithful servants experience intensely? Clear explanations are elusive, to say the least.
We need to admit that we don’t have all the answers in the face of suffering. We seldom know the purposes of affliction – for us or for others – so we shouldn’t talk as if we do. We don’t understand what God is doing much of the time. Job gives voice to the fog in vv. 8-9 when he concedes: “Behold, I go forward, but he is not there, and backward, but I do not perceive him; on the left hand when he is working, I do not behold him; he turns to the right hand, but I do not see him.” In other words, if God is present, I don’t see where, and if God is doing something good, I don’t see how.
To express such confusion shouldn’t be interpreted as a denial or absence of faith, but rather an honest acknowledgment in the face of God’s incomprehensible ways. We find the psalmist often articulating his perplexity before God (see Pss.10:1;13:1; 42:9; 43:2; 44:24; 74:1; 88:14). Likewise, Habakkuk complains of his disorientation before the Lord (Hab. 1:3,13). Jesus himself submits his inquiry to God when he echoes David’s own confusion in affliction by quoting Psalm 22 on the cross: “My God, my God, why?” The fact that he asks why indicates an element of confusion. But the fact that he cries out to my God confirms that these are not cries of unbelief. This is simply the sound of faith’s confusion the face of affliction. It should be evident that biblical faith doesn’t require us to suppress our confusion or deny our questions in the face of suffering. Rather, faith is perhaps greatest when it is stubbornly exercised in the face of inexplicable pain and the transcendent mysteries of God.
But Job teaches us that faith moves from confusion to confession.
Faith’s CONFESSION in Affliction
It’s important to see that Job’s confusion doesn’t turn him into a cynic. Instead, he firmly confesses in v. 10: “he knows the way I take.” It’s true that Job doesn’t know why all this has happened to him. It’s true that Job doesn’t understand what God is doing. It’s true that Job doesn’t clearly perceive the meaning and purpose in his affliction. It’s true that Job doesn’t have it figured out – and neither do we. But – and this is huge – there is one who does. There is one who understands, who knows what he’s doing. He knows the way I take. Even if he and his purposes are hidden from my view and even while I may not sense his presence, God’s still there and he still sees me.
There is a phenomenon in early childhood development called object permanence. Object permanence is the ability to comprehend that things continue to exist even when we can’t see them. Very young babies lack a sense of object permanence. Hide a toy behind your back and a very young baby will either become disinterested or upset because he or she thinks the toy is gone. The child will not look behind your back even if he or she watched you put it there. It’s as if it evaporated. This is because, at this stage of development, the baby lacks a sense of object permanence. Young children love to play peek-a-boo at this age. Cover your face with your hands and quickly move them and a baby will delightfully respond with surprise at your face suddenly appearing. When a child starts pulling on your hands to expose your face, she’s starting to develop a sense of object permanence. But early on, you might notice that a child even thinks you can’t see her if she covers her own eyes!
The point of bringing up object permanence is that spiritually we can be a lot like babies. If we can’t see God working or sense his presence we conclude he isn’t there – and maybe not even real. But in the face of his affliction, Job models for us how to cling to the confession that God still sees us even if we can’t see him or sense him. He hasn’t ceased to exist, disappeared, or become unmindful of you. He is not indifferent to your suffering. He knows the way that you take.
Not only does he know – he cares deeply. In the words of Robert Murray McCheyne, “There is no time that the patient is such an object of tender interest to the surgeon as when he is bleeding beneath his knife. So you may be sure if you are suffering from the hand of a reconciled God that His eye is all the more bent on you.” Consider that God knows the number of hairs on your head. This isn’t merely an assertion of divine omniscience – as if the point is simply that God knows everything down to the smallest detail. In the broader context in which this statement occurs, Jesus claims that not even a sparrow falls to ground without the Father giving thought – and he goes on to say that we are worth more than many sparrows (see Matthew 10:29-31). The point Jesus is making concerns the depth and intimacy of the Father’s care. I love my kids and when they were younger I spent many hours holding them in my lap as they rested and slept, but I never attempted to become so familiar with them that I started counting the hairs on their head! But that’s the depth of intimacy God feels for his children.
Yes, God knows and he cares. But we can say even more. God doesn’t only know the fact of your affliction or the path of it. He also knows the experience. Jesus was a Man of Sorrows and is our sympathetic high priest who is able to sympathize with us in our weakness (see Hebrews 4:15). In Alexander McLaren’s summation, “In all points tempted as we are: Jesus bearing grief for us, bearing grief with us, bearing grief like us.”
Faith’s confession in affliction is not about understanding everything God is doing in disaster, tragedy, loss, and suffering. Faith’s confession is that God knows and he cares. But faith in the face of affliction not only confesses but also expresses confidence that there is meaning and purpose in our suffering.
Faith’s CONFIDENCE in Affliction
Job expresses faith’s confidence in verse 10: “When he has tried me, I shall come forth as gold.” Notice faith’s confidence is not that we’ll elude suffering. Job doesn’t wonder if he’ll be triedbut when. Admittedly, Job is here in the middle of his ordeal, but it’s important to realize that faith’s confidence is not in thinking that because we belong to Jesus, we will escape affliction. Where does such an idea come from? Wherever it is, it’s not from the Bible.
Scripture is clear that because we belong to Jesus we can expect hardship. The Bible tells us that we should expect suffering as Christians. And it tells us this not in the fine print but in the headlines! Jesus says unambiguously in Matthew 16:24: “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross – an instrument of suffering – and follow me.” We read in Philippians 1:29: “For it has been granted to you that for the sake of Christ you should not only believe in him but also suffer for his sake. And Paul writes in 1 Thessalonians 3:2-3: “… we sent Timothy, our brother and God’s coworker in the gospel of Christ, to establish and exhort you in your faith, that no one be moved by these afflictions. For you yourselves know that we are destined for this.”
It’s in the midst of his suffering – not after it has abated or brought forth some perceptible benefit to his life – that we find Job’s faith clinging to the truth that there is goodness in his affliction; that it has a meaning, a purpose, a reason, a goal: “I shall come forth as gold.” By mentioning gold, Job alludes to the removal of dross and impurities and suggests that in a similar manner – and for the same reasons – God tries us in the furnace of affliction. In other words, Job believes that he is being developed, purified, and polished into something of greater beauty and worth. Contrary to how affliction might feel, God’s purpose is not to ruin us but to refine us. We imagine a God who promises never to hurt us. He doesn’t promise that. What he does graciously promise is that he won’t destroy us. On the contrary, he will glorify us.
Some might complain that a good God could and should and would use painless methods. But maybe that’s like expecting metals to be purified without heat, or a filthy dog to be cleansed without a good, thorough bath, or a man to be cured of blindness without having to experience the initial painful exposure to sunlight. Job seems to grasp his true condition – he’s an impure metal, a filthy creature, a diseased man in need of healing. Notice that he doesn’t presume that he’s already gold – he understands he needs to be tried, refined, cleansed. The truth is that we, like Job, need to be refined, purified, cleansed, and healed because of the reality of sin. We need to be transformed into the image of Jesus and fit for glory – and in love God is committed to doing this even if the process is unpleasant and painful. Not even Jesus was able to bypass suffering in being made complete (see Hebrews 2:10; Matthew 26:39). Are we to imagine that we, with all of our sin, can?
But Job’s confidence in affliction is firm – not “I might come forth as gold” or “I hope to come forth as gold” but “I shall come forth as gold.” And we can have even more confidence than Job. Our confidence in affliction is anchored in the resurrection of Jesus – who after the affliction of the cross was raised to glory. If you are united to Jesus by faith, you will follow him. Yes, through the fires of affliction and suffering in this fallen world. But then into glory.
Conclusion
In summary, faith’s confusion comes from not understanding everything God is doing because he’s God and we’re not. The truth that God is God is really the only answer Job ends up getting about his suffering in the book – and it may be the only answer we get about our own suffering as well. But just because we don’t understand something doesn’t mean it’s truly senseless. God understands – and he has his reasons. Good ones. So, we can practice faith’s confession that God knows the way we take, he is present, and he knows what he is doing even if we can’t see it. And this can lead to faith’s confidence that through our affliction God is refining us and purifying us like gold so we can reflect the image and beauty of Jesus in glory forever. Origen, one of the early church fathers, insightfully wrote: “We understand these pilgrimages only dully and darkly so long as the pilgrimage still lasts. But when the soul has returned to its rest, that is, to the homeland of paradise, it will be taught more truly and we’ll understand more truly the meaning of what the pilgrimage was.”
Perhaps you agree with all of this doctrinally and intellectually, but you’ve concluded that your faith just isn’t as strong as Job’s. You’re questioning God’s purposes, his love, his goodness, and his wisdom in your affliction. The good news is that you’re anchored not in the strength of your faith or on the degree of your love for God, but on the strength of God’s grip on you and the degree of his infinite love for you demonstrated so clearly in the sending of his Son to live and die for sinners. His love never wavers – even if yours does. In his book When God Doesn’t Make Sense, James Dobson shares a letter written by a grieving father to his young daughter, Bristol, after her death. The father writes,
I certainly loved you when you were cuddly and cute, when you rolled over and sat up and jabbered your first words. I loved you when the searing pain of realization took hold that something was wrong – that maybe you were not developing as quickly as your peers, and then when we understood it was more serious than that. I loved you when we went from hospital to clinic to doctor looking for a medical diagnosis that would bring some hope. And, of course, we always prayed for you – and prayed – and prayed. I loved you when one of the tests resulted in too much spinal fluid being drawn from your body and you screamed. I loved you when you moaned and cried, when your mom and I and your sisters would drive for hours late at night to help you fall asleep. I loved you with tears in my eyes when, confused, you would bite your fingers or your lip by accident, and when your eyes crossed and then went blind. I most certainly loved you when you could no longer speak, but how profoundly I missed your voice! I loved you when scoliosis started wrenching your body like a pretzel, when we put a tube in your stomach so you could eat because you were choking on your food, which we fed you one spoonful at a time for up to two hours per meal. I managed to love you when your contorted limbs would not allow ease of changing your messy diapers – so many diapers – ten years of diapers. Bristol, I … loved you when you could not say the one thing in life I longed to hear back – “Daddy, I love you.” This is the wondrous nature of God’s love, that he loves us even when we are blind, deaf, or twisted – in body or in spirit. God loves us even when we can’t tell him we love him back.
Christian, you may be weak. You may be disoriented. You may be confused in your suffering. But know that God loves you – even in the moments you can’t tell him back. And when he has tried you, you shall come forth as gold in glory with your Crucified and Risen Savior.