約伯記註釋 第 1 章 第 5/12 段

For nothing is stronger than the wise man.

This is what made them easy to overcome even for God.

First of all, then, they are easily taken captive by their very nature, and then also by their wickedness and impiety.

But call now, if anyone will answer you; or if you will look to any of the holy angels.

And from this he shows His preeminence.

For since it was likely that Job would examine his own circumstances by his own reasonings, observe what he says:

God is great, and does many things which we do not know.

Great is our lowliness; we have been settled somewhere far off.

And why do I speak concerning Him, when the same may be said even concerning His children? So that, whatever He may do, He does well. For, he says, wrath slays the foolish man, and envy puts to death him that has gone astray.

But the wise man has considered all these things with accuracy, while the senseless man looks to none of them.

Or it means that God slays the foolish man by wrath, and God's envy puts to death him that has gone astray.

Wrath slays the foolish.

It seems to me that he is speaking of sinners.

Wrath, he says, slays the foolish man—so that it in no way slays the prudent man.

But elsewhere he says that wrath destroys even the prudent.

And when there is folly as well, much more so.

But I have seen the foolish taking root; yet straightway their habitation was devoured.

And observe how he corrects this in advance.

Do not say to me this: that they often had children too—but not permanently. For since it was likely that someone would say:

How then, if Job was a sinner, did he enjoy so many good things? Yes, he says, I have seen the foolish taking root. Do you see that by the foolish man he means the sinner? And this too belongs to God's dispensation, namely that He does not straightway destroy sinners, but grants them a set time for repentance, so that the good may not be constrained upon men.

May their sons, he says, be far from safety; may they be trodden down at the doors of those inferior to them.

They were scattered, they were cast out.

And there will be none to deliver.

For the things which those men reaped, the righteous shall eat.

But they themselves shall not be delivered out of their evils, and may their strength be drained away.

May their power be exhausted.

These things belong at once also to one who is puffed up.

For trouble shall not come forth out of the earth, neither shall hardship spring up out of the mountains.

For this heavy-heartedness, he says, is in men. Observe how again he forces himself to show that what has been said is natural, so that no one may be able to bring a charge against the argument.

For such, he says, is the nature of men.

For the earth nourishes nothing more wretched or more miserable than man. That is to say:

One must not be amazed nor astonished.

For this we were made: to labor in misery and to be afflicted.

This the prophet also says:

And the greater part of them is labor and toil. And again Jacob:

Few and evil have been the days of my life.

But man, he says, is born unto labor.

The matter is natural, he says; it is impossible to escape adversity. For lest anyone should say again that Job was righteous, he is righteous, he says, but human nature is of such a kind as to bear these dreadful things. Observe that he is not sinless; he insists upon this from nature itself.

But consider, he says, those who dwell in houses of clay. And again:

For what then? Shall a mortal be pure before the Lord? Again, that it is not possible to depart without evils: man, he says, is born unto labor.

For surely it is not senseless things nor irrational animals that are going to feel despondency, but this exists among men.

Examine the common nature and you will see that this is so.

But the young of the vultures, he says, fly to the heights.

They are free from care and untroubled.

What then? Do they enjoy greater providence? By no means, since neither the earth nor the mountains do, seeing that they partake of insensibility.

It seems to me that this creature too is without perception, being a drinker of blood and an eater of flesh.

Nevertheless, I will make my supplication to the Lord, and I will call upon the Lord, the Almighty.

I will suffer nothing such as you, but I will persevere, acknowledging the Master.

For you complain bitterly, but I will persevere, calling upon God and not despairing.

For He knows how ever to turn affairs to their opposite.

I am in evils, but He is able to bring me to be in good things as well, just as He led me from those former things to this present state. And by the Lord, the Almighty, he says, that is to say:

Him who has power over all things—over seasons and places and circumstances.

Then he recounts concerning His power over both alternatives, and speaks first in general, then in particular:

Him who does great things and unsearchable, glorious and marvelous things, of which there is no number; who gives rain upon the face of the earth, who sends water upon that which is under heaven.

This is the first token of His beneficence, and that which sustains our life, and which marks the change of season.

Him who sets the lowly on high, and raises up unto salvation those that were lost.

This too, in the particular case, is partly evident and partly hidden.

But this example is more fitting:

Him who frustrates the counsels of the crafty, so that their hands cannot accomplish what is true.

Changing, altering the counsels of the crafty who do nothing true.

And this too is a work of God's power and dispensation—to be able to lay hold of craftiness and render it useless.

For just as to prevail over strong bodies, so also to prevail over a deceitful soul is a work of God.

He who takes the wise in their own prudence.

And He has confounded the counsels of the crafty.

These things he hints against this man, as one boasting and eager for honor.

Then he tells with what evils He surrounds them:

'In the daytime,' he says, 'darkness shall meet them, and they shall grope at noonday as if it were night.'

And that He does the contrary things in the case of the powerless:

'And let the powerless,' he says, 'escape out of the hand of the mighty; and let there be hope for the powerless, and let the mouth of the unjust be stopped.'

God does these things, so that the powerless too may hope for good things, and that the other may not be lifted up.

For since he had said above, 'Call now, if any will answer you,' lest Job should suppose that things are without providence because he is not heard, 'No,' he says, 'but although He is unseen, God does many things, and He is mighty in stirring up the plea against him, so as to cast him down.'

For if it is His custom to raise the powerless to a height and to abase the lofty, and to convict the deceitful, behold the conclusion that follows.

Then, lest he make his words burdensome and rebuke him too harshly, he says that this is not the manner of chastisement—that those punished are merely wicked—but there is also a case where it comes for the benefit of those being disciplined.

Or rather, he does not say this, but that even if they are utterly wicked, those punished are benefited.

'Blessed is the man,' he says, 'whom the Lord has reproved upon the earth; and reject not the admonition of the Almighty.'

For this reason the friends also obtained pardon, even though they said most things off the mark, because they mingled in some such truths as these.

Then he tells of His power toward the contrary, that both through chastisement He benefits, and again He changes the pain, when it has accomplished its purpose.

'Even if the medicine is beneficial, yet it is bitter, and I cannot endure it'—therefore he says:

When it accomplishes its own work, He takes it away.

For He does not let you have need of another physician;

Consider that it is He Himself who heals.

And if it is He Himself who heals, it is plain that even now, in healing, He causes pain; for 'He Himself,' he says, 'causes pain and again restores; He shall smite, and His hands shall heal.'

If it is He Himself who looses the terrors and leads over to the contrary and grants the enjoyment of deep peace, He does not do these things from a different mind either, but from the same.

'Six times He shall deliver you out of distresses, and in the seventh no evil shall touch you.'

He does not always do the same things, but at first He allows one to receive a trial, and after these not even a trial.

'In famine He shall deliver you from death, and in war from the hand of the sword.'

'He shall deliver you from the sword, and He shall hide you from the scourge of the tongue, and you shall not be afraid of the evils coming upon you.'

And this too is no small thing, but a very great one.

'From a man who speaks nothing good.'

For nothing is worse than the tongue;

This is harder and more unbearable than every plot and every slander, than every sword.

'You shall by no means fear,' he says—not only will you suffer nothing, but you will not even be afraid, he says—'from misery, that misery is coming.'

'You shall laugh at the unjust and the lawless.'

And this is far greater: not only for oneself to be in safety, but even to laugh at others.

And why do I speak of men? Not even the wild beasts themselves shall be terrible to you;

'For you shall not be afraid of the wild beasts of the earth;'

'For the wild beasts shall be at peace with you, and you shall know that your tent shall be at peace, and the abode of your beauty, and you shall not sin.'

Then you shall know that your house shall be at peace.

'And your household,' he says, 'shall enjoy much peace.' For nothing is equal to this—that there be peace throughout the household.

For what profit is it to be freed from wars without, when things within are full of turmoil?

'And the way of life of your tent shall not err.'

'It shall by no means stumble,' he says, that is:

It shall by no means fare ill, nor suffer anything dreadful. Then also the prosperity shall be extended to the offspring, and death shall not come to you untimely;

'And you shall know,' he says, 'that your seed shall be numerous, and your children shall be like the rich grass of the field.'

'And you shall come to the grave like ripe corn reaped in its season, or like a heap on the threshing floor gathered in due time.'

'Behold, these things,' he says, 'I have thus searched out; and these are the things which we have heard.'

'But do you know for yourself whether you have done anything.'

See how he overturned all the benefit of what had been said, and gave a grievous blow.

How, and in what way? By showing that Job is not among those who are being admonished, nor among those who have hope.

For what he has said, though ostensibly directed at Job's person, he takes it up in a general sense and makes the argument universal.

'For these are the things,' he says, 'which we have seen and heard.'

'But if in your case it did not turn out so, but you remain in your troubles, it is for you to acknowledge your own wickedness.' AND JOB, TAKING UP THE ARGUMENT, SAYS:

'For if one would truly weigh my wrath, and take up my pains together in a balance,'

'then indeed they would be heavier than the sand of the seashore.'

It is customary for those who are in extreme anguish to desire, with great exactness, that those present should know the magnitude of the terrors that have overtaken them.

This, then, is what this man says, as it were in the manner of a prayer.

Behold, here by 'wrath' he means despondency; and we shall find this in many places of the Scripture, as when it says:

'He who provokes kings,' that is:

What he means is something like this:

'You philosophize over evils that are another's, and standing far off from my calamities, you exhort me with much freedom from care. This is in answer to that saying of his: You have admonished many, and to feeble knees you have given courage; but now trouble has come upon you, and you were eager.'

'You were eager? I could wish my calamity were made plain, and you would have known that no one ever suffered such things. But behold my misfortune:'

'For the very things from which I ought to obtain pardon, from those same things I am counted unpardonable.'

'The magnitude of my calamity not only fails to plead on my behalf,' he says, 'and not only fails to let me appear pitiable, but the thing itself even condemns me.'

'From the very things for which I ought to be pitied, from these I am hated and condemned.'

'But I cannot,' he says, 'obtain mercy, whatever I may say;'

'For this you make into a proof of impiety.' In answer to which the other had said:

'Remember, if any who were true perished root and branch.'

Just as also concerning the blessed Paul the barbarians said, that Justice did not permit this man, who had escaped the sea, to live.

For men, and especially the common crowd, judging what happens simply and by chance, do not bring their verdicts from what each person has done,

but from the punishments and the chastisements.

For since that one had said:

'For what mortal is pure before the Lord?'—therefore he says:

'I cannot answer back, nor say that I have suffered so many and such things without having sinned in anything.'

'For the things pertaining to my punishments cry out against me;'

'Since could I have refuted,' he says, 'the Mighty One?'—that is:

But it seems that my words are worthless.

For the arrows of the Lord are in my body, whose wrath drinks up my blood.

Whenever I begin to speak, they goad me.

What then does this mean? Not by this alone do they goad me, he says—by being fixed fast in my flesh—but also by taking away from me the just verdict.

Why is it that «whenever I begin to speak, they goad me»? He seems to say the very opposite, namely, that «whenever they goad me, then I speak.» He is almost making a defense for his earlier words, for which he had cursed the day.

For it is not out of malice, he says, nor at random, nor without cause that I utter these things, but because I am goaded by anguish.

For who is so wretched and miserable as to wish to lament without cause?—because he had said:

«Do not reject the admonition of the Almighty.»

Just as those men brought forward the irrational creatures, saying:

«the strength of a lion,» so too does this man:

«What then? Will a wild ass cry out for nothing,» he says, «except when seeking fodder? And will an ox bellow when he has food at his crib?» He added well:

«Will bread be eaten without salt? And is there any taste in empty words?» Just as, he says, an ass would not choose to bray without cause, nor an ox at its crib, and just as no one would choose to eat bread without salt, nor to attend to empty words—he has set down those things which are utterly impossible—so neither would I choose, he says, to lament in such a way, when there is no compelling force to goad me.

For just as it is unpleasant to eat bread without salt, so also is it unpleasant to me to lament and grieve and utter superfluous words.

For who would choose to grieve for no reason? He has come from the more remote to the nearer, from the ass to the bread.

For what pleasure is there in empty words? Taste is pleasure.

«But if any true word had come to be in your speeches,» he says, «none of these things would have befallen you.»

«But it seems that my words are worthless.»

«For my soul cannot cease.»

Why? «For I see my food as fetid, like the stench of a lion.»

The wound was not enough, nor the discharge, but there was yet another torment.

From the disease his every sense too was injured, so that even his very nourishment became a torment to him.

The foul stench of the putrefaction took away the discernment of his senses.

What could be more grievous than this torment? Sleep did not give him rest, food did not nourish him.

«Like the stench of a lion,» he says.

For this beast is foul-smelling to an excessive degree.

For since it possesses by nature its rapacity, God made it in another respect meaner than the rest.

«For O that he would grant it, and my request would come, and the Lord would grant my hope!»

«Let the Lord begin and wound me, but let him not utterly destroy me at the end.»

«And let my city be a tomb, upon whose walls I used to leap.»

There is one release from these dreadful things, he says: death and rest. What does «I used to leap» mean?

«I used to leap»: I was proud, he says, and confident. «I will not spare»:

«For I did not lie against the words of my holy God.»

«I will not spare in my contradiction against you,» he says.

«For I am not conscious in myself of any such thing as you say.»

«But I do not say this; rather, that I have been scourged beyond my own nature,» he says.

For the magnitude of the torments is beyond the power of mortal bodies. But observe with me everywhere, how even while seeing so great a necessity he nowhere consented to break forth into a recounting of his own good deeds, but for the present conceals them.

And his sins, with much boldness, he often paraded in the assembly and in a brilliant theater, but his good deeds, even while seeing so great a necessity, he keeps silent.

For he does not say that «being righteous I have suffered such things,» but that «I cannot bear it,» just as David also said:

«Have mercy on me, for I am weak.»

And this word belongs to those who do not have boldness, so that they take refuge in the weakness of nature.

To say «I am weak, I am not a stone» is not the mark of one showing that he is being disciplined unworthily, but that it is indeed justly, yet he cannot bear it.

And on this account he asks to obtain pardon.

«For what is my strength,» he says, «that I endure? Or what is my time, that my soul holds out? Is my strength the strength of stones?» What does it mean?

«What is my time?» I am short-lived, he says. For have I any great recompense from length of time? For is it possible to hope to live a long time? «For what is my strength, that I endure?» Therefore he endures not from strength, but from reverence and the fear of God.

For if he had wished, he would not have endured, but would have made away with himself; so that, even if from no other source, learn from this the man's reverence—that being human he endures things too great for stones, because of the fear of God, and commits the matter to prayer, and not to his own daring.

«Or is my flesh bronze,» he says, «or was it not in him that I had trusted? But help is far from me, and mercy has forsaken me, and the Lord's visitation has overlooked me.»

«Or was it not in him that I had trusted?» he says. Since this man had exhorted him that «call upon the Lord the Almighty,» he says, «or was it not in him that I had trusted?» But consider that these things are not spoken at the beginning of the calamity, but when much time had already passed, near the very end of the contests.

«My nearest kin have not looked upon me,» he says.

«Like a failing torrent, or like a wave, they have passed me by.»

«Those who revered me have now fallen upon me.»

And this too is the work of God's abandonment—that even his own kin despise him while he suffers such things.

For whenever he himself withdraws and one is stripped of the help that comes from him, all things become hostile and warlike.

«No one has recognized me,» he says, «in my calamity.» But this is not yet a great thing:

«Those who revered me have now fallen upon me.»

This is far more grievous—to trample also upon one who lies fallen. It seems to me that he is hinting at these men.

«Like snow or ice congealed,» he says:

«even as, once melted when the heat comes, it is no longer recognized as having been, so I have been forsaken by all.»

«I have perished and become an exile.»

Neither memorial nor remnant of the former prosperity is left. These things are more grievous than the calamity.

«If only someone would weigh out my pains all together in a balance.»

And he attempts to recount them:

«For I see my food as fetid,» he says.

«I pray to die, and I do not die.»

Being human I suffer these things, not a stone—a human short-lived.

«I do not enjoy the aid from above.»

Some of my own kin run past me, others even trample upon me.

«No remnant of the former prosperity is left. Behold the ways of the Temanites and the paths of the Sabaeans, you who look on; be ashamed with shame, you who behold.»

Those who trust in cities and in riches shall be indebted.

«Look,» he says, «and see.» That is to say:

The future is uncertain, and we are all alike subject to it.

Consider these things concerning your own selves as well, and restrain yourselves from your arrogance; and yet you too have set upon me without mercy.

'Without compassion,' he says, 'in a fault-finding, accusatory manner; so that, seeing my wound, you should have been afraid.'

Fear, lest you be called to give account for your savagery.

'Even if nothing else,' he says, 'neither friendship, nor the earlier kindness, nor anything else made you more forbearing, the very sight of my wounds ought to have filled you with much gentleness. For what? Did I ask anything of you, or do I stand in need of strength from you, that you should save me from the hand of evils, or deliver me from the hand of a mighty one?' That is to say:

Neither before did I have need of you, nor now; but you came of your own accord, as though to comfort me.

Why then do you act the part of enemies? Teach me, and I will hold my peace.

If I have gone astray in anything, tell me.

But even so I do not refuse to learn, only if you are able to say something useful; rather I will be silent, if you say anything to the purpose. For those men had no manifest charges to bring forward, but merely spoke from conjecture.

And that he was of virtuous life was plain.

But that he was not, these men conjectured from his punishments.

But, as it seems, the words of a truthful man are counted worthless.

'But it is not possible,' he says, 'for me to contend well while my calamity cries out against me.' Or: because he who speaks what is right and utters it with boldness is not tolerable to those who hear.

For all men disparage the words of the righteous.

This he said as a maxim also, not on account of his calamity alone.

'For it is not from you,' he says, 'that I ask a word or strength, nor will your reproof silence my words.'

Above all, I would object even to your judging my case at all from present circumstances, but far more so now.

'For it is not from you that I ask strength, nor will your reproof silence my words, nor will I endure the utterance of your speech; save that you fall upon an orphan, and leap upon your friend.'

'Neither my calamity nor our friendship bent you low,' he says.

'But nevertheless, if you wish, let us take up the argument again.'

'I do not refuse, even if you range yourselves on the opposing side, and I will speak in reply.'

'For I am conscious of nothing in myself. But now,' he says, 'looking into your face, I will not lie.'

'Sit down now, and let there be no injustice in judgment, and come together again unto the righteous cause.'

'For there is no injustice in my tongue.'

'Does not my throat also meditate understanding?' See how everywhere the man takes thought for his own good name, lest he acquire the reputation of one wicked and impious.

'Is not the life of man upon the earth a trial?' he says. This he himself also affirms:

'But man is born unto toil.'

What then is this to him? So it comes about that he suffers these things not from injustice alone, but also from nature itself.

Thus did God ordain that human life should be full of toil.

'Upon the earth,' no longer in the heavens.

'And his life is like that of a day-labourer hired for the day.'

Just as that man toils and is wretched throughout the whole day, so too is his life brief and toilsome, gathering nothing great.

For just as that hired man labours all the time of the day, yet gathers nothing great, so too is man.

Is he then filled only with toils, and not also with dangers? Or as a servant fearing his own master and having attained to a shadow.

'And if I take a little rest,' he says, 'just as a household servant breathes a little, yet not in freedom from care nor in boldness, so many are the assaults of tyranny from every side.' It seems to me that he speaks of the runaway servant:

Just as that man who has fled his master is in continual anguish.

Or as a hired man awaiting his wages.

He rests only for that span of time.

So I too have endured empty months.

With anguish, with wretchedness, with fear. But this he says not concerning all men, but concerning himself.

'And nights of sorrows have been given to me.'

'When will it be day?' And as soon as I rise, I say again:

'When will it be evening? For I am full of sorrows from evening until morning.'

'And my body is fouled in the rottenness of worms, and I melt clods of earth, scraping away the discharge.'

'Because the life of man upon the earth is a trial,' he says, 'so I too awaited empty months.' Empty, why? Because I was afflicted and received no wage, because I am in calamities and have no good outcome, wrestling with such great burning heat and sweat.

'Nights,' he says, 'of sorrows have been given to me.'

Neither does the light of day comfort me, nor the rest of night.

Every season is burdensome to me; I seek only deliverance from present things. This is the mark of the discontented.

'And I melt clods of earth, scraping away the discharge.'

For it seems to me that he no longer did this with a potsherd, but by now with earth.

'But my life is lighter than a runner, and it has perished in empty hope.'

Wait upon the Lord, and He Himself will recompense you; nothing is left to me.

'Of life,' he says, 'there is nothing left; so quickly do I pass away, even before I appear, so scant is our time.'

One cannot say that, having enjoyed life for a long time, or being about to enjoy it, I suffer these terrible things; but I have perished in empty hope, having expected some change and release. 'Remember, then, that my life is a breath.'

See how nowhere does he count himself worthy to be saved on account of good deeds, but because he is short-lived.

'And my eye,' he says, 'will no longer return to see good.'

He means the return to this present life.

It seems to me that he was ignorant of the doctrine concerning the resurrection.

For he would not have borne it so grievously had he known.

For these words had this as their aim.

This was the utterance of one who was pondering, reflecting, and considering.

'The eye of him that sees me perceives me no more; thine eyes are upon me, and I am no more, like a cloud cleansed away from the sky.'

'For if a man go down to Hades, he will not come up again, nor will he return again to his own house, nor will his place know him any more.'

'Therefore,' he says, 'neither will I spare my mouth, nor my mind, but I will speak in the anguish of my spirit.'

See first how he knows to acknowledge his own words, and all but demands a defense from the judges and asks to obtain pardon, as though it were not he, but his affliction, that uttered these things.

'I will open,' he says, 'my mouth, being constrained by bitterness of soul.'

'Am I a sea, or a dragon, that thou hast set a watch over me?' That is to say:

Because thou hast employed so great a guard about me. And by 'watch' he means fear.

'My couch will comfort me, and I will bring up discourse with myself privately upon my bed.'

'My couch will comfort me,' that is to say:

'I will receive the consolation that comes from sleep. Why dost thou terrify me with dreams, and confound me with visions?' And this too, then, was of the working of the devil.

For God brought nothing upon him, but everything was from the hand of the devil.

'You will deliver my life from my spirit,' he says, 'and my soul from my body, and my bones from death.'

'For I shall not live forever, that I should be patient.'

'Depart from me, for my life is empty.'

Behold the burdensome words. What burdensome thing does he have? He spoke of his calamity and asked for death and release.

'For I shall not live forever,' he says, 'that I should be patient.'

Do you see how he had been stripped even of this hope? 'For what is my span of time,' he says, 'that I should endure?' Do you see how this above all things troubled him — that he could not expect any change, or, even if it should come, that it would be but brief? 'For I shall not live forever,' he says.

So that, had he known this, he would have been patient.

'Depart,' he says, 'from me, for my life is empty.'

This seems to be a heavy saying, but let us examine it.

For what is it? The very thing which David also says:

'Remove your scourge from me.'

'For my life,' he says, 'is empty.'

'This alone suffices as punishment for me.'

'For am I anything,' he says, 'that I should suffer these things? Our affairs are like a shadow and a dream.' 'For what is man, that you have magnified him, or that you set your mind upon him?' And this very thing he sets down as a proof of God's magnifying him.

'Is he then at all worthy to be chastised, or even to be held in thought?'

'What is man, that you remember him?' For this very thing — to demand satisfaction and punishment — is a proof that man is something.

'And you make your visitation of him,' he says, 'in the morning.'

'You take hold of him, and you judge him unto rest.'

'And often you take hold of him.' See how the words are mingled, some of gentleness, some of pain.

To me it seems that these things are spoken according to the intensity of his pains.

'Unto rest'? That is to say:

'You command me to die and to be at rest,' it seems to me.

'How long,' he says, 'will you not let me be, nor release me?' — just as David said:

'How long, O Lord, will you forget me utterly? How long will you turn your face from me? How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrows in my heart day and night?' 'How long,' he says, 'until I swallow down in pain'

'my spittle?' That is to say: