Job CCLIV

 There is enough aggregate data available to conclude that, save for divine intervention or some miraculous event, no individual could withstand physical or psychological torture indefinitely. Everyone has a breaking point. Given enough time, eventually, everyone breaks. The outliers, those that did not break, the exceptions to the rules, if one were so inclined to phrase it, were either those who expired while in the midst of their torture, or those whose purpose went beyond self-preservation, the defense of a nation or a state to something deeper, more profound, and all-defining. The big one was God, faith, a purpose beyond their mortal flesh they were willing to die for; family came in a distant second.

What few talk about is that even those who survive prolonged torture and, for whatever reason, do not break and retain their mental faculties, have to deal with the trauma for the rest of their lives.

I’ve been in conversation with enough people who spent months and years in prison, who suffered privation, humiliation rituals, beatings, tortures, and all manner of degrading and demeaning things, and they all had their scars. They all had their bruises. Some of the most stoic men I’ve ever met in my life would tense up at a particular sound, or begin to unconsciously clench their fists as they retold the stories of the horrors they’d had to endure.

It changes you. It leaves an indelible mark, no matter how resilient and strong-willed one might be. The best one can hope for is that it doesn’t become the defining event of their existence, but something they acknowledge they endured, lived through, and survived. The beauty in the retelling of the stories of those who suffered for the sake of Christ is that not only was God present during their trial, giving them strength they themselves knew they did not possess, but comfort and peace in the aftermath. Do they still bear the scars? Most assuredly, but not the open wounds.

It’s similar to those who’ve been to war, seen the brutality and horrors thereof, and return home trying to relate to family and friends who’ve never had to witness such things, who’ve never had a friend die in their arms, or suffer wounds that would be lifelong reminders of what they’d survived.

How does this relate to Job? Only insofar as understanding that intact as his integrity remained, strong and resilient as he was, the constant barrage by those closest to him, whether his wife or his three friends, left a mark. He was not unaffected; he was not indifferent. Their words connected, and they wounded and dispirited him, not to the point of his denouncing God or cursing Him and dying, but enough that the Almighty terrified him.

If he were the man Eliphaz painted him to be, and God had indeed remained silent because he had sinned, then Job had every right to be terrified. Standing before an omniscient God, standing before His throne of judgment, without having repented, without having been born again, without having been washed clean by the blood of Jesus, should be a terrifying prospect for every sinner, and every soul that delays humbling themselves and coming to the foot of the cross in repentance.

Those who know, know. Those who don’t know assume the best of themselves and their strength, until faced with the reality that when it comes to physical or psychological torture, it’s an open-ended proposition. It’s not like a prison sentence where you get to count down the months, days, and hours. There is no finality to the pain except by death, and the idea of it becomes a hoped-for relief after a while, as it did for Job.

You have a group of well-fed, well-rested, determined individuals whose singular purpose is to break you, break your will, and obtain the information they require that you have determined not to disclose. It’s not a fair fight, it’s not one against one, it’s not a battle of wills but a war of attrition in which you are outnumbered. The Geneva Convention does not apply; human decency is nonexistent, and there is no one to plead your case to or seek redress from. I paint this picture for a purpose: lest we judge Job too harshly for confessing that the Almighty terrified him, this is what he was currently going through, and had been for some time. No, his friends were not beating him with sticks and clubs; the enemy had seen to his physical torment well enough, but they were bombarding his mind with all manner of accusations and contrived presuppositions intended to cause him to lose hope.

It’s easy to sit in judgment of others when you don’t have to walk a mile in their shoes. It’s easy to insist that we would have been better men, had done greater things, and figured out what was still a mystery to Job, the why of his suffering, knowing himself to be innocent of all the accusations leveled against him.

At least if you’re in an interrogation room with someone beating you to a pulp, you know why they’re doing it. By the time it gets around to the torture portion of your incarceration, your persecutors have made it abundantly clear what you must do in order to make it stop. Job had no such clarity. He was suffering in ways we could hardly imagine, all the while not knowing why these things had befallen him.

It’s undeniable that Job was a tortured soul hanging on by a fraying thread. If the three men attempting to convince him of wickedness were given another three rounds each, his hope would have likely continued to fray incrementally, and the story would have ended very differently.

Even though Job had concluded that though he had not been cut off from the presence of darkness he had been cut off from the presence of God, it was not an accurate conclusion. God knew the limitations of what Job could endure, and though he allowed Satan to take him to the edge of despair and despondency, He would not allow Satan to push him over.

With love in Christ,

Michael Boldea, Jr.