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Job 38
Every one has admired the description of a thunderstorm which he gives at the commencement of the thirty-seventh chapter. Many descriptions of such storms have been given, but this excels them all, and is only itself surpassed by that of another sacred writer in Psalms 18. But it does not perhaps occur to many readers that it is a storm then actually raging that Elihu describes; although the expressions of personal emotion which are interspersed might suffice to indicate the fact, that Elihu, while he speaks, is witnessing the progress of the awful storm, ending in “the whirlwind,” out of which the voice of the Lord was heard. After this description, Elihu begins to touch on other manifestations of God’s presence and power in the phenomena of the natural world, the storm still continuing, and increasing in a degree so peculiar and awful, that he begins to see in it the signs of the Lord’s immediate approach, and although he still speaks, he is agitated, and his language becomes abrupt and confused. It is such as one would use whose mind is filled and overawed by the approach of God. It is solemn and full of reverence, but not connected, and is much less calm than his ordinary discourse, until at last, overwhelmed by the awful symbols of the Divine presence, he subsides abruptly into silence; and then, after a solemn pause, the voice of the Lord himself is heard from the whirlwind.
The speech itself is no less sublime than the circumstances by which it is introduced. “It is,” says Dr. Young, who has given a vigorous paraphrase of this portion of the book, “by much the finest part of this, the noblest and most ancient poem in the world.” Bishop Patrick declares that its grandeur is as much above all other poetry, as thunder is louder than a whisper. “I imagine,” says Scott, “it will be easily granted, that, for majesty of sentiment and strength of expression, this speech has nothing equal to it in the most admired productions of Greece and Rome.” A recent writer Note: Rev. G. Gilfillan in his Bards of the Bible. Edinburgh, 1851. This author is of those who take the Book of Job to be an allegory. well remarks that, “To put suitable language in the mouth of the Deity, has generally tasked to straining or crushed to feebleness the genius of poets. Homer, indeed, at times nobly ventriloquizes from the top of Olympus; but it is ventriloquism: Homer’s thunder, not Jove’s. Milton, while impersonating God, falls flat; he peeps and mutters from the dust; he shrinks from seeking to fill up the compass of the Eternal’s voice. Adequately to represent God speaking, required not only the highest inspiration, but that the poet had heard, or thought that he heard, His very voice, shaping articulate sounds from midnight torrents, from the voices of the wind, from the chambers of thunder, from the rush of the whirlwind, from the hush of night, and from the breeze of day. And doubtless, the author of the Book of Job had this experience…. Some poems have voices to the note of the flute and others to the swell of the organ; but this highest reach of poetry rose to the music of the mightiest and oldest elements of nature, combining to form the various parts in the one voice of God. And how this whirlwind of poetry, once aroused, storms along—how it ruffles the foundations of the earth—how it churns up the ocean into spray—how it unveils the old treasures of the hail and the snow—how it soars up to the stars—how the lightnings say to it, ‘Here we are’—how, stooping from this pitch, it sweeps over the various noble or terrible creatures of the bard’s country, raising the mane of the lion, stirring the wild horror of the raven’s wing, racing with the wild ass into the wilderness, flying with the eagle and the hawk, shortening speed with the lazy vastness of behemoth, awakening the thunder of the horse’s neck, and daring to open ‘the doors of the fire,’ with the teeth ‘terrible round about’ of leviathan himself! The truth, the literal exactness, the freshness, fire, and rapidity of the figures presented, resemble less the slow, elaborate work of a painter, than a succession of pictures taken instantaneously by the finger of the sun, and true to the smallest articulation of the burning life.”
It is remarkable also of this great speech, that it is entirely composed of a series of interrogatory sentences or clauses. Here, more than in any other portion of Scripture, do we perceive the use, value, and effective application of this form of address, in exalting our ideas of the Deity—while every question awes into silence, and inspires with the humblest views of our own insufficiency and weakness. The writer last cited describes, in his own sparkling manner, the speech as “a series of questions following each other like claps of thunder.”
Although many writers, ancient and modern, have used this form of address with ability and effect—and its use in oratory is well known—there are no instances on record which so strongly manifest how the sense may be strengthened, adorned, and exalted, as in the examples which the prophetical and poetical books of Scripture furnish. Numberless instances might be produced; and amid the large variety, the choice is perplexed in any attempt at selection. One or two may, however, be indicated. Deborah’s words in the person of Sisera’s mother, supply a noble instance of this use of interrogations—“The mother of Sisera looked out at the window, and cried through the lattice, Why is his chariot so long in coming? why tarry the wheels of his chariots? Her wise ladies answered her: yea, she returned answer to herself, Have they not sped? have they not divided the prey; to every man a damsel or two? to Sisera a prey of divers colors, a prey of divers colors of needlework, of divers colors of needle-work on both sides, meet for the necks of them that take the spoil,” Judges 5. Mark also the skilful use of this form of speech in Paul’s transfer of his address from Festus to Agrippa. First he speaks of him in the third person. “The king,” he says, “knoweth of these things, before whom I also speak freely.” Then, turning short upon him, he asks: “King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets?” And immediately answers his own question, “I know that thou believest!” The smoothest eloquence, the most insinuating complaisance, could not have made such an impression upon Agrippa as this most unexpected and pointed address.