Was Job a Buddhist?
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I have grown to appreciate the book of Job more than ever before. Job went through enormous darkness, doubts, and harsh judgments from his friends. He is an example of someone who suffered horrible losses even though he had lived a relatively righteous life. I say “relatively” because we know that everyone has fallen short of perfection. Job anguished over the idea of a just God who allows good people to suffer atrocities like his own loss of family, wealth, and health—or like cancer, war, natural disasters, and the Holocaust. Job’s story would extend to people who experience disproportionate suffering like someone who is young and struck down by disaster or someone who serves God faithfully for decades and falls under the load. (The variations are endless.) If you know my story, you might understand why I have found a renewed appreciation for Job.
Job pre-dates Buddha, so he was not a Buddhist, but both Job and Buddha grappled with suffering in deep and thoughtful ways. The themes of suffering and the nature of ultimate reality were at the heart of their reflections and philosophies. Many scholars believe that Job is the oldest book in the Hebrew Bible, pre-dating the Books of Moses (the Torah) and finding its origins in the Patriarchal period (Abraham, Isaac, Jacob). Buddha was a contemporary of Confucius, Socrates, and Zechariah, so Job pre-dates Buddha by maybe 1,000 years.
If you could read Hebrew fluently, you would understand that Job is a literary masterpiece. At forty-two chapters, it’s far too long for most American audiences. One of my favorite commentaries on Job is by John Walton, who teaches at Wheaton College (Job: The NIV Application Commentary). Walton lays out the problem which Job is confronting in a succinct way through highlighting the main characters and what they are defending. Job is defending his own righteousness. Job’s friends are defending the principle of reciprocity (you reap what you sow or karma). Ultimately, God’s justice is on trial.
Job defends his righteousness throughout the story. This may seem bold (nobody is perfect), but don’t get hung up on it. Otherwise, you will be like Job’s friends. Most of our suffering seems disproportionate to what we deserve. I’m thinking of when William Munny (Clint Eastwood) finally confronts Little Bill Daggett (Gene Hackman), the man who killed his friend, in Unforgiven—“Deserve’s got nothing to do with it.” Except it does.
Job’s friends defend the principle of reciprocity. You reap what you sow. This principle is taught in all the major faith traditions in one form or another. It works in both directions. We love it when it works in the positive direction. If we sow generosity, kindness, and forgiveness, we reap generosity, kindness, and forgiveness. What you put out comes back to you. We don’t like it so much when it works in the negative direction. If we sow stinginess, meanness, or unforgiveness, we get all that in return. Job’s friends were certain that Job got what he deserved. They are defending the principle of reciprocity with various nuances, and in the process, they come off as harsh, judgmental, and full of self-righteousness. Most people fall in the category of Job’s friends when they think about the world and give advice to others. The guilty should be punished. Consequences are a bitch. There are only two things that seem to disrupt this principle: (1) when the righteous suffer disproportionately; and (2) grace. Grace is getting what we don’t deserve, and most people want grace when it comes to themselves. Truth be told, the church in America has an identity crisis—while professing to be grace-based communities, the church many times functions like Job’s friends.
God is left to defend his justice, which is on trial. Except he doesn’t. This is a problem. Theologians (Job among them) in the Abrahamic tradition (Jewish, Christian, or Islamic) have a tough challenge. If ultimate reality is governed by a just God who is all-powerful, who could cure cancer and prevent the Holocaust but doesn’t, then God is a moral monster. (For thoughtful discussions, read Is God a Moral Monster? by Paul Copan or Satan and the Problem of Evil by Gregory Boyd.)
If you dive into the book of Job, I would encourage you to notice two things. First of all, in chapter three, Job speaks of the darkness with which he is confronted through his loss of family, wealth, and health. He virtually exhausts the Hebrew vocabulary with words and metaphors describing his darkness, even resorting to the use of mythological creatures of darkness—the “word cursers” and the Leviathan (Job 3:8).
Secondly, notice that when God finally speaks in chapter thirty-eight, he doesn’t defend his justice. He basically points to mystery and paradox. Mystery in the sense that our three-pound human brains can’t possibly understand all the mysteries of creation and ultimate reality: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?” (Job 38:4). Paradox in the sense that God refers back to the theme of darkness from chapter three, but then he contrasts darkness with light—darkness and light—destruction and beauty—violence and love—death and birth—yin and yang. The paradoxes of this life.
When Gautama Siddhartha (Buddha) pondered the nature of suffering and reality, he explored the concepts of illusion, attachment to cravings or desires, and the separate self. Job points to mystery and paradox. None of the answers satisfy our quest for certainty, but we long for a mystical union or relationship with ultimate reality. Jesus embraced redemptive suffering through the cross and prayed that we might “all be one, as he and the Father are one” (John 17:21).
Shalom
©realfredherron, 2021
