A Defense of Divine Wisdom in the Book of Job

There are few books in Scripture as haunting and provocative as Job. It is a book that cuts to the core of the human experience—suffering without clear cause—and dares to put God on trial. But perhaps even more daring is the conclusion it draws: that we, the finite, cannot sit in judgment of the Infinite.

The common objection I’ve heard from atheists and skeptics alike is simple, pointed, and emotionally compelling: If God is good, why would He treat Job—and by extension, humanity—with such cruelty? Isn’t God, in the Book of Job, the cosmic equivalent of a tyrant, robbing a man of everything just to prove a point?

Let’s be clear about the force of this objection. Job is described in the opening lines of the book as “blameless and upright.” He loses his children, wealth, and health. He curses the day he was born. He begs for answers. And when God finally responds, He does not provide the neat, satisfying explanation we crave. Instead, He speaks from a whirlwind and asks questions like:

Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?
    Tell me, if you understand.

— Job 38:4 (NIV)

The critic reads this and scoffs: “That’s it? That’s the divine justification?” Isn’t that like a mother dismissing her child’s pain with a hand wave: “You just wouldn’t understand.” To them, this is not an answer at all. But that’s because they misunderstand what kind of answer the Book of Job is offering.

Job’s story isn’t about satisfying human curiosity. It’s about reorienting human pride. When God says:

Surely you know, for you were already born!
    You have lived so many years!

— Job 38:21 (NIV)

He is not avoiding the question—He is redefining the very terms of the debate. God's rhetorical questions aren’t evasion. They are revelation. They unmask the hubris of thinking we, who exist for a mere blink in cosmic history, are in any position to evaluate the justice of the Eternal One.

Some argue, “What if I robbed you of everything to test your loyalty—then gave you twice as much back? Would that justify it?” But this misses the theological point. The Book of Job never says the suffering was about the reward. It says suffering has a place in the divine order that we, from within time and flesh, cannot fully grasp. As the Apostle Paul would later write:

Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable his judgments, and his paths beyond tracing out!

— Romans 11:33 (NIV)

We want answers. Job wanted answers. But what Job got—and what we get—is something even better: a glimpse of God’s majesty, and a reminder of our smallness. In that context, even Job is humbled:

Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know.

— Job 42:3 (NIV)

And it’s not just Job who comes to see this. Scripture consistently affirms that our trust cannot rest solely on what we understand. Consider this:

Trust in the Lord with all your heart
    and lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways submit to him,
    and he will make your paths straight.

— Proverbs 3:5–6 (NIV)

The dissenting voice insists that this is just a cop-out, a way to excuse divine cruelty. But if we step back and reflect—not just theologically, but psychologically—we find this idea echoed in the very structure of the human mind. People often don’t know what they really need. We chase relationships or success thinking they will fulfill us, only to discover they don’t. In psychology, this is the insight of Maslow’s hierarchy and of psychoanalysis: unconscious needs drive behavior more than conscious ones. We aren’t even fully transparent to ourselves. So how could we expect to fully grasp the designs of a transcendent Creator?

If we accept the premise that God is eternal, uncreated, and the very ground of being, then our moral comparisons fall apart. His justice is not our justice. His time is not our time. As God says through Isaiah:

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
    neither are your ways my ways,”
        declares the Lord.

“As the heavens are higher than the earth,
    so are my ways higher than your ways
    and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

— Isaiah 55:8–9 (NIV)

Faith does not mean intellectual suicide. It means recognizing the limits of human understanding and choosing trust where full knowledge is impossible. It means that even when we can’t explain the storm, we trust the One who speaks from it. And that trust leads to transformation, as it did for Job, who in the end receives not only restoration but a deeper relationship with the God he once questioned.

So no, it is not insanity to say, “We just can’t know.” It’s humility. And in that humility, we find hope. As Job himself concludes:

My ears had heard of you but now my eyes have seen you.

— Job 42:5 (NIV)