Learning to love: The surprising joy of memorising Job

I began as a somewhat reluctant student of the book of Job. Though I bore sole responsibility for submitting a PhD proposal in Job, once I faced the prospect of a three-year wrestling match with this daunting text, the intimidation set in. I felt inadequate to say something true and worthwhile about this long, hard book.

At 42 chapters (1,070 verses), Job in English translation is formidable enough. The book grapples with weighty theological issues, premised on the unfair scenario of Job’s innocent suffering. A complex chorus of voices responds to Job’s plight. The reader must pick through the perspectives of Job, his wife, his three friends (Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar), and the young upstart Elihu, as well as those of God, the enigmatic satan, and the narrator. How is the reader supposed to evaluate these perspectives? Where do they agree and disagree? Who is ‘right’ and on what grounds?

Is there any way to hear a coherent, compelling message through the dissonant voices of this book?

It seems important to read one part of Job’s literary structure in light of the whole, but figuring out how the entire book fits together is far from simple. For example, why does God rebuke Job’s speaking (38:2) and then commend it four chapters later (42:7-8)? Or how does God’s poetic litany of questions about creation, complete with lightning bolts and an ostrich (38:1–41:34), constitute a valid answer for boil-covered Job perched on an ash heap, grieving the loss of his ten children (see chs. 1–2)?

So the book of Job in English presents plenty of perplexities, but I have to contend with it in Hebrew. And many scholars claim that Job has the hardest Hebrew in the Old Testament. The poetic core of the book (3:1–42:6) includes around 170 words that occur nowhere else in the Old Testament, along with other rare words and odd usages. One may come to the text with plenty of interpretive zeal, only to feel thwarted when unfamiliar words and tricky syntax make a line of poetry seem unintelligible.

Yet as I launched into research, I swiftly found my misgivings yielding to cascading ‘Joban joy’. I now regard this book as vital for cultivating soul-satisfied allegiance to God within a world full of pain and unanswered questions.

What changed? My Joban joy took off when I decided to memorise the book in Hebrew.

One afternoon in Tyndale House, I discussed my research rhythms with Kim Phillips, who had recently written for Ink on ancient techniques for memorising the Psalms. When I expressed to him my aim of being steeped in the Hebrew text of Job during my study, Kim casually suggested that I could memorise the entire book. I was struck by how manifestly reasonable he made it sound to tuck into my brain 42 chapters of highly sophisticated literature written in an ancient language. But what a tantalising prospect—irresistible, in fact. That day I committed to memorising the entire book of Job in Hebrew. And less than 6 months later, I finished.

Several motivations prompted me to undertake this cognitive challenge. I was—and remain—wary of imposing on the book theoretical frameworks and methodologies which are presumed to be clever, but may not be helpful. An earnest PhD student could easily get lost in an echo chamber of copious academic debate about Job—the age-old perils of the proverbial ivory tower. I want to participate in scholarly discussions while still listening to Job as a living text and pondering my own thoughts and questions arising from my encounter with it. Memorising Job was a way to keep myself accountable to the biblical text, while staying keenly aware that my understanding of it is provisional. In essence, I hoped that struggling for many, many hours to engrave this text on my mind would help me to do my PhD more honestly and more humbly.

I also saw memorising Job as a prime opportunity to position myself as God’s student. In my view, academic biblical studies should not be divorced from personal spiritual formation. I determined to bathe this technical Hebrew task in prayer, resolved not to emerge untransformed from my engagement with Job. I call the enterprise ‘an embodied doctrine of Scripture experiment’. To me and others, it did not make intuitive sense to memorise Job, of all biblical passages. Why take the trouble to put Eliphaz’s 113 verses in my head, noting that God gets angry at him for his speech at the end of the book (42:7-8)? Surely most of this book—where characters argue about the nature of divine justice and Job brashly depicts God as his enemy—seems less obviously ‘edifying’ to memorise than, say, Psalm 23. But my doctrine of Scripture confronts these objections: if God has given us Job in the Scriptures, my having no idea what the book is doing and why probably says more about my ignorance than the text’s deficiency. So why not put Job inside of me, pray ardently, and see what happens?

Setting about my experiment, I was reminded of the magnificent capacities of the human brain when catalysed by enthusiasm and constrained by discipline. My routine was as follows: rising early, I would start familiar chapters of Job rolling through my head soon after popping out of bed. As my memorised chapters accumulated, I developed an elaborate system of rotating chapter review, practicing chapters every day until I felt confident to review that block of text every two days, then every three. Eventually, before arriving at Tyndale House to begin the work day, I had already gone over 7–10 chapters in my head. I was becoming a ‘mobile Job,’ able to bring the book with me to the gym, the shower, or the streets of Cambridge.

Then I devoted my first 60–90 minutes of library time to reviewing my most recently learned (and therefore most tenuous) material and adding new verses. My brain’s ability to absorb Hebrew happily increased over time, allowing me to raise my rate of acquisition: initially I added 5–6 new verses per day, and by the end, I was learning 8–10 new verses per day. There was lots of pacing and muttering under my breath in an aisle of the library. I am pleased to report no collisions with my forbearing colleagues during my months of morning Joban reverie. After finishing the whole book, I ran through 14 chapters in my head every day, 6 days per week, such that I would complete Job twice per week. With the text now well secured, I review just 7 chapters per day before coming to the library (a perk of being an early bird!).

Was it worth the effort? Undoubtedly, for so many reasons. Though my motivations were devotional more than academic, I have certainly reaped research benefits. Having internalised Job, I find myself more effective at evaluating others’ arguments about the book and more adept at marshalling supporting evidence for my own. I am better able to register lexical and thematic connections across different sections and voices in the book—what scholars call ‘intratextuality’. As my eyes fixated on each word of Job and my mind grasped for memory aids, I started appreciating the exquisiteness of this notoriously gnarly Hebrew text. Though I realise that I catch a mere fraction of Job’s brilliance and artistry, I have marvelled at its word play, sound play, and witty repetitions that weave through the text and stitch it together.

Memorising the whole book makes its length feel costly, since every word penned means more minutes of pacing for me. Inevitably, I would ask why everything within Job is included, especially since so much of the dialogue between human characters (chs. 3–37) seems tediously unproductive. But what if the book is long on purpose? What might it be doing to the reader as she progresses on a Joban journey of 42 chapters? I have become convinced that one literary effect of the book’s structure and style is to build the reader’s desperation for God to answer. The reader listens to the exhausting of human attempts to answer the righteous sufferer with explanations and prescriptions for his predicament. And the reader longs for the impasse to be broken by the divine voice—the only voice capable of furnishing resolution for Job, both man and book.

It has also been joyous to discover the unforeseen ways the text inculcates in me certain postures and obedience as it saturates my imagination. Job reverberates in my prayer life and conversations. I find myself reckoning daily with my creaturely limitations and the accompanying invitation to trust the God who knows what I do not understand and rules what I cannot control. I find myself more prompted to prayerful advocacy for my hurting neighbours.

The unforeseen reminds me to rejoice in the unseen. Engaging with Scripture in hope of hearing God’s voice is always an act of faith. As I survey how the Lord has already generously instructed me through Job, I am assured that God will continue to do as he pleases in my heart and life through Scripture. His work is often mysteriously quiet and slow, but it is real, deep, and lasting.

Yes, I am engaged in a wrestling match with Job. And I pray that, day by day, year by year, I may find myself losing—thoroughly subdued by, and delightedly acquiescent to, the God who keeps on answering his people in its pages.

Ellie's suggestions for memorising the Bible:

• Establish mental organisation for the text, according to its literary structure and themes. It is far easier for the mind to store ordered information than disordered. By dividing Job into chapters and then sub-dividing and sub-sub-dividing, my goal was to have a ‘searchable’ version of Job in my mind. I can access the text at the beginning of each chapter and at many other points within the chapter, lessening my reliance on sequence for recall.
• Create a system for maintaining previously learned material. Think of memorisation as meditation, and repeat the text tirelessly. For new material, I found it helpful to learn verses in the morning when my mind is freshest and then to rehearse them at some point in the afternoon or evening. When I forced my weary brain to do this for even 10 or 15 minutes later in the day, my recall the next day was much sharper.
• Be thoughtful about engaging your body as much as possible: look at the text, say it aloud, pace, create an interpretive dance (optional).