Archive
The Real Question of Job
Why do bad things happen to good people? It is a good question—one that has preoccupied humanity at large from as far back as history can recall, if not further—but the asking of it implies another question. One that is, perhaps, even larger; why live a moral life at all? We live lives of moral rectitude for varying reasons; most popularly because we believe we will be rewarded for a life well lived. But the reality that suffering occurs indiscriminately to the good and the bad alike makes us question the validity of this argument, of these rules by which we live. Like Anton Chigurh asks of his victims in No Country for Old Men; “If the rule you followed brought you to this, of what use was the rule?” If the good suffer along with the evil, then of what use is it to be good? Why should one do it? What is the reason? In the book of Job, the eponymous character is described as a righteous, good, moral and humble man. Affluent and happy with a loving family and neighborly friends and friendly neighbors, he seems to be a living Thomas Kinkaid painting. In a Faustian scene, The Satan argues that Job would not be so pious and righteous if he were made to suffer. God takes the bet and thus the well-known story is set into motion, the events culminating in Job’s demand for an explanation to his suffering, and God’s equally infamous reply.
What is remarkable about this story is not what is said but rather what is implied. The story is ostensibly a framing device for the question previously asked—”Why do the good suffer alongside the wicked?” Job’s friends offer multiple explanations for his suffering but he rejects them all, declaring them to be illogical, nonsensical or patently ill-conceived. All of the theories they posit remain popular to this day and it is remarkable that they are still given credence; however, these answers serve a vital dialectical purpose; without them to compare with, God’s response would be intolerably unsettling, upsetting and nihilistic; indeed, any rational person would have thrown in the ethical towel right then and there. God’s answer is hardly an answer, amounting to “Insect! Who are you to question me?!” It was just one lightning bolt short of an evangelist revival. This response seems to highlight God’s pettiness, particularly in light of his gamble with the one popularly known as Satan—Goethe clearly read this story very closely—and his portrayal borders on heretical to mainstream religious thought, particularly among many Christian sects. All of this leads inexorably leads us back to the question at the beginning.
But what if this is not the case?
What if the question itself is simply another framing device for an even simpler, deeper and more elementally vital and practical question? Wondering—at the cosmic level—why bad things happen to good people is a cute exercise in mental gymnastics but is, practically speaking, fundamentally useless. Wondering about it does nothing to help anybody in their day to day lives. The question of suffering is a symptomatic one; solutions, not origins, are what we must seek. That quest engenders useable and viable discoveries that improve our everyday lives; medicine, technology, etc.
So what is the unstated question we infer from Job’s demand for an explanation for his—and our—suffering? The question we have to ask in the face of it is “why lead a moral life at all?” If a moral existence does not protect you from the evils of the world, then why live a moral life? Certainly there are practical reasons; the more of a jerk you are to other people, the greater the likelihood that you will be punished by others, your neighbors and society. But that is not morality. Fear of reprisal is not moral action. If you can get away with doing whatever you want—lying cheating, raping and stealing—then why wouldn’t you? Why shouldn’t you? The very desire for the acquisition of power stems in part from this belief; the more power, wealth and prestige we have, the more capable we are to do as we please. The answer found in the book of Job is astonishing in its circular simplicity.
The initial explanations for Job’s suffering, as detailed by his friends, consist of every over-pious, self-righteous platitude that you’ve ever heard: You don’t pray enough. You are being punished for sinning. God has a plan. Evil is necessary for good to exist. Ad nauseam. Job, both the reader surrogate and author avatar, is not convinced by any of the answers given to him and indeed these responses, explanations and accusations only serve to make him more miserable and frustrated, adding to his already considerable torment. And why shouldn’t they? All of these timeless answers are equally useless and upsetting. Job understands this; his righteous and pious life did nothing to prevent his misfortune. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away”, and he did both to Job in equal measure. Although he cannot possibly be aware of the celestial gamble over his life he nevertheless has every right to be upset with his creator. And toward the end of the story he indeed demands an answer of the source of his misery.
God’s answer—or non-answer as it happens—seems to be stereotypically Jewish at first; answer a question with another question; an entire series of completely rhetorical questions that effectively bully Job into shutting up and getting back in line.
Clearly God has had rabbinic training.
If this answer had come out of nowhere then it might seem a bit anti-climactic. But this stunning response occurs after every other possible explanation is given. After every other likely answer—every seemingly rational response and commonly held belief—is dismissed, God must still account for his actions. And the rhetorical questions are his manner of stating this; that there is no reason; that a moral existence–however you define it—is an irreducible primary; an axiomatic assumption; an end in itself. To put it more baldly; the reason one should live a moral life is that it is good to live a moral life. Moral action—however you define it—is its own justification. Anything else, is just vanity.
Whether or not this interpretation is correct, or even strongly argued, is of little consequence. This is a great and multi-leveled work of literature that deals with the deepest issues of life in a mature and subtle way. I can’t help but wonder if more people would take the bible seriously—as a piece of literature at least—if they were exposed to the parts of it that actually make you think.
Martinu, Rachmaninoff, and Shostakovich; a Concert Review
Last week, I attended a performance by the Pacific Symphony. The program consisted of three pieces: Martinu’s Memorial to Lidice, Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, and Shostakovich’s Symphony no.5. Carl St. Clair, in his pre-performance remarks, specifically associated the more serious pieces with Memorial day as a finale for the holiday week. The concert was illuminating in a number of ways.
The first piece, by Martinu, is hardly as well-known as the other two. A powerful and at times brutal depiction of the results of the Nazi eradication of the eponymous village, the intensity of the music left the audience breathless and the conductor took an extra few moments at the conclusion of the piece before indicating to the audience that it was, in fact, over. All in all, it was a successful performance of a less-known and somewhat difficult piece that connected seamlessly with the audience.
The Rachmaninoff was a different story.
Yuja Wang, who bowed out due to illness, was replaced at the last-minute by the 16-year-old Conrad Tao in his concert debut. The audience took this change in program gracefully and greeted the young Julliard student with warmth and open anticipation. His technique was superb, with a clarity and precision admirable for his youth; however, this precision served to be a double-edged sword. The Rhapsody is a varied and multifaceted piece requiring an approach to the piano incorporating a vast and varied array of tone, touch and technique; this so terrified the late Artur Rubinstein that he dared not play the piece while the composer was still alive. Mr. Tao, while talented and confident, seemed to approach the work with a clipped and percussive style that worked for some passages but not the work as a whole, particularly the slower and more delicate passages requiring a greater contrast and shading. This, combined with his youth and emotional inexperience, had the result of attaching to the otherwise somber or lyrical sections the lugubrious sentimentality which critics of Rachmaninoff’s music tend to detest.
His encore was Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody no.6; a stellar performance of the piece but one rhapsody too many. I am not sure of the wisdom of following a brassy Rachmaninoff piece with a coppery Liszt but the audience loved it and in truth he performed it quite well, his percussive style serving the hammering octave passages. I am convinced that his current style is more suited to the likes of Liszt, Brahms and Prokofiev. Overall it was a good performance for a 16-year-old student but left me lukewarm and wanting to hear him again after he has had time to mature.
The last half of the evening was Shostakovich’s Symphony no.5 and it was a return to the darker tone from the concert’s opening. Carl St. Clair spent a good deal of time on his pre-performance notes, describing a detailed narrative through all four movements; the piece clearly means a lot to him. While I am always happy to hear a performer’s insights on the music I feel that Mr. St. Clair went a bit overboard; a little exposition is fine but I don’t like to have too clear a picture of the music before I actually hear it—particularly if it is a new piece for me. Nevertheless; though I have never been a particular fan of Shostakovich, tonight I may have to revise my opinion. This was a masterpiece plain and simple.
Much has been said on the political importance of Shostakovich’s music. Much has been said, and denied, about his attitudes towards everything and everyone associated with Soviet Russia. Much can be said of his use of melody, harmony and structure in his music. Entire books have been written on these subjects and I have no desire to rehash them here.
I would like to take a different approach.
While much has been made of the plight of Soviet musicians, public opinion seems to waver about Shostakovich’s true beliefs and motivations. Testimony, which claims Shostakovich hated Stalin, Communism, and the entirety of the soviet state, is a highly controversial work whose veracity has been supported and challenged by everyone from soviet officials to the composer’s family. Since this is a subject I have not researched I can only approach it through the music itself. By the end of the performance I knew only one thing; no composer born and raised in a place like America could ever create music like this. No matter how dark the sensibility, or how deep the wellsprings of creativity, the imagination cannot even begin to approach the reality of what life was like for those people, in that place, at that time. The music, carefully crafted as it is, presents a raw and unvarnished spectrum of emotions; anger, bitterness, hope, joy, hatred, despair, and the sort of mocking, sarcastic humor indicative of the clown that laughs with his face while crying in his heart.
Nobody who grew up in a place like America, relatively free and prosperous, can even begin to capture these sorts of emotions with the same level of intensity as a subject of oppression no matter how vivid their internal world. This is the value of Shostakovich’s music. It gives us, a people of comparable freedom and happiness, a small but undeniable taste of what it felt like to live as victims of an oppressive totalitarion regime. I, for one, will never forget it.
Zurtlespace 