Bird's-eye view
In this section of Job's first reply to his friend Eliphaz, we are confronted with the raw anguish of a righteous man under intolerable affliction. Job is not offering a detached theological treatise; this is a cry from the ash heap. Having just wished for a death that will not come, he now turns to defend the legitimacy of his complaint. He does this by using a series of analogies from the natural world and common human experience. His point is straightforward: creatures and men do not complain without cause. A well-fed animal is content, and a man does not gag on well-seasoned food. Job's suffering, therefore, is as real and as foul as unsalted egg whites, and his groaning is as natural as the braying of a hungry donkey. He is arguing that his lament is not baseless petulance, but rather an honest reaction to the loathsome portion God has served him. This is Job justifying his outcry, insisting that the bitterness of his words corresponds to the bitterness of his experience.
This passage forces us to grapple with the nature of righteous suffering. Job's friends operate on a tidy, two-dimensional principle: you reap what you sow, and so Job must have sown some terrible secret sin. Job, while not understanding the "why" of his predicament, knows this is not the case. He is arguing for the propriety of his groans. In doing so, he is laying the groundwork for the great problem of the book: how can a good God allow such meaningless-seeming suffering to befall a righteous man? The answer, which Job cannot yet see, is found not in an explanation of the mechanics of suffering, but in a revelation of the God who presides over it all. And for us, who live on this side of the cross, Job's cry is a dim shadow of the ultimate cry of dereliction from the lips of the only truly innocent sufferer, who took upon Himself the most loathsome food of all, which was our sin.
Clause-by-Clause Commentary
Verse 5: Does the wild donkey bray over his grass, Or does the ox low over his fodder?
Job begins his defense with two rhetorical questions, the answer to which is an obvious and resounding "no." He appeals to common sense, to the observable order of things. A wild donkey, a creature known for its untamed and stubborn nature, is perfectly content when it has a mouthful of fresh grass. It doesn't stand there braying its head off for no reason. Likewise, a domesticated ox, standing before a trough full of fodder, is not found lowing in distress. It eats. Contentment silences complaint.
The logic is simple and powerful. An animal's cry is an indicator of its need. Braying means hunger. Lowing means the trough is empty. Job is applying this principle to himself. He is saying, "My groans, my bitter words, are not random noise. They are the braying of a starving man. Eliphaz, you hear my complaints and judge them to be out of order. But you do not see my empty trough. I am not a well-fed ox, lowing out of sheer spite. I am crying out because I am in want." This is a foundational argument against the kind of counselor who tells a suffering man to simply "be quiet and trust God," without first acknowledging the reality and the weight of the pain that is causing the outcry.
Verse 6: Can something tasteless be eaten without salt, Or is there any taste in the slime of a yolk?
Job moves from the audible complaints of animals to the sensory experience of man. The subject is now taste, and the food in question is utterly bland and repulsive. The first question is whether something insipid can be eaten without salt. Salt, in the ancient world, was the fundamental element for making things palatable. To eat without salt was a sign of poverty or deep mourning. Job's point is that you cannot expect someone to consume that which is tasteless and not have a reaction.
He then sharpens the analogy with a memorably disgusting image: "the slime of a yolk," or what some translations render as "the white of an egg." The Hebrew here likely refers to the slimy, bland juice of a plant like purslane, but the image of raw egg white captures the sentiment perfectly. It is bland, textureless, and nauseating. There is no flavor, no enjoyment, nothing to commend it. Job is identifying his current lot in life, his portion from God, with this revolting substance. He is being force-fed that which is inherently disgusting. Eliphaz's words of correction are the equivalent of telling Job to smack his lips and enjoy the unsalted slime. Job is saying that you cannot separate the nature of a thing from the reaction to it. Tasteless food provokes a grimace, and his suffering provokes groans.
Verse 7: My soul refuses to touch them; They are like loathsome food to me.
Here, the analogies of the previous verses are explicitly applied to Job's own condition. His very soul, the core of his being, recoils from his circumstances. The "them" he refers to are the afflictions he is enduring, the calamities that have stripped him of everything. His reaction is not a superficial pout; it is a deep, instinctual revulsion. Just as your body would involuntarily gag on something foul, so his soul refuses this portion.
He concludes the thought by stating plainly what he had been illustrating: "They are like loathsome food to me." The word for "loathsome" here can also mean corrupt or sickening, like diseased bread. This is not just bland food; it is food that turns the stomach. Job is not merely unhappy. He is not just sad. He is nauseated by his own life. This is a man who has lost his appetite for existence itself because the plate set before him is filled with poison and rot. This is the justification for his opening lament in chapter 3. He is not cursing God, not yet, but he is refusing to call evil good. He will not pretend that his suffering is anything other than what it is: a foul, inedible, and loathsome thing.
The Gospel Connection
When we read of Job's loathsome food, our minds should be driven forward to the cross. Job was a righteous man, and he could not understand why he was being made to consume such bitterness. But on the cross, the only truly righteous man, Jesus Christ, was given the ultimate loathsome meal. He was made to drink the full cup of the wrath of God, a cup filled with the bitterness of our sin. He who knew no sin was made sin for us (2 Cor. 5:21). The unsalted slime that Job gagged on was but a foretaste of the gall and vinegar our Lord was given.
And unlike Job, whose soul refused to touch it, our Lord did not refuse. He took it. He ate the diseased bread of our rebellion and drank the sour wine of our punishment. He did this so that we, who deserved nothing but that loathsome food for all eternity, might be invited to a feast. The Lord's Supper is the great reversal of Job 6. We are given bread that is His body, and wine that is His blood. We are given the most tasteful, life-giving, and glorious meal imaginable. Christ consumed the loathsome so that we might consume the lovely. Job's honest groaning was legitimate, but Christ's suffering was substitutionary. And because He endured it, our own sufferings, as bitter as they may be, are now seasoned with the salt of redemptive purpose, and we can know that even the hardest providences are working together for our good.