Commentary - Job 19:13-22

Bird's-eye view

In this section of Job's lament, his suffering becomes intensely personal and relational. Having dispensed with the flimsy theological frameworks of his friends, Job now provides an unvarnished catalogue of his total human abandonment. This is not just a general feeling of loneliness; it is a systematic, comprehensive, and detailed account of how every circle of human relationship, from his brothers to his wife to his servants, has been stripped away from him. He is a social leper. Crucially, Job understands the ultimate source of his trial, stating plainly that "the hand of God has smitten me." His raw cry is for simple human pity, a plea that his friends answer with more persecution. This passage is a stark portrait of a man being socially crucified, a man made an outcast by divine decree, and it serves as a profound typological foreshadowing of the ultimate dereliction suffered by Christ on the cross.

The central tension here is between God's sovereign smiting and man's sinful persecution. Job can accept the former, however mysterious, but he righteously rebukes the latter. His friends have taken on the role of God's prosecuting attorneys when they were called to be nothing more than friends. The passage is therefore a powerful lesson on the nature of true compassion in the face of suffering, and a window into the kind of relational desolation that Christ would one day bear on our behalf.

Outline

Context In Job

This passage is situated deep within the second cycle of speeches between Job and his three friends. By this point, the battle lines are clearly drawn. Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar are committed to their tidy system of retributive justice: God is just, you are suffering, therefore you must be a secret sinner. Job has consistently rejected this premise, maintaining his integrity without claiming sinless perfection. Here in chapter 19, Job's defense takes a turn. He moves from arguing his case to painting a vivid picture of his misery. This description of his utter abandonment serves a crucial purpose. It sets the stage for one of the most glorious confessions of faith in all of Scripture, which follows immediately in verses 25-27: "For I know that my Redeemer lives." The profound darkness of the alienation described here makes the light of his subsequent hope shine all the more brightly. He is a man who has lost everything and everyone, and it is from that place of absolute desolation that he will declare his unshakable trust in a living Redeemer.

Key Issues

The Social Crucifixion of a Saint

We often think of Job's suffering in terms of his boils and the loss of his possessions and children. But here, Job details a pain that is in many ways more excruciating. This is the pain of being utterly and completely alone, of having the entire fabric of your social world not just fray, but be systematically unraveled, thread by thread. And Job is under no illusions about who is holding the shears. He begins with "He has removed..." He knows this is the sovereign work of God. This is not a series of unfortunate coincidences; it is a divinely orchestrated dismantling of his life. What his friends fail to grasp is that God can do such a thing to a righteous man for His own inscrutable purposes. They see the smiting and wrongly assume the role of the executioner's assistants, adding their own persecution to God's heavy hand. Job's plea is for them to stop. He is not asking them to fix his theology, but to show him basic human kindness in the face of a divine mystery.

Verse by Verse Commentary

13 “He has removed my brothers far from me, And my acquaintances are completely estranged from me.

Job begins his inventory of loss with the active agent. "He," meaning God, is the one orchestrating this. This is a foundational point of faith for Job, even in his agony. His suffering is not random; it is administered. The first casualties are the outer circles of relationship. His brothers, his kinsmen, are not just distant; they have been "removed." His acquaintances are not just indifferent; they are "estranged," made strangers to him. The language is absolute. This is a complete and total social severing.

14 My relatives have failed, And my familiar friends have forgotten me.

He moves a step closer. Relatives, his kinsfolk who have a covenantal duty to him, have "failed." They have ceased to be what they were supposed to be. His "familiar friends," those he knew well and trusted, have not just neglected him, but "forgotten" him. It is as though he has been erased from their memory. In a world built on kinship and community, this is a form of death. To be forgotten is to cease to exist in the lives of others.

15 Those who sojourn in my house and my maidservants count me a stranger. I am a foreigner in their sight.

The alienation now penetrates the walls of his own home. The guests in his house and even his own maidservants, who are part of his household and under his authority and care, now look at him as though he were an outsider, a "foreigner." The man who was once the great patriarch of the East is now an alien in his own house. His authority and his very identity as master of the home have been nullified.

16 I call to my servant, but he does not answer; I have to implore him with my mouth.

This verse provides a specific and humiliating example of the previous statement. The social order is turned completely upside down. Job, the master, gives a command to his servant, and is met with silence. The servant simply refuses to acknowledge him. The situation is so degraded that Job, the master, must resort to begging, to imploring his own servant. This is a picture of utter social collapse and public humiliation.

17 My breath is offensive to my wife, And I am loathsome to my own brothers.

Now the pain becomes intensely intimate. His wife, the one person who should be his closest companion and comfort, is repulsed by him. His very breath, likely foul from his disease, is "offensive" to her. The physical decay creates relational distance at the most intimate level. He is "loathsome," a disgusting object, to his own brothers, the sons of his mother's womb. There is no safe harbor, no place of refuge. The rejection is total, from the outer ring of acquaintances to the very center of his family.

18 Even young children reject me; I rise up, and they speak against me.

The contempt for Job is so pervasive that even little children have learned it. They have no respect for him. When he, a great elder, stands up, they do not show deference but instead mock him and speak against him. This demonstrates that his humiliation is public, a subject of common gossip and scorn. He has become a byword, a cautionary tale that even children can ridicule.

19 All the men of my counsel abhor me, And those I love have turned against me.

This is the betrayal of his peers, his inner circle. The men he relied on for wisdom and friendship, his "confidants," now "abhor" him. The word is strong; it means to detest, to find repulsive. And in a summary statement of profound grief, he says that the very ones he loved have actively "turned against" him. This is not passive neglect; it is active opposition. This is the pain that David felt with Ahithophel, and that the Lord Jesus felt with Judas.

20 My bone clings to my skin and my flesh, And I have escaped only by the skin of my teeth.

Job turns from the social decay to the physical decay that mirrors it. He is emaciated, nothing but skin and bones. His life has been stripped down to the absolute bare minimum. The famous phrase "escaped by the skin of my teeth" likely means that he has escaped death, but with nothing left. There is nothing to him but the thin veneer of life, like the enamel on a tooth. He is alive, but just barely.

21 Pity me, pity me, O you my friends, For the hand of God has smitten me.

Here is the heart of the passage, the pivot point. After cataloging his utter desolation, he makes a direct appeal. The repetition, "Pity me, pity me," shows the depth of his desperation. He is not asking for answers. He is not asking for a theological debate. He is asking for simple, human compassion. And he gives them the reason they should grant it: "For the hand of God has smitten me." He understands the ultimate cause. He is saying, "Don't you see? God has done this. The right response to a man being crushed by God is not accusation, but pity."

22 Why do you persecute me as God does, And are not satisfied with my flesh?

This is Job's piercing counter-accusation. He makes a crucial distinction. God is smiting him, and that is a sovereign, mysterious act. But his friends are persecuting him, and that is a human sin. They have taken it upon themselves to join in God's work, but they do so with the wrong motives and in the wrong role. They are acting "as God," putting themselves in the judge's seat. The final question is a rebuke of their bloodlust. God has taken his flesh, his health, his body. But that is not enough for them. They want his reputation, his integrity, his very soul. They are like vultures, not satisfied with the carcass, but wanting to pick the bones clean.

Application

This passage holds a severe warning and a profound comfort for the church. The warning is for all of us who are tempted to be like Job's friends. When we see a brother or sister undergoing deep and inexplicable suffering, our first duty is not to be a theologian, but to be a friend. Our first response should be pity, not pronouncements. We are not called to explain the secret providence of God; we are called to sit in the ashes with the sufferer and weep. To persecute one whom God has afflicted is to join the accuser of the brethren and to heap sin upon our own heads.

The comfort is for the one who suffers. Job's experience gives a voice to the believer who feels utterly abandoned, not just by friends and family, but by God Himself. This kind of desolation is a real part of the Christian experience in a fallen world. But it is not the end of the story. Job's lament is a signpost pointing to the cross. Jesus Christ became the ultimate Job. He was removed from His brothers, estranged from His own people, betrayed by His familiar friend, and counted a foreigner. On the cross, He was stripped bare, and His cry of dereliction, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" was the cry of one who was truly smitten by the hand of God for our sakes. Because He endured the ultimate alienation, we who are in Him are assured that we will never be truly or finally forsaken. He was forgotten for a moment so that we might be remembered for eternity.