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Rather, when seen as a whole, Job is a book about faith. It tells the story of one man selected to undergo a staggering test of faith. His trial and response present a message that applies not just to suffering people, but to every person who lives on planet Earth. Most of the time, our visual faculties admit a narrow spectrum of "natural" light; Job temporarily lifts our blinders and reveals the supernatural activity going on behind the scenes.

To understand how the themes of faith and suffering work together in Job, it helps to think of the book as a mystery play, a "whodunit" detective story. We in the audience showed up early for a press conference in which the director explained his work (chaps. 1–2). We know in advance who did what in the play, and we understand that the personal drama on earth has its origin in a cosmic drama in heaven—the contest over Job's faith. Will he believe in God or deny him?

But then the curtains come down, and when they are raised again we see just the actors on stage. Confined within the play, they have no knowledge of the "omniscient" point of view enjoyed by the audience. Although we know the answer to the "whodunit" questions, the star detective, Job, does not. Obsessed with suffering, he spends his time on stage trying to discover what we viewers already know. He scratches himself with shards of pottery and asks trenchant questions: Why me? What did I do wrong? What is God trying to tell me?

For those of us in the "audience," Job's "whodunit" questions should be mere intellectual exercises, for we already know the answers. What has Job done? The answer is easy—he's done nothing. God himself called Job "blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil" (2:3). Why is Job suffering? We know in advance that he is not being punished. Far from it—he has been selected as the principal player in a great contest of the heavens. God is using Job to prove to Satan that a human being's faith can be genuine and selfless, not dependent on God's good gifts. Job represents the very best of the species.

Because of the glimpse "behind the curtain" afforded in chapters 1 and 2, the author of Job forfeits all elements of narrative tension but one: the question of how Job will respond. In short, it is the question of his faith.

It is a testament to the genius of the book—and the reason it has endured as a work of literature—that we can forget chapters 1 and 2 and get swept up in Job's personal anguish. He struggles with the imponderables of suffering with such force that, for the duration of the book, his questions become our questions. But we must remind ourselves that behind the lofty speeches looms the background setting of those first chapters in which the director explained in advance the nature of the contest.

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