Catholic Commentary
The Contrasting Fate of the Wicked
20But the eyes of the wicked will fail. They will have no way to flee. Their hope will be the giving up of the spirit.”
Job 11:20 states that the eyes of the wicked will fail, depicting the spiritual consequence of wickedness through the loss of perception and hope. The verse contrasts sharply with Zophar's immediately preceding description of the righteous person's security, conveying that the wicked cannot see refuge, escape, or meaning in their existence.
The eyes of the wicked fail not as punishment from outside, but as the natural end of a soul that has practiced looking away from God until it can no longer see the light.
Catholic tradition reads the "failing eyes of the wicked" within the broader theology of the sensus spiritualis — the spiritual senses of the soul. St. Augustine, in De Trinitate (Book IX), reflects deeply on the interior eye of the mind (acies mentis), the faculty by which the soul perceives eternal truth. Sin, for Augustine, is precisely the disordering or blinding of this interior sight. The wicked person's eyes fail not as an external punishment dropped from above but as the organic consequence of turning the eyes of the soul away from the divine light. "Our heart is restless until it rests in Thee" (Confessions I.1) — and the wicked heart, refusing rest in God, finds that its very capacity for spiritual vision degrades.
St. Thomas Aquinas, commenting on similar wisdom texts, situates this within his doctrine of blindness of mind (caecitas mentis) as a daughter-sin of lust and pride (cf. Summa Theologiae II-II, q. 15): the repeated choice of lesser goods over the Supreme Good progressively dims the intellect's ability to perceive divine truth. This is not an arbitrary punishment but a participatory consequence — we become like what we gaze upon.
The Catechism of the Catholic Church (§ 1033–1035) speaks of Hell as the "state of definitive self-exclusion from communion with God," a choice ratified by one's own free will. Zophar's image — eyes that fail to find any escape — maps powerfully onto this: Hell is not God locking a door from the outside, but the soul discovering that it has, over time, looked away from the only door there is.
Pope Benedict XVI in Spe Salvi (§ 45) reflects on how a soul radically corrupted by the choice of evil loses the very capacity for the joy of God. The failing eyes are the sign of this ultimate spiritual atrophy.
For contemporary Catholics, Job 11:20 sounds a warning that cuts against the cultural tendency to treat spiritual habits as inconsequential or reversible at will. The verse teaches that the eyes of the soul are trained by use: we either practice looking toward God through prayer, Scripture, the sacraments, and acts of charity — or we practice looking away. The danger is not a single dramatic act of rejection but the slow, habitual failure of attention. A Catholic today might ask: What am I training my eyes to see? Does my daily media diet, my entertainment, my private imagination incline the eyes of my soul toward light or toward shadow? The mystical tradition — St. John of the Cross especially in The Ascent of Mount Carmel — insists that the purification of the spiritual senses is not optional tidying but the very substance of the Christian life. Concretely: a daily examination of conscience is one of the most practical ways to keep the eyes of the soul from failing — it is the practice of re-orienting sight toward truth before blindness sets in.
Commentary
Job 11:20 — "But the eyes of the wicked will fail."
The verse is structurally a sharp antithesis. Zophar has just painted a luminous portrait of the repentant person: secure, unafraid, at rest, sought out by others (11:15–19). The single Hebrew word 'ayin ("eye") carries enormous weight throughout wisdom literature. To have clear, bright eyes is to have life, discernment, and hope (cf. Ps 13:3, "lest I sleep the sleep of death; lest my enemy say, 'I have overcome him,'" where "lighten my eyes" is a plea for survival). To have "failing" (kālâ) eyes — the root suggesting completion, exhaustion, or wearing out — is to be deprived of all perception of a way forward. The wicked person strains to see refuge and finds none; they scan the horizon for escape and the horizon offers nothing.
The full Hebrew clause includes two additional images often translated as a pair: "every way of escape perishes for them, and their hope is the breathing out of life (nĕpesh)." The "failing eyes" thus anchor a triptych of despair: the eyes see nothing, the escape route vanishes, and hope itself expires with the last breath. This is not merely physical death but a death of orientation — the wicked person is already lost before dying, unable to perceive the good, unable to find the path.
Literal sense: Zophar is speaking about retributive justice as he understands it — the classic deuteronomic framework in which wickedness leads inexorably to ruin. While his theology is not wrong in principle, the drama of the Book of Job will ultimately expose its misapplication: Job is not wicked, and his suffering is not this retributive punishment. God's rebuke of Zophar and his friends at the end of the book (42:7) does not overturn the theological principle but it radically complicates its use as a diagnostic tool.
Spiritual/typological sense: The image of failing eyes reaches its deepest resonance when read against the New Testament's theology of spiritual blindness. The eyes that "fail" are those that refuse the light. In John's Gospel, the judgment of the world is precisely this: "the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light" (Jn 3:19). The wicked are not simply those who commit acts of evil; they are those who have closed their eyes to the light of grace and, having done so persistently, find that the capacity to see atrophies. This is the eschatological dimension of the verse: the soul that has trained itself not to look toward God will at last have nothing to look toward.
Job 11 is Zophar's first speech, arguably the most theologically blunt of the three friends' interventions. Zophar's confidence is remarkable — he claims to know what God thinks (11:5–6) and pronounces with certainty on the two-ways schema. Yet the book's irony is thick here: the one proclaiming that the wicked cannot see is himself failing to see accurately. Zophar becomes, in a certain sense, an unwitting embodiment of the verse he pronounces.