Job 37:19–21

In the closing verses of Elihu's speech, humanity is brought to the edge of its own eloquence and found wanting. These three verses form a crescendo of creaturely inadequacy: we cannot instruct God, we dare not presume our words reach Him on equal terms, and our very vision is overwhelmed by the brightness He has set in the heavens. Together they prepare the ground for God's own voice from the whirlwind in the chapters immediately following.

Verse 19 — "Teach us what we will tell him" Elihu's challenge is devastatingly ironic. Throughout the book, Job and his three friends have spoken at length about God and to God, each claiming some purchase on divine reasoning. Now Elihu turns the tables: if you are so confident in your speech before the Almighty, teach the rest of us what to say. The Hebrew imperative (hôdî'ēnû) is pointed — it is the same root used of divine instruction elsewhere in the Psalms (cf. Ps 25:4). The implicit answer is silence: no one can coach another in how to address the Creator, because the very act of standing before Him exposes the bankruptcy of all rehearsed speech. The phrase "we cannot arrange our case by reason of darkness" (the full verse in Hebrew) adds an epistemological dimension: the obstacle is not merely emotional awe but cognitive darkness, a genuine limit of the human intellect when confronted with infinite being.

Verse 20 — "Will it be told him that I would speak?" This verse sharpens the dilemma into an almost absurd question. Is there a celestial messenger who will announce to God that a human wishes to speak with Him — as if God required an appointment? The rhetorical force is to expose the presumption buried in human complaint against God. Job has throughout the book demanded an audience, a legal confrontation (rîb), a day in court. Elihu now presses: do you imagine this is how the relationship between creature and Creator works? The phrase "if a man speak, surely he shall be swallowed up" (the full Hebrew line) suggests not annihilation but the absorptive incomparability of God — human words, however passionate or philosophically precise, are simply taken up into a reality so much larger that they lose their pretension to definitiveness. There is no malice in this swallowing; it is the natural consequence of the disproportion between finite speech and infinite truth.

Verse 21 — "Now men don't see the light which is bright in the skies" The shift from speech to sight is significant. Elihu has been describing the thunderstorm and the atmospheric phenomena of God's creation throughout chapters 36–37. Here he lands on an image of blinding luminosity: even the natural light God has set in the visible heavens — sunlight breaking through cloud — overwhelms human sight when it is at its most intense. How much more, then, does the uncreated light of God's own being surpass all creaturely capacity to bear or comprehend? The verse operates simultaneously at the literal, moral, and anagogical levels. Literally, it is a meteorological observation: after a storm, the clearing sky blazes so fiercely that one cannot look directly at it. Morally, it warns against the hubris of thinking our moral and intellectual vision is adequate to judge divine providence. Anagogically, it points toward the tradition of divine light — the of 1 Timothy 6:16 — that marks the limits of the via negativa in mystical theology.

Catholic tradition brings a uniquely rich set of lenses to these verses, converging on what the Catechism calls the "mystery of God" that "no human words can exhaust" (CCC 230).

The Apophatic Tradition. St. Gregory of Nyssa, whose Life of Moses meditates on Moses entering the divine darkness, and Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, whose Mystical Theology begins with the injunction to leave behind all perception and understanding, both find their scriptural warrant here. Elihu's insistence that we "cannot arrange our case" before God corresponds exactly to Dionysius's teaching that the highest knowledge of God is learned unknowing. St. Thomas Aquinas, drawing on this tradition in Summa Theologiae I, q.13, argues that no human name or concept is univocally predicated of God — precisely because God's being is of an utterly different order from created being.

Gregory the Great's Moralia in Job. This monumental commentary, arguably the most influential patristic engagement with Job, reads these verses as an allegory of the soul humbled before grace. Gregory sees Elihu's speechlessness motif as a figure of the confessor before the divine tribunal: all human self-justification must be abandoned before true absolution — and ultimately true beatitude — can be received. This connects to the sacramental theology of Penance, where the penitent's acknowledgment of inadequacy (mea culpa) is not mere ritual but a participation in creaturely truth.

Lumen Fidei and the Blinding Light. Pope Francis's encyclical Lumen Fidei (2013) opens with reflection on the paradox of divine light — that faith illumines precisely by first revealing how blind we are. Verse 21's image of overpowering brightness anticipates this: God's light does not merely supplement our natural vision but transforms and surpasses it entirely, which is why faith, not unaided reason, is the proper faculty for the encounter.

These three verses offer a corrective to one of the most pervasive spiritual maladies of contemporary Catholic life: the reduction of prayer to a well-managed conversation in which we do most of the talking. Modern Catholic devotional culture is extraordinarily verbal — novenas, chaplets, written intercession lists, spontaneous praise. None of this is wrong. But Elihu's stark question — Teach us what to say to Him — exposes what gets lost when prayer becomes primarily a vehicle for self-expression rather than an act of creaturely submission.

Practically, these verses invite the recovery of contemplative silence as a non-negotiable element of Catholic prayer. The tradition of lectio divina culminates not in reading or meditation but in contemplatio — a resting in God beyond words, corresponding exactly to the speechlessness Elihu describes. A contemporary Catholic might take this passage as a prompt to introduce deliberate silence into daily prayer: not the silence of having nothing to say, but the silence of recognizing that God's reality exceeds every formulation we could bring. Adoration before the Blessed Sacrament is perhaps the most natural Catholic context for this — kneeling before the Host, the creature before the Creator, simply present rather than articulate. As St. John Vianney reportedly said of the old peasant who sat for hours in the church: "I look at Him, and He looks at me."