Job is the man! It took you one word for him to ask the question and forty-two chapters to not get an answer. From beginning to end he's the man. His friends, men with meaning on their lips, spoke words that evaporated in the heat of his defense. Not one word came close to him. Not one shred of meaning struck home. The unanswered question was his pillow upon which he laid his beleaguered head. It was the air he breathed. What's the point of sitting on a dung-heap? Exactly! What is the point? He never did learn the point. Answers answers everywhere, flinging by his ears, and not one entered into his festering brain to settle his enormous pain. Not one. He insisted on living in the ugliness of faith, dark, lonely and uncertain. He is my resistant insistent reminder to reject the answer and the made point. Job is the man!