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I had risen… to a kind of awareness above the everyday, above the individual forms of loss and longing, desire and grief, toward a great, benign indifference, an indifference which is the force of life itself. This is one of the paradoxes at the heart of the world: the Whirlwind is indifferent, but this indifference is utterly, profoundly good.

The Universe doesn’t care about Job’s suffering, and will not intervene. And the Universe loves Job with the intensity and tenderness with which everything in the world is held. It’s Job’s vision which is limited, our human eyes which can’t apprehend the design, the sense of it. So that when Job cries out again all the grief his life has brought him, the Voice from the Whirlwind says to him:

Who is this whose ignorant words
smear my design with darkness?

That design—ferocious wisdom, implacable light, time’s ineluctable unfolding—is too large and brilliant for us to see, though sometimes we can feel the edge of the storm.

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