Job’s Turning Point and the Forgotten Secret of Restoration

This week, a friend sent me one of those quotes that pop up on social media and make your soul either tremble or sneeze. It read:

“Do you know why Job recovered everything he had lost? Because he lost everything except his faith. He lost everything except his trust in G‑d.”

Beautiful, isn’t it? Worthy of a frame, complete with a soundtrack of celestial harps and perhaps even a pastel gradient background. But, as with most phrases dressed in spiritual profundity, this one began to itch the back of my mind. And theological itches are never solitary. They bring with them questions, astonishment and, as the Hebrews would say, a great deal of cheshbon nefesh—a deep accounting of the soul. Because, come to think of it, is it really true that Job was restored simply because he did not lose his faith? Is that all? Unshakable faith, double reward, spiritual loyalty points redeemed and voilà, everything falls back into place? Can the most unsettling book in the Bible really be resolved with an Instagram poster?

The faith that survives, but does not explain everything. Yes, it is true. Job did not lose his faith. Or at least not the kind of faith we typically define, this trembling yet firm trust that G‑d is still there, still good, even when the world collapses like a house of cards set alight. He did not curse G‑d, as his wife suggested (Job 2:9). He did not flee, though he did cry out. And oh, how he cried. In fact, if you think prayers should be polite, composed and nicely folded, then do not read Job. Or do read it, but sit down first, with a cup of tea and no expectation of emotional stability. Job does not simply ask questions. He protests. He does not understand. He demands. He bleeds in poetry. But there is something curious. The story of Job spans 42 chapters. And the turning point comes right at the end, in chapter 42, verse 10:

“And the Lord turned the captivity of Job when he prayed for his friends.”

And here, dear reader, we step into sacred and unsettling ground. The moment everything changed: from ashes to forgiveness. Take note of the detail. G‑d did not turn Job’s fortune when he endured the pain. Nor when he held on to his integrity. Not even when he silenced himself to hear G‑d speak from the whirlwind.

The turning point, the hafach (הפך), the reversal, came when Job prayed for his friends. The very same friends who had accused him, judged him and wielded theology like a weapon to wound.

And who were these friends?

• Eliphaz, the Temanite, was the first to speak. He appealed to tradition and experience. In short: “You’re suffering? Then you must have sinned. G‑d is just, and the just don’t go through this for no reason.”

• Bildad, the Shuhite, followed along the same path, only harsher. He spoke of divine justice as if it were a cold equation. “If your children died, it was because they deserved it.” Yes, he actually said that.

• Zophar, the Naamathite, was even more direct: “You should be thankful. G‑d is being kind. In truth, you deserve worse.”

These were the men who came to comfort, but instead theologised Job’s pain. Rather than embrace him, they pointed fingers. Rather than weep with him, they offered rigid doctrines, as if someone else’s suffering were a moral puzzle to be solved. Praying for them was an act of radical mercy. It was to love the unjust. To forgive the unforgivable. To intercede for those who had not only failed to console but had deepened his wounds in the name of G‑d. And it was in that gesture, so human, so divine, that the heavens moved. It seems that emunah (אמונה), faith, was necessary, yes, but not sufficient. The final key was not merely to believe, but to love. Not merely to endure, but to transform. It is not hard to have faith while waiting for G‑d to “fix everything”. But what we do with that faith is what separates the survivor from the truly restored.

The kind of faith that becomes a bridge. Job, shattered, covered in ashes, still bleeding, prays for those who wounded him. He becomes a vessel of rachamim (רחמים), of mercy. And in that moment, something shifts, not only in Job but in the very spiritual atmosphere of the story. Because he does not pray once everything is resolved. He prays from within the pain, not after it. This is where Job’s faith blossoms. Because faith that closes in on itself, clinging to “I’ll endure this because it will all be worth it”, may survive, but it does not heal. The faith that heals is the kind that opens, even while bleeding, into intercession.

Job becomes a shaliach, a messenger, an intercessor, an ambassador of peace between heaven and earth. And has this not always been what moves G‑d? When the people of Israel built the golden calf, it was Moses’ intercession that stayed G‑d’s hand (Exodus 32:11–14). When Daniel sought to understand what would come upon his people, it was through prayer that the heavens were stirred (Daniel 9). When Yeshua hung upon the cross, it was by praying for those who crucified him that he sealed the greatest act of redemption in history (Luke 23:34).

What we do with faith matters more than what we claim to believe. It is easy to say we have faith while expecting a reward. It is comforting to think that if we keep ourselves composed and do not grumble too much, G‑d will give us everything back, and more. But that would be treating the Almighty like some sort of spiritual rewards manager. Faith, in the Bible, is not currency. Faith is covenant. It is emunah, a word that carries the sense of loyalty, steadfastness and an ongoing relationship. Above all, it is a path that leads us outward, toward others.

Job was restored not because he believed, but because, even with every reason to shut down, he chose to open up. And this makes me ask: what about us? Have we used our faith as a shield of waiting, or as a bridge of transformation? Are we sitting around waiting for life to “go back to normal” simply because we “still believe”? Or is it time to take the next step, the one that forgives, that intercedes, that turns pain into a gift?

The choice to love after grief. Perhaps the greatest test of Job’s faith was not enduring without cursing, but praying for those who wounded him without expecting anything in return. That, I dare say, is mature faith. Or perhaps we should call it love in the form of faith. Job did not know he would be restored. He did not make a strategic prayer to unlock blessings. He simply prayed. He chose to love. And that made him healed, even before he was healed.

The teshuvah (תשובה), the return, the restoration, came when he turned his face toward others. And this may well be the most neglected lesson of the book: that true healing begins when faith ceases to be a defence mechanism and becomes an act of compassion. And now, what shall we do with that? My invitation today is not that you have more faith. But that you do something with the faith you already have. Pray for someone who hurt you. Forgive someone who never asked for forgiveness. Become a bridge, even while you are still in the valley.

Remember, the G‑d of Job was not silent because he was indifferent. He was waiting for the moment when suffering would cease to be a prison and become a path of mercy.

After all, faith is not just what keeps you standing. It is what, when given away, can lift others too.

And that is the only kind of faith that truly heals.

Adivalter Sfalsin