Job 15

When Bad Theology Sounds Familiar

Job 15 drops us into the middle of Job’s lament and his friends’ marathon attempt to explain it all. Job is in agony, wrestling with God, questioning the justice of his suffering. Enter Eliphaz, the first of Job’s “friends,” who speaks up again in this chapter with what he believes is divine insight. But what he actually offers is spiritual gaslighting wrapped in pious language.

As a gay man and an ex-pastor, I read Eliphaz’s speech and hear the ghosts of every Evangelical I’ve ever known who insisted I was “in deception” the moment I came out. The tone is all too familiar: performative concern, shallow theology, and a deeply condescending posture toward someone else’s pain.

Let’s start with verse 5: “Your sin prompts your mouth; you adopt the tongue of the crafty.” In modern church language, that’s “You just want an excuse to sin.” “You’re twisting Scripture to fit your desires.” For those of us in the queer community, this isn’t just a theological disagreement—it’s a painfully predictable pattern. The moment we name our truth, someone throws this kind of accusation and walks away, calling it “love.”

Eliphaz accuses Job of speaking out of sin rather than pain. Instead of sitting in solidarity with Job’s suffering, he spiritualizes Job’s grief and attributes it to moral failure. I’ve seen this over and over: a queer person comes out to their church, and instead of compassion, they’re met with character assassination. Their longing for authenticity gets dismissed as rebellion. Their desire for liberation is called depravity. It’s not new—it’s Eliphaz, 2.0.

Verse 6 continues: “Your own mouth condemns you, not mine.” Ah yes, the classic gaslight. “I’m not judging you, you’re just exposing yourself.” This is spiritual manipulation dressed as neutrality. Eliphaz wants to sound like he’s not the one condemning—but he absolutely is. He just wants Job to do the heavy lifting of self-blame.

This theology—God as judge, ready to punish anyone who steps out of line—may have been reflected in Job. But Jesus later reminds us of a different view of God. In Christ, we see a God who loves vulnerably, who pours out grace, who trusts us enough to partner with us in restoring the world. Jesus reveals the heart of God—not as a dictator, but as a compassionate, radically inclusive parent.

But let’s zoom out for a second. The God Eliphaz describes—a punitive judge, suspicious even of angels—doesn’t reflect the God revealed in Jesus. This old image of God as the ever-watching, ever-waiting punisher is one the biblical authors clung to for a time, but not the one we’re meant to stop at. The Spirit is still revealing, still unfolding truth to those willing to see. A theology that centers punishment, fear, and guilt isn’t just outdated—it’s a misrepresentation. The Spirit reveals a God who is perfect love. And guess what? Perfect love casts out fear. If your theology leads you to fear or condemnation, it’s not love. And it’s not God.

Jump to verse 9: “What do you know that we do not know?” This one hit me hard. The arrogance behind that question is thick. Eliphaz is basically saying, “Who are you to challenge us? We’re the ones with wisdom.” It’s a familiar tone to anyone who’s ever tried to challenge institutional theology from the margins. I’ve had conversations that mirror this exact sentiment—where pastors or leaders couldn’t imagine that someone outside the mainstream might have something valuable to teach them.

Lived experience is its own kind of divine curriculum. It’s not always wrapped in degrees or seminary credentials, but there are lessons you only learn through suffering. Through loss. Through being pushed to the margins. Eliphaz had the luxury of comfort—and it shows. He speaks from a place untouched by what Job has walked through, but still feels entitled to explain Job’s reality to him. Sound familiar?

Verse 10 really hits the boomer theology vibe: “The gray-haired and the aged are on our side…” When I confessed my conviction about the harm our church was doing to LGBTQ+ folks, I was met with, “Two thousand years of theology disagrees with you.” Translation: “Old straight men don’t see it that way.” And? That’s the problem. Eliphaz’s argument is that the system has worked for his people. It’s the theology of the colonizer, the one who claims truth based on historical dominance.

Let’s be real—just because something is old doesn’t make it sacred. Success in a broken system doesn’t validate the system. Sometimes, tradition is just inherited trauma with better PR.

In verse 12, Eliphaz asks: “Why has your heart carried you away?” This is another rhetorical slap in the face. It echoes what so many queer people hear when they try to explain their journey: “Who cares about your feelings?” “Your heart is deceitful.” “Your feelings don’t matter—the truth does.” 

This weaponization of “truth” is one of the most harmful things I’ve seen in religious spaces. I know feelings are inconvenient when they start revealing how hollow someone’s “truth” really is but that’s no excuse. It’s a way of dismissing vulnerability in the name of doctrine. But if your theology can’t make room for human suffering, for lament, for the nuance of experience—it’s not robust enough to hold the Spirit of God.

Verses 14–16 take a dark turn: “What are mortals, that they could be pure?” Eliphaz is now diving into low anthropology—the belief that humans are inherently vile, corrupted, and untrustworthy. This worldview has shaped much of Christian theology, and not in a good way. When you believe people are fundamentally wicked, you’ll justify nearly any oppression to “save” them. Queer people know this story well. It’s the foundation for every ex-gay ministry, every purity culture seminar, every sermon that says love must be denied for holiness to be achieved.

If you start from the belief that people are bad, you’ll always be suspicious of joy, freedom, or authenticity. Especially when it doesn’t look like yours. And you end up building an entire system that justifies violence against difference. 

But here’s the twist: Eliphaz thinks God doesn’t even trust the angels. He paints a picture of a hyper-suspicious deity, full of distrust and disdain. I reject that entirely. I think God trusts us far more than we’re comfortable with. And that trust is the scandal of grace.

In 1 Corinthians 13, Paul tells us that love always trusts. And if God is love, then God must trust. If your version of God can’t trust humanity, then it’s not the God Paul was talking about. Love without trust is fear-based control. And God doesn’t do fear-based control.

Verse 18–19 gets colonial real fast: “What the wise have declared… to whom alone the land was given.”Eliphaz really went full manifest destiny here. He is saying, “We got the land, the heritage, the wisdom—it’s proof we’re right.” This is the same logic that undergirds Christian nationalism and spiritual colonialism today. It’s the belief that because something “succeeded” in dominating others, it must be divinely endorsed. But no amount of success in an unjust system makes the system holy.

Power doesn’t make you right—it often just makes you louder.

Eliphaz demands humility and submission from Job while modeling neither. That’s not leadership—it’s hypocrisy. Today’s religious gatekeepers are often Eliphaz in new clothes: preaching grace while withholding it, demanding repentance while refusing to reflect, rebuking others from the comfort of untouched privilege.

The rest of the chapter is one long rant equating suffering with wickedness. “Bad things happen to bad people” is the foundation of Christian Supremacy. When someone inside the system suffers, it’s a test or spiritual attack. When someone outside suffers, it’s “consequences.” This thinking allows people to stay cozy in their assumptions, never having to confront the brokenness of the systems they’ve benefited from.

But here’s what I’ve learned from being queer, being rejected, and still finding God on the other side of it all: Suffering doesn’t mean you’re wicked. It might just mean you’re awake. And sometimes, the people closest to God are the ones most misunderstood by those clinging to power.

If nothing else, Eliphaz is a masterclass in what spiritual arrogance looks like. Job survived his elitist, long-winded, spiritually arrogant friend. So can we.

The truth is, some people will always try to drag us back into fear-based theology. They’ll keep resurrecting a judgmental, transactional God that justifies their anger and self-righteousness. But we don’t have to go with them.

Because while judgment still shouts from the mouths of Eliphazes everywhere, we know something deeper: God is love that transcends.

And in 2025, we don’t need 40 chapters to explain ourselves.

We can block and move on.

Mike Maeshiro is the founder of Numa, an organization dedicated to supporting individuals recovering from religious toxicity, particularly within the LGBTQ+ community. A prominent voice in both the LGBTQ+ and deconstruction movements, Mike draws on his experiences as a gay man navigating his Christian upbringing and ministry to share profound insights about faith and identity.

As a former instructor at Bethel School of Supernatural Ministry, known for his class “Discerning of Spirits,” Mike now focuses on emotional health and redemptive deconstruction. He serves as a consultant and coach for gay men transitioning away from evangelicalism, leading a team of coaches who assist those whose faith is evolving.

In addition to his advocacy, Mike is a social media influencer and thought leader, emphasizing the transformative power of living authentically and reclaiming spirituality in affirming ways.

“HUMANS MATTER MORE THAN THEOLOGY.” – MIKE MAESHIRO