Introduction
Many of you remember the AIDS crisis of the 1980s and 90s, when entire communities were dying while religious leaders proclaimed it was God’s judgment on sin. Then think back to 2020. As COVID-19 spread, how quickly did we hear voices saying this was God’s judgment on LGBTQ+ communities, liberal cities, certain nations? Well-meaning people, sincere in their faith, turned global health crises into theological weapons against the marginalized.
This sounds eerily familiar to a conversation that happened thousands of years ago, when a good man named Job lost everything, and his well-meaning friend Eliphaz showed up to help…
Eliphaz as Case Study
Eliphaz follows a devastating pattern:
1. Starts with apparent compassion
2. Quickly shifts to theological diagnosis
3. Claims divine authority for his viewpoint
4. Leaves Job more isolated and harmed
“Consider now: Who, being innocent, has ever perished? As I have observed, those who plow evil and those who sow trouble reap it.” You reap what you sow – it sounds so reasonable, so biblical, so… tidy.
Job is suffering → Only the wicked suffer → Therefore Job must be wicked.
This is what logicians call “affirming the consequent” – a classic fallacy. It’s the same logic we heard during COVID: People are dying → God punishes sin → Therefore these deaths must be God’s judgment on sin.
But here’s what Eliphaz’s beautiful, logical, agricultural theology missed: Job was righteous. The text tells us so from the beginning. Eliphaz’s theology couldn’t account for innocent suffering, so rather than questioning his theology, he questioned Job’s innocence.
And this is where Eliphaz’s pattern becomes devastatingly familiar today. When transgender people experience violence, rejection, or mental health struggles, how quickly do we hear the same theological logic? “They’re reaping what they sowed.” “This is the consequence of rejecting God’s design.” “Their suffering proves they’ve chosen the wrong path.”
Just like Eliphaz, well-meaning people take real human suffering and run it through their predetermined theological framework. Rather than asking “How can we love and support this person?” they ask “How does this person’s experience fit my understanding of God’s will?”
But what if – like Job – the suffering isn’t deserved? What if the “reaping” is actually the result of a society that rejects and marginalizes? What if our theology is causing the very suffering we then claim to explain?
Intersectional Theology as Recognition Tool
So how do we avoid becoming Eliphaz? How do we recognize when our theology is about to cause harm rather than healing? This is where intersectional theology becomes not just helpful, but essential.
Intersectional theology asks different questions. Instead of “What did this person do to deserve this?” it asks “What systems of power are at work here?” Instead of “How does this fit my theological framework?” it asks “Whose voices am I not hearing?”
When we heard those COVID judgments, intersectional awareness would have helped us notice: Who was being blamed? The already marginalized. Whose suffering was being spiritualized? Those with the least power to fight back.
Four Key Questions for Recognizing Harmful Theology:
1. “Who is being blamed?” – If it’s always the marginalized, that’s a red flag. Notice how during natural disasters, it’s never wealthy white communities being told they brought God’s judgment on themselves. It’s always the vulnerable – LGBTQ+ folks, immigrants, the poor – who somehow “deserved” the hurricane or earthquake.
2. “What voices are missing from this conversation?” – Are we hearing from those actually experiencing the suffering? When theology about transgender people is being discussed, are transgender people in the room? When someone explains why certain communities are struggling, have they actually listened to those communities tell their own stories?
3. “Does this theology increase compassion or justify distance?” – Eliphaz’s theology let him avoid truly engaging with Job’s pain. Does this theological explanation make you want to draw closer to the suffering person and help, or does it give you permission to walk away saying “Well, they brought it on themselves”?
4. “Am I explaining suffering or sitting with it?” – Sometimes the most faithful response is presence, not answers. Jesus wept with Mary and Martha at Lazarus’s tomb before he raised him from the dead. Even when you have the power to fix something, sometimes you sit in the pain first.
These aren’t just academic questions. They’re tools for love. When someone shares their pain with us, intersectional theology helps us respond like Jesus – who sat with the suffering rather than explaining it away.
Engaging Rather Than Dismissing
Now here’s where intersectional theology offers us something powerful – and different from what you might expect. When we encounter someone using Eliphaz’s approach, our first instinct might be to write them off as “the enemy.” But intersectional awareness helps us see that Eliphaz himself might be trapped in a system.
Think about it – Eliphaz genuinely believed he was helping Job. He was operating from the theological framework he’d been taught. He wasn’t malicious; he was limited.
And this matters because 73 million people just voted for policies that many of us see as harmful to marginalized communities. It’s easy to dismiss all of them as bigots or enemies. But what if many of them are more like Eliphaz – operating from limited frameworks, shaped by systems that have taught them to fear rather than embrace difference?
This doesn’t excuse the harm, but it changes how we respond. Instead of “You’re a terrible person,” we can ask “What experiences have shaped this perspective?” Instead of writing off entire communities, we can ask “How do we expand the conversation?
But let me be clear – engaging with grace doesn’t mean accepting harm. We can hold space for Eliphaz’s limitations while still calling out the damage his theology caused Job. We can seek to understand the 73 million while fiercely protecting transgender youth from harmful policies. We can build bridges without sacrificing the vulnerable on the altar of unity.
This is the both/and that intersectional theology teaches us: Both grace for the limited and protection for the harmed. Both understanding for those trapped in harmful systems and advocacy for those crushed by those same systems. Both engagement with our neighbors and boundaries that preserve dignity
The goal isn’t to convince everyone – it’s to create space for God’s limitless imagination to work, even in the most unlikely hearts.
In Conclusion
Jesus prayed in John 17, “That they may all be one” – not that they may all think alike, but that they may be one. Unity in God’s limitless imagination, not uniformity in our limited boxes.
You are not called to be Eliphaz. You are called to be agents of that limitless imagination. When you hear retribution theology being used as a weapon, you have tools to recognize it. When you encounter someone trapped in harmful frameworks, you have a model for engagement that neither excuses harm nor abandons hope.
This is your moment. In a world that wants to divide us into camps of us and them, you are called to expand the conversation. When someone says “they’re reaping what they sow” about any marginalized community, you can ask better questions. When systems try to spiritualize oppression, you can offer intersectional awareness.
Go forth as people who refuse to squeeze God’s limitless imagination into your limited boxes. Go forth as bridge-builders who protect the vulnerable while engaging the limited. Go forth singing that God’s imagination is ever on display – in all creation, big and small, in diversity at play.
The world needs your voice. The marginalized need your advocacy. And those trapped in harmful theology need your patient, persistent love. Go be the church that Job needed Eliphaz to be.
Check out the Queering Job: Writer Interview with Dr. Miche Ilana van Essen here.
Dr. Miche Ilana van Essen (she/her) is a Senior Partner at The Resonance and the Director of Operations for Transmission Ministry Collective. As a person with many intersectional identities, she has shaped her theological lens around bridge-building and embracing ambiguity. She holds a DMin from Pacific School of Religion and a MA in Global Leadership from Fuller Theological Seminary. Miche is passionate about playing sports with Stonewall Sports and making music.
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