“456. ROOTS—JOB 8”

Roots—Job 8

Bildad the Shuhite now comes forward to rebuke his fallen friend, and to vindicate, as he supposes, the ways of God. “There is,” as Chalmers remarks, “sound general truth in Bildad’s affirmation respecting the dealings of God with the upright and the evil;” but the application of this “general truth” to Job in particular is his fault, and is unauthorized by anything he knew or could charitably conjecture. If the application were justifiable, it presupposes that Job had been a most consummate hypocrite: and this is assumed, or at least the matter is so stated, as to show that Bildad and the rest were in doubt respecting him, whether he were a worthless character or not. From their own knowledge, they should have concluded he was not; but their theory required them to suppose that he was. Yet even Bildad does not altogether reject the idea that he may have been sound at heart; and therefore he tells Job that if he were the man he describes himself to be, the course that became him was to put confidence in God, in the belief that He would not eventually leave him destitute, but restore him to prosperity and peace.

What gives an appearance of savage harshness to Bildad’s speech, is the cruel way in which he alludes to the loss of Job’s children—quietly taking it for granted that they had sinned, and had therefore been cut off in the midst of their iniquity. This was well suited to cut poor Job to the quick; and one is somewhat astonished at the utter want of sympathy thus flagrantly evinced by the friends who had come so far to comfort him. They were, however, good and not essentially unkind men; but they no doubt thought that they were discharging their duty to God—perhaps regarded by themselves as a painful duty—in dealing thus “faithfully,” even to harshness, with their afflicted friend.

In one part of his address, Bildad (Job_8:8-18) cites the experience of the ancients as bearing on the subject; and the passage which follows is usually regarded as a quotation, produced by him from an ancient poem. The reader will of course reexamine with increased interest, a passage which, considering the age of this controversy, must be the most ancient piece of postdiluvian poetry that remains to us. The reason which Bildad gives for this reference to the experience of former ages is curious: “For we are but of yesterday, and know nothing, because our days upon earth are a shadow.” In thus urging that they had but few opportunities of observation, compared with the men of former ages, Bildad seems plainly enough to refer to the longevity of antecedent times, compared with the age of man at the time in which he lived. This is, therefore, among other passages, of importance as helping to fix the date of the book. It shows that in the time of Job the age of man was undergoing that shortening, from generation to generation, which we know took effect in the times immediately subsequent to the Deluge, and when it became so rapid as to strike the attention of even common observers, who were able to contrast the years at which men died in their own time with the much longer duration of life in the time of their immediate ancestors. This consideration coincides with the inferences deducible from the duration of Job’s own life, in identifying the time of Job with that in which the Hebrew patriarchs lived. The decline in man’s life was then rapid, and must have appeared portentous, and old men would be continually reminded that they were but as children in years compared with their ancestors. In a later age this was less felt, as the decrease was more slow and by far shorter steps—so that it attracted less attention.

As to the passage itself, it consists of images taken from what is observed in nature. The rush and the flag come to nothing without moisture, and so without the favor of God must the hope of the hypocrite perish. Next, the hypocrite is likened to a tree, where roots are not in mire, but in stony ground, and whose branches lean upon the wall, and seem firmly supported, even as the hypocrite leans upon his house. Yet even this promising and goodly-looking tree may be cut off, and wither under the power of the sun; and then the place which knows it now will know it no more.

This image, which is so obvious as to be found in the poetry of all nations, is yet so impressive and so true, that it always strikes the attention when it occurs—is always new, always touching. No poet has perhaps wrought it out with more of true pathos and effect than Shakespeare in the mouth of the fallen Wolsey—

“This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls as I do.”

It is well remarked by Barnes, that “the image here shows the author of this old fragment to have been a careful observer of nature, and the comparison is exceedingly pertinent and striking. What more beautiful illustration of a hypocrite can there be? His roots do not strike into the earth, his piety is not planted in a rich soil. It is on the hard rock of the unconverted human heart. Yet it sends out its roots afar, seeming to flourish for a time; draws nutriment from remote objects; clings to a crag or a projecting rock, or to anything, for support—until a tempest sweeps it down to rise no more! No doubt the idea of Bildad was, that Job was just such a man.”

In this comparison there is the somewhat obscure phrase—His roots are wrapped about the heap” (Job_8:17), which, it seems to us, has been rightly interpreted to contain a reference to the fact, that a tree or plant which springs up on a rock, or in the midst of rocks, will send its roots afar for nutriment, or will enwrap them around the projecting points of rocks in order to obtain support. From the frequency with which it has occurred to our own notice, we should suppose it not unusual for trees and shrubs, growing upon the tops of cliffs or walls, to send long roots down the sides to seek nourishment and strength among the soil at the base. We are indebted to Barnes for a reference to Silliman’s (American) Journal of Science, for 1840, for what seems the most remarkable instance of this kind.

Tree growing on Wall, and extending its roots to the ground

“Upon the top of an immense boulder of limestone, some ten or twelve feet in diameter, a sapling elm was found growing. The stone was but slightly imbedded in the earth; several of its sides were raised from four to six feet above the surface; but the top of the rock was rough with crevices, and its surface, which was sloping off on one side to the earth, was covered with a thin mould. From this mould the tree had sprung up, and having thrust its roots into the crevices of the rock, it had succeeded in reaching the height of some twelve or fifteen feet. But about this period the roots on one side became loosened from their attachment, and the tree gradually declined to the opposite side, until its body was in a parallel line with the earth. The roots on the opposite side having obtained a firmer hold, afforded sufficient nourishment to sustain the plant, although they could not, alone, retain it in its vertical position. In this condition of things, the tree, as if conscious of its wants, adopted (if the term may be used) an ingenious process, in order to regain its former upright position. One of the most vigorous of the detached roots sent out a branch from its side, which, passing round a projection of the rock, again united with the parent stalk, and thus formed a perfect loop around this projection, which gave to the root an immovable attachment.

“The tree now began to recover from its bent position. Obeying the natural tendency of all plants to grow erect, and sustained by this root, which increased with unwonted vigor, in a few years it had entirely regained its vertical position, elevated, as no one could doubt who saw it, by the aid of the root which had formed this singular attachment. But this was not the only power exhibited by this remarkable tree.

“After its elevation, it flourished vigorously for several years. Some of its roots had traced the sloping side of the rock to the earth, and were buried in the soil below. Others, having embedded themselves in its furrows, had completely filled these crevices with vegetable matter. The tree still continuing to grow, concentric layers of vegetable matter were annually deposited between the alburnum and liber, until, by the force of vegetable growth alone, the rock was split from top to bottom, into three nearly equal divisions; and branches of the roots were soon found extending down through the divisions into the earth below. On visiting the tree a few months since, to take a drawing of it, we found that it had attained an altitude of fifty feet, and was four feet and a half in circumference at its base.” Note: Silliman’s American Journal of Science, vol. xxxviii. p. 59.

This is a remarkable example of something like an instinctive principle in seeking its proper good, which may be found even in the vegetable kingdom.

Dr. Duncan, in his very instructive work called “The Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons,” produces several examples of this sort, which he does not hesitate to refer to “the principle of instinct” His instances are these—

“When a tree, which requires much moisture, has been planted in a dry soil, in the vicinity of water, it has been observed, that much the greater proportion of its roots have been directed towards the water.

“Trees which have sprung up on a bare rock, will send out their roots in every direction, till they reach the soil below. Every one is familiar with this fact, who has frequented a wooded rocky district.

“A fact of a similar nature, which is noticed, I think, by Lord Kames, and which I have myself witnessed, occurred at the Abbey of Sweetheart, in Galloway, where a plane-tree, growing on the wall which surrounds the abbey, after exhausting the small quantity of soil which had collected on its site, stopped from growing for a time, and seemed to unite all its strength in sending down a root to the ground. As soon as this root had established itself in the soil, the tree began again to flourish and increase, till it grew to a considerable size.

“I have somewhere seen an account of a tree, which grew in the valley of the Earn, in Perthshire, if I mistake not, on a scanty soil, by the bank of a stream, over which, in its immediate vicinity, a foot-bridge, covered with turf, had been erected. The tree, taking advantage of this circumstance, pushed its roots through the dead turf of the bridge, till they fastened in the fertile soil, which happened to lie on the other side of the stream; and then, swelling and strengthening its new organ of communication, drew sufficient nourishment from this source to supply all the wants of its nature.” Note: Duncan’s Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons: Winter, p. 175, 176.

These statements will remind many readers of the lines in Gray’s “Elegy”—

“At the foot of yonder nodding beech

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.”

Most people probably fancy that branches and not roots are here meant; but it is a remarkable peculiarity of the beech, after sending out its roots, to recall them, as it were, to assist in supporting the base. Note: A remarkable instance of the same class of vegetable operations we find recorded in Carpenter’s Vegetable Physiology, (Edition, 1850, p. 83.) “There is a tree peculiar to tropical climates, called the Pandanus, or Screw Pine, on which the roots are always formed in somewhat of this manner. The stem is smallest at its lowest part, and it enlarges considerably above; hence it would be very unsteady without some additional support; and this is provided for by the transmission of the roots, not only from the bottom of the stem, but at different parts of its ascent. These grow downwards in the air, and are provided at their extremities with a kind of cup, which catches the rain and dew by which they are partly assisted in their elongation; when, however they have reached the ground, this falls off, and their extremities become true spongioles. When they begin to absorb nourishment from the earth, they increase greatly in diameter, and seem like so many assistant stems.”

Autor: JOHN KITTO