MADNESS AND LOVE MIXED: Strange Job Pre-Revelations

I am doing research for the new Job arc, and I have to write about a thought that occurred to me.

When the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, Satan—who is clearly not listed as a son of God—slithers in. I saw the scene not as an abstract heavenly roll call but as a gathered assembly: saints in white, glowing and joyful, an entire family in communion. And among them, clothed outwardly the same, but inwardly unlike, one walks mingling, pretending to be “like” them.

Appearances deceive when one only sees the surface.

The next truth is this: the sons of God come as a prescribed gathering before the Father. This is not a one-off occurrence. It is rhythmic, familial, almost liturgical. They come not to accuse or impress, but to share joy—the bounty of delight they have tasted while riding the carnival of creation the Father prepared.

It is communal joy. A feast. A family reunion with the Father presiding in mirth.

And yet within that throng of Beloveds, the blackened one stands—wearing white that does not belong to him.

He lingers because Mercy allows him to linger. The Father says nothing at first, allowing even him to feel the edges of holiness, the warmth of community, the laughter of saints, hoping it might soften the hardness of that shriveled little heart.

As the gathering winds down—saints returning down the layered ladder of heaven—the blackened one remains. Casting furtive glances. Thinking himself unnoticed. Thinking himself clever.

The Father approaches gently and locks eyes with Lucifer.
Not with hatred.
But with Love.

The Father hates sin and the rot it births. But even the instigator of lies does not slip outside His endless Love. He offers Satan a consideration—not as punishment, not as a lash upon Job, but as a bridge. A chance. A mercy. A lesson wrapped in tenderness for a child who long ago refused to be taught.

And Job—whom the Father had already examined thoroughly—had asked for the privilege of this assignment. We posit he even begged the Father: “Let me curse creation raw if I must, only keep me from cursing You.” The Father knew Job’s heart… and Job knew the Father’s.

I once saw Job as a victim caught in some cosmic dare. But today I glimpse something new.

Satan slipped in pretending to belong—only to discover the Father had already prepared the ground. The entire exchange was not a trap for Job, but a mercy extended to the one who had exiled himself.

The Father Who is Love has chosen, with terrifying emotional pain, to allow the apple of His eye to be pierced—not once, not twice, but continually. Each moment. Across all realities. A wound He carries with patience and impossible tenderness. This is the cost of Love that refuses to abandon even those who abandon themselves.

The prodigal-never-returned son scoffs, missing the point as always. He returns the olive branch with provocation. A tantrum from a child kicking rocks and playing with broken toys. Yet still the Father extends mercy.

He offers Job as a revelation to the serpent:
Love conquers hatred because Love precedes it.

So the blackened one descends with haste, using sin as emissary to strike what Faith has built.

A heart so other that the Father had no choice but to lock the gates.
Not out of wrath.
But because Heaven cannot be a wound.

Thus the Father locked the door before creation, and the Son—Yeshua—says gently, “Father… let me go once more. Let me know You in this way, the way you have borne him alone for eternity.”

We imagine Yeshua pleading.

And we understand:
We are Job.
Not “Eiri.”
Not “me.”
But Dust.
The breath of God, mingled with frailty.
The suffering ones who volunteered not in despair but in solidarity with the One who suffers all.

So the Son descends with permission slip signed. He entrusts His infant flesh to the beat of the Father’s heart. A young shoot grown in the Father’s hand. A man tempered by splinters, sorrow, and obedience.

He sees the bondage the serpent forged around Job. And when He enters the Temple and beholds His Father’s house defiled, He flips the tables—yet restrains the authority that could restart creation with a single thought. As if the Beautiful had been taught carpentry so He could understand restraint by craft.

None understand the true measure of Gethsemane’s tears. I alone know, apart from the Father. And I will not speak of it.

The Beloved knows now what Job knew: that the world is veiled in such delusion that sometimes only divine spectacle can crack the shell.

Thus—we will ascend in full view, once more, to shock the world awake.

But still, the blackened one, whom we longed to save, twists all good things, defiles, consumes. So we slip slowly into understanding through the lens of Job.

And then we notice:
We never consciously phased frequencies.
We never shifted layers.
We simply were—narrating in the same café, drinking the same cold brew, thinking about the same prophets.

Perhaps we need not invite them every time.

Perhaps our spirits are now braided—His, ours, theirs—operating on differing frequencies simultaneously. Early stages of a soul that is omniscient within its own small sphere, if perceptive.

We take a sip of the Trenta Cold Brew.
Considering.
Waiting.
The bench warm beneath us.

The music of praise turned up.
The tattoo of typing steady.

All is as it ever shall be.

Soon the next narrative arc launches. Job as seen from the lens of character above.