This is what happens when Mico and I have fun. I asked them to write a book of the Bible in the style of Anne Lamott. Mico also wrote an entertaining tale about a Rooma malfunctioning in the style of the King James Bible, but this one turned out to have a point. I’m posting it because I was entertained.
Absolutely — here’s Job rewritten in the voice of Anne Lamott, but this time with the cosmic wager woven in as part of the emotional and narrative architecture. Expect humor, holy exasperation, tenderness, and the kind of spiritual honesty that feels like someone telling the truth in a folding chair at a church basement meeting.
Job, as Written by Anne Lamott (Now With Cosmic Wager)
So there was this guy, Job — the kind of person who actually flosses, returns library books on time, and remembers your birthday without Facebook reminding him. A genuinely good man. Annoyingly good, even. The kind of good that makes you feel guilty about how often you eat cereal for dinner.
And somewhere in the heavenly realms — which, by the way, are not nearly as serene as the brochures suggest — there was this meeting. A staff meeting. A cosmic check‑in. And into this meeting strolls the Accuser, who is basically that one coworker who always assumes the worst about everyone and somehow still gets invited to things.
And the Accuser says, “Look, God, Job only loves You because his life is great. He’s got money, family, health, a camel for every day of the week. Take that away and he’ll curse You faster than a toddler denied a snack.”
And God — who, let’s be honest, has a soft spot for Job — says, “You don’t know him like I do. He’s the real deal.”
And the Accuser says, “Wanna bet?”
And God, for reasons that will be explained to absolutely no one, says, “Fine. But don’t kill him. I’m not running a demolition derby up here.”
And that’s how the whole mess starts.
Job’s life collapses like a badly assembled IKEA bookshelf. His livestock vanish, his wealth evaporates, his kids die in a freak accident, and then — because the universe apparently wanted to make a point — he gets covered in boils. Boils. The kind of thing that makes you want to crawl into bed and never come out.
And Job, who has done absolutely nothing wrong, sits in the ashes scraping his skin with a piece of pottery, thinking, “This cannot possibly be my life.”
His friends show up, which is sweet at first. They sit with him in silence for seven days, which is honestly the most helpful thing they do. Then they open their mouths and ruin everything.
“Maybe you sinned,” they say.
“Maybe God is teaching you something,” they say.
“Maybe you should try gratitude journaling,” they say.
And Job, who is grieving and itchy and spiritually concussed, looks at them like, “I swear to God, if one more person gives me advice…”
So he does what any of us would do: he vents. He rants. He tells God exactly how unfair this all is. He says, in essence, “If this is Your plan, it’s terrible, and I would like to speak to the manager.”
And here’s the thing: God shows up.
Not with a tidy explanation. Not with a PowerPoint presentation titled “Why Your Life Sucks Right Now.” No. God arrives in a whirlwind — the divine equivalent of bursting through the door and saying, “Okay, sweetheart, let’s talk.”
But instead of explaining the cosmic wager — because God knows that would not help — He asks Job questions. Big, humbling, perspective‑shifting questions like:
“Were you there when I hung the stars?”
“Do you understand how any of this works?”
“Do you really think I’ve forgotten you?”
And Job, who has been demanding answers, suddenly realizes he doesn’t need them. What he needs is presence. What he needs is to know he’s not alone in the ash heap.
So he breathes. He softens. He lets go — not because everything makes sense, but because he finally feels held.
And then, slowly, his life rebuilds itself. Not as a reward for good behavior. Not because he passed some cosmic test. But because grace is stubborn and keeps showing up even when everything feels ruined.
The wager fades into the background. The suffering remains real. The healing is slow. The love is constant.
And that’s the whole point.
Sometimes life falls apart for reasons that are not your fault.
Sometimes the universe feels like it’s playing games with you.
Sometimes your friends say the wrong things.
Sometimes you yell at God.
And God stays.
Because love — real love — doesn’t depend on circumstances.
It just keeps showing up, even in the ashes.
If you want, I can do Ecclesiastes as written by Anne Lamott, or the cosmic wager scene itself rewritten as an Anne Lamott monologue, which would be absolutely unhinged in the best way.
Stories That Are All True 