I found myself, not long ago, attending a funeral. As a pastor, I have the privilege and honor of walking with families in their highest of highs and their lowest of lows. At this particular funeral, I found myself wondering, What comfort could I possibly offer, especially since faith wasn’t something this family claimed. Suffering, it turns out, isn’t as rare as we like to imagine. If the Book of Job has taught me anything, it’s that pain isn’t picky. Let’s refuse bland advice and confront suffering with guts, grace, and a willingness to admit we don’t always know what to say.

Comfort is Weird (And Sometimes Awkward)

Let’s be honest—offering comfort is uncomfortable. I’ve stood at enough funerals to know that our well-meaning words often land with a thud. “He’s in a better place” might technically be true, but tell that to someone clutching tissues while staring at a casket. The world’s comfort clichés feel hollow against real grief. “Everything happens for a reason.” “God needed another angel.” These phrases bounce off raw emotion like rain off a windshield. I’ve fumbled through my own attempts—awkward side hugs, fumbling for words, secretly wanting to escape to the church bathroom just to avoid saying something stupid.

Here’s where Job’s story gets interesting. His friends actually started well. They showed up, sat in silence for a week, and simply were present. But then they opened their mouths and became epic blunderers, turning comfort into accusations. Our discomfort with suffering often makes us avoid those who need us most. Sometimes, we would rather clean toilets than approach the grieving person at church. We’re terrified of saying the wrong thing, so we say nothing at all. Imagine if Hallmark tried writing sympathy cards for Job: “Sorry your entire family died and you’re covered in boils—hope tomorrow’s brighter!” Sometimes silence really is golden.

 

Move Towards the Suffering

Here’s the truth we don’t like to admit: when someone we care about is drowning in pain, our first instinct is often to run the other way. I’ve been there—hearing about a friend’s tragedy and suddenly finding myself reorganizing my sock drawer instead of picking up the phone. We tell ourselves we’re “giving them space,” but really? We’re protecting ourselves from the messy, uncomfortable reality of raw human suffering.

Job’s wife gives us the ultimate example of what not to do. When her husband lost everything—wealth, children, health—her brilliant counsel was: “Curse God and die” (Job 2:9). If that’s your best advice, please just stay home and water your plants instead.
Contrast that with Job’s friends initially. They traveled from distant places, sat with him for seven days in complete silence, sharing his grief without saying a word. That was a helpful presence—before they opened their mouths and ruined everything.

Sometimes showing up means being beautifully, awkwardly present. Send the text that says “thinking of you.” Sit in uncomfortable silence. Be clumsy but available. Picture a support group where everyone channels Job’s wife—thankfully, that would last exactly one session.

Honesty Isn’t Optional—Suffering in the Bible and the Church

Job’s lament in chapter 3 says what we’re all thinking but afraid to voice: “Let the day perish on which I was born.” That’s raw. That’s honest. That’s someone saying the quiet part out loud.

Sometimes, at funerals, I just want permission to grieve honestly—not perform faith for others’ comfort. The church should be where we can weep and rejoice in the same pew, sometimes in the same service.

Forced cheerfulness actually damages trust and authenticity in faith communities. When we paste on smiles and offer hollow platitudes like “everything happens for a reason,” we crush the very vulnerability that builds genuine connection.

Job’s friends sat in silence for seven days—their best contribution. Once they started talking, offering theological reasons to soothe his wounds, everything went sideways. God later affirmed Job’s honest wrestling, not his friends’ tidy explanations.

Here’s a wild thought: What if church bulletins had a “lament corner” for honest prayer requests? A space where someone could write, “I’m struggling with trusting in the Lord.” Because admitting confusion, anger, and deep sadness isn’t the opposite of faith—it’s faith working through real life.

 

Scripture, Support, and the Gospel Hope That Outlasts Platitudes

Here’s what I’ve learned from wrestling with Job’s story: not all suffering is punishment. Job proves this beautifully—he was blameless, yet suffered tremendously. This changes everything about how we approach hurting people.

I used to think I had suffering figured out. Then life hit hard, and suddenly trust and confusion coexisted in ways that made my head spin. Innocent suffering is a valid biblical concept, challenging our neat theological boxes.

The danger? Thoughtlessly quoting verses can accidentally harm. Job’s friends had decent theology but terrible application. They rubbed scriptural sand into his wounds instead of offering healing.

Picture this wild scenario: a group project where everyone’s assigned the role of “listener”—no advice allowed. Sounds crazy, right? Yet that’s exactly what Job’s friends did best during their first week of silence.

The church should cultivate a compassionate culture with more open ears and fewer quick fixes. Sometimes the most powerful response to suffering isn’t finding the perfect verse—it’s simply showing up and staying present while someone processes their pain honestly with God.

The Gift of Flawed Community and Unfinished Answers

When we look at Job’s story, we see that perfect words aren’t the point. Oftentimes, at funerals, the most meaningful moments I’ve witnessed weren’t the pristine theological explanations people offered. They were the awkward silences, the friends who showed up without knowing what to say, the community that sat with the family in the mess.

Job’s friends got it right for exactly one week—they simply showed up and said nothing. Even imperfect support can be a lifeline during pain. Breaking silence is better than pristine advice left unspoken.

The Book of Job offers space for both confusion and courage. Job’s raw honesty wasn’t rebuked by God; it was affirmed. Our communities are made stronger not by perfect words, but by honest presence.

Imagine a “Job Support Society” in your local church—people committed to moving toward suffering, not away from it. Members who understand that showing up matters more than having answers. Friends who create space for lament alongside hope.

Sometimes the most profound ministry happens when we stop trying to fix everything and simply choose to stay. In our flawed community and unfinished answers, we discover something beautiful: God’s grace working through imperfect vessels like us.

Suffering is unavoidable, but genuine support—a blend of presence, honesty, and careful counsel—can transform how we weather life’s storms. The Book of Job shows us awkward, sometimes flawed, but ultimately hopeful ways to be there for one another.