The Power of Presence

I have a friend from college who endured a nightmare scenario. She and her husband were raising a healthy, vibrant two-year-old son who was the light of their lives. Then, in a single heartbreaking instant, everything changed. The husband was backing out of the driveway, unaware that his little boy had wandered into the front yard. In a tragic accident, he struck the child, ending a life that had only just begun. That split-second accident cost the boy his life and plunged the couple into unspeakable grief.

I ran into her at an event a few years later, and the grief was still etched in her gaze. I’ve found that parents who lose a child never truly lose that look. Standing there, I struggled to find the right words. My instinct was to fill the silence with theology—to quote a Bible verse, tell her God has a plan, or remind her that she would see her son again.

Thankfully, wisdom intervened, and I kept my mouth shut. She didn’t need a theologian; she needed a friend. I had to accept my limitations as a pastor: I cannot explain away tragedy, and I cannot fix grief. I learned that day that the most powerful thing I can offer isn’t a polished platitude or a proof text, but simply my presence. Sometimes, the most spiritual thing we can do is sit in the ashes with someone and say nothing at all.

As I have been studying the book of Job, I have been struck by the folly of his friends’ certitude as they attempted to theologize to him in his grief. The man lost his livelihood, net worth, children, health, and the respect of his wife. They came to help, perhaps with the best of intentions. In Job 3, we find the most powerful and helpful thing Job’s friends ever did.

When they first arrived, they saw the depth of his anguish, and for seven days and seven nights, they sat with him on the ground in complete silence (Job 2:13). This was their finest hour—a profound act of empathy and solidarity. They didn't try to fix him, explain his pain, or offer platitudes. They shared his suffering through the ministry of presence.

But then, they opened their mouths. And in their attempts to help, they added crushing weight to Job’s already unbearable burden. Their failure, however, becomes a powerful lesson for us. From the ashes of their bad advice, we can learn how to minister to the suffering and, in the process, examine the health of our own faith.

The friends’ initial week of silence was the perfect response. It communicated empathy, love, and a willingness to enter Job's darkness without demanding anything from him. Their mistake was believing that their presence wasn’t enough—that they needed to provide answers.

They shifted from sitting with Job to talking at him. They dispensed theological knowledge, assuming that what Job needed was an explanation for his suffering. Their words, though possibly well-intentioned, were filled with accusations and hollow-sounding truths that didn't apply to Job's situation. They tried to solve the mystery of his pain rather than simply bearing it with him.

When someone is grieving, our primary calling is not to be an encyclopedia of theological answers but an embodiment of compassionate presence. The most healing words are often not "Everything happens for a reason," but "I'm so sorry this is happening. I'm here with you." People in pain don't need our explanations; they need our empathy. Before we offer a sermon, we must first provide a shoulder.