When Faith Weeps

Reference

Job 3:1-10, 20-26

In this sermon we explore Job’s story of faith in the midst of deep pain with empathy and honesty. This message speaks to anyone who has felt their faith falter amid suffering and unanswered questions. It reminds us that even when our faith weeps, God hears our cries and never leaves our side. Listen in for comfort, hope, and the assurance that you are not alone in your suffering.

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We are a welcoming and growing multigenerational church in Doncaster East in Melbourne with refreshing faith in Jesus Christ. We think that looks like being life-giving to the believer, surprising to the world, and strengthening to the weary and doubting.

Read the transcript

It's from Job chapter 3, verses 1–10 and 20–26 (page 786 in the red pew Bibles). If you're following along, Job speaks:

After this, Job opened his mouth and cursed the day of his birth. He said, "May the day of my birth perish, and the night that said a boy is conceived. That day—may it turn to darkness; may God above not care about it; may no light shine upon it. May gloom and utter darkness claim it once more; may a cloud settle over it; may blackness overwhelm it. That night—may thick darkness seize it; may it not be included among the days of the year, nor be entered in any of the months. May that night be barren; may no shout of joy be heard in it. May those who curse days curse that day, those who are ready to rouse Leviathan. May its morning stars become dark; may it wait for daylight in vain and not see the first rays of dawn, for it did not shut the doors of the womb on me to hide trouble from my eyes. Why is light given to those in misery, and life to the bitter of soul, to those who long for death that does not come, who search for it more than for hidden treasure, who are filled with gladness and rejoice when they reach the grave? Why is life given to a man whose way is hidden, whom God has hedged in? For sighing has become my daily food; my groans pour out like water. What I feared has come upon me; what I dreaded has happened to me. I have no peace, no quietness; I have no rest, but only turmoil."

Good morning, my name is Leili if we haven't met before. And what a privilege it is to be together on this Pentecost day listening to God's Word.

There is a side of faith we don't often talk about

It's the kind that doesn't always feel strong or cheerful. It's when we still believe, but we're tired, confused, or hurting. Many of us have been in that place, and maybe some of us are there right now.

In 1856, Charles Spurgeon, one of the greatest preachers in church history, collapsed into depression after a tragedy struck during one of his sermons. A prankster shouted "Fire!" in a packed venue and the resulting panic killed several people. Though he was not physically harmed, Spurgeon was never the same emotionally. Years later he wrote, "I have been brought very low. My spirits have been depressed so long that I could weep by the hour like a child." He also said, "I have learned to kiss the waves that throw me up against the Rock of Ages." That wave is grief. It is fear. It is despair.

But even when faith is bruised, it can still cling. This sermon is for those of us who know what it's like to feel that wave crash over our heads and still believe. And while we weep, it's about what happens when we fall on our knees—not in worship, but in despair. And yet God is still there.

Job was blameless and upright

The first two chapters of Job tell us that Job was blameless and upright. He feared God and turned away from evil. He had a large family, great wealth, and respect in the community. Then suddenly the bottom falls out—one by one, his livestock are destroyed, his servants killed, and his children found dead. Then he's afflicted with painful sores from head to toe. Job ends up sitting in ashes, scraping himself with broken pottery.

For seven days, he and his friends sit in silence. Then in chapter 3, Job finally speaks. What comes out is not a prayer, but a cry of anguish: "May the day of my birth perish." It's important to understand that Job doesn’t curse God; he curses his own existence. He wishes he had never been born.

Let's pause here. Job's words are dark. They are disturbing, but they are honest. And that honesty is faith. Because real faith does not always look like singing praise songs with a smile. Sometimes it sounds like groaning. It sounds like someone saying, "God, where are you?" Sometimes there is a space for anger, even when it's messy or not fully justified.

Have we been there? Not doubting God's existence, but feeling lost in His silence. Job asks, "Why did I not perish at birth? Why is light given to those in misery? What I feared has come upon me."

Job doesn't pretend to be strong. He doesn't clean up his grief. In our churches and even among pastors and mature Christians, there's often an expectation to stay positive, to give spiritual answers quickly, or to hide our pain. You may have heard things like, "Where is your faith? Aren't you a Christian? You shouldn't feel like this." Or, "As a pastor, aren't you supposed to have peace?" I've heard things like that myself. People have said to me, "Why are you feeling this way? Don't you trust God more than others? You're a leader—you help people. How can you be in this place?"

Well, Job reminds us that even the faithful can feel broken. Longevity as a Christian, and even leadership, does not make us immune to pain. Sometimes it deepens it.

Lament is not a lack of faith

Job reminds us that lament is not a lack of faith. It is true faith—deep, honest faith experiencing itself in the midst of pain. It's the kind of faith that stays near enough to God to cry out in confusion. Biblical lament is not complaining without direction; it is pain expressed in the presence of God. Over a third of the Psalms are laments. Lament says, "God, I still believe You're there, so I'm bringing You my sorrow."

The question "why" is deeply human. Sometimes it comes from curiosity, like when a child wants to understand the world. Other times it grows out of doubt or protest. In Job's case, it arises from the pain of a world that no longer makes sense—where suffering doesn't match what we thought we knew of God. And sometimes those "why" questions go unanswered. Not every question gets a resolution. Faith doesn't always mean certainty. It often means learning to live with mystery, trusting God in the silence between questions and answers.

I remember a few years ago I was in a season of deep uncertainty. In 2016, while we were in Turkey waiting to be sent to another country, Pedram and I were finally supposed to go to the United States after three long years. But just after receiving the good news and waiting for the next step, the door to the US was suddenly shut to Iranians. Once again, I found myself stuck in a place of waiting and uncertainty. I didn't know what the future held and felt unsettled and exposed at different moments.

I found myself asking God why.

Why am I in this situation?
Why did You allow this?
Why don't I feel safe?
Why am I not where I thought I would be?

These weren't questions born out of unbelief. They came from a place of wrestling and pain. Like Job, I wasn't trying to rebel against God; I was trying to find Him in the midst of confusion. I was searching for understanding in a season that felt completely out of control.

But something sacred happened through those questions. The Spirit did not immediately answer them, but He led me to pause, to be still, to sit in silence. And then He gently led me into prayer, not always with words, but with a quiet trust forming deep inside me. It was in that silence that I began to sense God's nearness—not in explanations, but in presence. The Spirit met me in the questions and gave me the courage to stay close to God, even without answers.

Job didn't run from God. He stayed near enough to cry out. His questions didn't disqualify his faith; they were his faith. And like Job, I'm learning that the Spirit often leads us through the questions, not around them. We are not alone in our weakness and our confusion. The Spirit meets us there not with quick fixes but with communion—sitting in the dust with us and turning our pain into prayer.

Throughout Scripture, we see faithful people who wrestled with despair:

Jeremiah cursed the day of his birth.
Elijah, exhausted and afraid, cried out, "I've had enough. Lord, take my life."
Even Moses and Jonah asked God to let them die.

These weren't moments of rebellion; they were moments of deep honesty in the presence of God. And just like with Job, God didn't reject them. He met them in their pain.

It's worth noting that Job's theology here is not perfect. He sees death as a relief and escape. But this is not the complete truth we now know through Christ. Death is not rest for all; it is a doorway to either eternal life or judgment (Hebrews 9:27). Still, God does not rebuke Job here. Why? Because Job isn't writing a theological essay. He's breaking under the weight of grief, and God receives that grief.

Martin Luther once wrote during a time of intense spiritual darkness, "I spent more than a week in death and hell. I was utterly abandoned by Christ." Even spiritual giants have walked through the valley of shadows. And as Paul says in 2 Corinthians, "When I am weak, then I am strong."

True faith wrestles; it doesn't walk away

Job loses his wealth, his children, his health, his wife's support, his friends' compassion. He is emotionally, physically, relationally, and spiritually crushed.

Job stands in every sense naked before God, and still he does not curse God. This is vital. His words are raw; his grief is real. But he speaks it out not in rebellion, but in relationship. He hasn't walked away from God; he just doesn't understand Him. That's a key difference.

Job asks, "Why is life given to the bitter of soul? Why is life given to a man whom God has hedged in?" These aren't rhetorical questions; they are personal. He wants answers.

And we've been there too. Even Jesus cried, "My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?" God is not offended by our honest questions. In fact, they may be the most honest worship we offer.

Jesus chose suffering

And Job doesn't stay stuck. His questions point forward to One greater than Job. Unlike Job, Jesus chose suffering. He stepped into pain for our sake. He too was innocent. He too was misunderstood, betrayed, and abandoned.

In Gethsemane, He said, "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death." But Jesus didn't run from the cross. He said, "Not My will, but Yours."

On the cross, Jesus bore not just sin, but sorrow. And because He rose again, our sorrow and suffering are no longer pointless; they are being transformed. This means that in our suffering, we are not abandoned. Jesus has gone before us. He is the Man of Sorrows who understands firsthand.

We don't need to fake joy when our hearts are broken. God values authenticity. He gave us the Psalms of lament for a reason.

Lord, You see my pain, but I feel alone. My tears are my food day and night. I want to trust You, but my heart is broken. Speak, Lord, even through the silence. Restore to me the hope I've lost.

Lament is a form of worship. It keeps the conversation going when we feel like giving up. If Job, Jeremiah, Elijah, Moses, and even Jesus poured out their sorrow before God, then surely we are invited to do the same.

Job's friends eventually failed him (and we'll hear more about that next week). But their silence in the beginning was beautiful. Sometimes just sitting with someone is enough.

Carry each other's burdens

We are called to carry each other's burdens (Galatians 6). Let's be that kind of church—a place where people can bring their sorrow without fear or judgment, where grief is not silenced but embraced with compassion. Sometimes healing begins when suffering is shared, and often sharing starts with a simple act of love.

Get to know one another.
Ask deep questions.
Take time for a coffee.
Listen without rushing to fix.
Pray with and for one another.
Remind each other of God's love, especially when it's hard to feel.
Sometimes it's just a text message that says, "I see you. I'm here. You are not alone."

This is how we carry each other's burdens: not by having all the answers, but by showing up with presence, kindness, and grace. When we stand with one another, we reflect the heart of Christ.

Suffering will not have the final word

The cross shows us that God doesn't avoid suffering; He enters it. And the resurrection promises that suffering will not have the final word.

Job saw shadows. We see the light, and we know one day all tears will be wiped away.

Friends, faith does weep. But it also waits.
It clings. It groans and it grows even in silence.

If all we can say today is "Why, God?" then let that be our offering. Let our tears be our prayers. God may not always give us full answers in this life, but He gives us something greater. He gives us Himself.

Last Monday at our Encounter Night, we reflected on Psalm 23. Verse 4 reminds us:

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. (Psalm 23:4)

That's the assurance we hold onto: even in despair, we are not alone. And as Job's story unfolds, he doesn't get all the answers he wants, but he meets God. So maybe in our silence, in our tears, in our questions, and in our darkest valley, we may just find a Redeemer who still lives and who walks with us.

We are not groaning alone

Here is the wonder of Pentecost: the Spirit has been poured out not to erase our pain, but to accompany us in it. In that place where words run out—where all we have are sighs or silence—Romans 8 reminds us:

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. And He who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God's people in accordance with the will of God. (Romans 8:26–27)

Romans 8 doesn't say, "Stop groaning." It says, "You groan." Creation groans. And the Spirit groans too.

He doesn't just help us pray; He becomes our prayer. Our groans are met with His groans. Our vulnerability is not a barrier to God. It's where the Spirit goes to work most intimately.

We are caught up in a divine solidarity—a holy, Trinitarian response to suffering. The Spirit doesn't stand at a distance. He comes close.

He joins us. He prays within us even when we have no words. God is not just above us or beside us, but within us. And even in our weeping, He is working.

Before we close, I want to give us a moment to breathe. To let our soul be still. To let the Holy Spirit gently surface what's buried beneath the surface.