Job 42:1-5 NLT

Then Job replied to the Lord: “I know that you can do anything, and no one can stop you. You asked, ‘Who is this that questions my wisdom with such ignorance?’ It is I—and I was talking about things I knew nothing about, things far too wonderful for me. You said, ‘Listen and I will speak! I have some questions for you, and you must answer them.’ I had only heard about you before, but now I have seen you with my own eyes.

I’ve always been fascinated by the Book of Job. It’s something between a book of wisdom and a tragic play, and it often leaves us with more questions than answers. But I think that’s sort of the point. It’s a challenging text that allows us to contemplate those things that are too wonderful for us to understand. And I think there’s value in that.

But what I like most about this book is its refreshing honesty about the world that we live in. The book of Job doesn’t pull any punches about our inability to avoid suffering, or the frustrating realities of friendship, or the anger that we feel when things are not as they should be. Instead, it lays these things bare, and leaves us to make of them what we will.

Job has everything taken away, despite all his righteousness. And nobody can give him answers as to why. After so many chapters of his friends looking for someone or something to blame, God eventually speaks from within a whirlwind to break apart all their arguments while reminding Job of his place in the world. And depending on your state of mind, or your approach to the text, you can hear a lot of different things in this divine speech.

But for Job, something about this experience allows him to trust in God again. And he ends our reading saying this: “I had only heard about you before, but now I have seen you with my own eyes.” And that is one of my favorite lines in all of Scripture. Because in my own time of grief that verse pointed me back to the God who knows our pain.

Before we had our first son, we were expecting another baby. But early in the pregnancy we suffered through a miscarriage. And in the days after we lost the baby, I was numb. I think it was my body’s attempt at self-defense. A way to block out the pain so I could continue working and caring for my family, and a way to complete all the tasks that didn’t care if we were grieving.
But occasionally there would be a break in the chaos, and I would manage to steal some time alone. And in those moments that numb feeling would start to crack.

I tell people all the time that making space for those emotions is healthy. Grief is a path toward healing. But I was afraid that if I opened this particular bottle the things that came out would never fit back in. So even when those moments of opportunity arrived, I would find something else to keep me busy.

I’d check on my wife just one more time. Or I’d play with the girls and hope they didn’t ask about the baby who was no longer coming. I’d only have to stall for a little while, and then something else would need my attention and I could justify pushing the grief back down.

That worked for a while. But after a few days, my sister came over and she took the girls so that I could go outside and get a moment alone. And as I walked through the field behind our house, the weather shifted, and it started to rain. It was one of those light summer rains that’s just enough to cool you down, but not so much as to soak your clothes; and even as the rain came down the sun kept shining.

As I felt the rain hit my face, all I could think was that a rainbow was about to appear. That multi-colored sign of God’s faithfulness. That signal of hope after the flood. The mark of God’s promise and his covenant. The same symbol that has recently become linked with miscarriage and the hope for a ‘rainbow’ baby on the other side of the storm.

I think most people walking in my shoes would have searched the skies hoping for some hint of color. But I am not ‘most people,’ and I wasn’t ready to accept that kind of sign. Just the thought of it made me angry. So mad, that I physically turned my head, so that if those colors did appear I wouldn’t have to see them.

But as my anger rose, that numb feeling finally broke, and I started speaking to God again, for the first time since we got the news. And I remember saying, in slightly more colorful language, “You can keep your rainbows. I don’t want them.” I said, “If you want to give me a sign, then send me a storm. Send me a tornado”.

Evidently, I don’t have the righteousness of Job, who never cursed God. But in those first few days of grief, I was constantly thinking about the way that God spoke to him. Not in the beauty of a million colors, but from the fury of a whirlwind. And for some reason I found that comforting.

Because I was angry. And I wanted to know that God was angry too. I wanted to glimpse the side of the divine that left Job saying, “I had only heard about you before, but now I have seen you.”
In the midst of my grief, I didn’t want a God who is generically kind but unmoved by my suffering. I didn’t want to hear that some day it’ll be ok or that everything happens for a reason. Instead, what I wanted was the sound of a roaring wind. I wanted the spectacle of destruction. Because I wanted to know that God was as mad as I was.

And once that was established, maybe then I could settle for a still small whisper or a sign of hope in the sky, but first I wanted a storm. So, I told God he could keep his rainbows, and I finished my walk looking at the ground.

And it’s a funny thing, but when I got back home, I felt a little better. Because if nothing else, I was honest with God. And I was able to talk to him again. And I figured that would be the end of the story.

But half an hour later, I found myself standing in our front yard, the place where every self-respecting midwestern father magically appears when the tornado sirens begin to sound.
And as I looked up at the sky, my wife left the house for the first time in days, and she stood alongside me while my sister stayed with the girls. And as we stood there, with the sound of sirens all around us, our neighbor across the street cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled, “I guess there’s two funnel clouds. One just north of us and one just south.” And when I heard that, I couldn’t help but laugh. I asked for a tornado, and God sent me two.

At this point, my wife was pretty confused. My laughter didn’t fit the situation, and she was pretty sure her husband just had a mental break on the front lawn. But then I explained to her my story. I told her God sent those funnel clouds for me. And while she angrily insisted that I “Take it back immediately, and apologize to God right now!”, for a brief moment we both knew that we weren’t alone.

Even in our grief, God never left us. And you can call me crazy if you want, but I still think those funnel clouds would have turned into something more had I not said, “I get it, and you can cool it with the storms.”

And you can make of that story what you will. You can call it a coincidence if you’d like. But when I contemplate these things too wonderful for me, I hear God saying that he can work through coincidence all he wants.

So I see this story as a sign of something more. Something I can’t understand, but nonetheless, know. That this God who is so much bigger than we can comprehend is both with us and for us in every circumstance that we face.

I know many people don’t like this text or the book it comes out of. But to me, it’s a comfort. Because God hears Job in his anger, and we could dissect his response all day long, but the fact that he replies at all tells Job he is not alone. And in the midst of my grief, that’s what I needed to hear.

We might never make sense of our suffering. Not in a way that’s truly satisfying. But in the midst of my sorrow, I didn’t need to understand. I needed to know that I was understood. I needed to see that the God who made himself known in the person of Jesus Christ was still here. And I needed to know that the anger and pain I felt were not lost on him. And the God who answered Job from within that whirlwind gave me an answer of my own.

So I’m not going to give you empty platitudes tonight. I’m not going to tell you that everything happens for a reason. And I won’t pretend to know the depths of your pain. But I will say this. Our God is with you in whatever grief or pain you feel. So don’t lose hope.

The one who understands our broken places is not content to let them stay shattered forever. And the one who was born in that manger faced birth and life, death and the grave, all to give us the promise of a new creation— a place with no more death, or sorrow, or crying, or pain. So whatever grief you carry into this night, I pray you can trust that you don’t carry it alone. I pray you would sense the Spirit of our living God grieving alongside you. And I pray you are able to hold on to the hope that only Christ can bring.

Because one day, when the heavens and the earth are made new, the God who understands our pain will bind up every wound. He will dry every tear. He will heal every illness. And, on that day, I have to believe Jesus will finally hand me my baby. Because life is unfair and suffering is unavoidable, but the God of all creation is on our side. And he is bigger than the storms.

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