Job 1:20

Letters to the Faithful - Job 1:20

Berean Standard Bible

Then Job stood up, tore his robe, and shaved his head. He fell to the ground and worshiped,

King James Bible

Then Job arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and worshipped,

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To the faithful in Christ Jesus, scattered across every land yet united by one Spirit, one faith, one baptism, and one Lord over all, I greet you with grace and peace from God our Father and from our Lord Jesus Christ. May mercy strengthen your hearts and truth guard your paths as you walk the narrow way that leads to life. I write to you today under the weight of a holy reverence, stirred by the example of one man whose story has endured the ages and whose response to suffering bears the fragrance of heaven: Job, the blameless and upright servant of the Lord. The verse before us is Job 1:20, and it reads: “Then Job arose and tore his robe and shaved his head and fell on the ground and worshiped.”

Let us not pass quickly over the gravity of this moment, nor fail to grasp its immense spiritual weight. For in these few words is recorded the response of a man who had just received news that defies imagination: his oxen and donkeys stolen, his servants slain, his sheep and camels destroyed, his household laid waste, and, most tragically, all his children—seven sons and three daughters—taken from him in a single day. One messenger after another brought word of ruin until the final blow fell. And it is here, in the ashes of sudden loss, with grief crashing like waves upon his soul, that Job arises—not to accuse, not to curse, not to retreat in despair—but to worship.

This act alone would silence many mouths and shame many hearts. For who among us has not stumbled in lesser trials? Who has not questioned God’s goodness when provisions ran low or prayers seemed unanswered? Yet Job, who was stripped of everything in a moment, responds not by turning from God but by turning to Him. He tears his robe and shaves his head—both outward signs of mourning—but then he falls on the ground and worships. This is no ordinary act. It is the defiant praise of a man who knows his Redeemer lives, even before the Redeemer is revealed. It is the sacrifice of brokenness that pleases God far more than burnt offerings. Job does not worship because of what God has done; he worships because of who God is.

This is the heart of true apostolic endurance: not the absence of pain, but the presence of worship in the midst of it. Job did not suppress his grief. He did not pretend that nothing was lost. He wept, he mourned, he tore his robe. But neither did he allow grief to become bitterness. He brought his sorrow to the altar, and there he bowed before the One who gives and takes away. This, beloved, is what it means to live by faith. Faith does not mean that we are immune to suffering. It means we respond to suffering with worship that declares, “God is still worthy.”

We must ask ourselves in every generation: what does our worship look like when the blessings are stripped away? When we are brought low, when we are misunderstood, when we are brokenhearted—can we still fall to the ground and say, “Blessed be the name of the Lord”? The power of Job’s response is not in what he says alone, but in what he refuses to say. He does not speak against God. He does not accuse Him of injustice. He does not seek pity. He falls and worships. How rare is such worship in our day—worship that does not need a stage, a song, or a solution—just a heart that knows God is sovereign and good even in mystery.

Let us then learn from this servant of old. Let us prepare our hearts not merely for days of ease but for days of testing. For the life of the believer is not free from affliction. On the contrary, it is through many tribulations that we must enter the kingdom of God. But in affliction, we do not suffer as the world suffers. We do not grieve as those who have no hope. We do not collapse under pressure, for our foundation is Christ. When all else is shaken, He remains our rock. And when we fall, let us fall as Job fell—not into despair, but into worship.

Let this verse also be a corrective to much of modern thinking that equates blessing with outward prosperity and favor with visible success. If ever there was a man who was favored by God, it was Job. And yet he was permitted to suffer. Not because he had sinned, but because he was righteous. Not because God was absent, but because God was confident in Job’s integrity. Can God trust you with trial? Can He permit you to be tested, knowing that your worship will not falter when the winds of adversity howl around you?

Here lies practical application, brothers and sisters. We must cultivate a life of worship that is not dependent on circumstance. We must anchor our hearts in truth long before the storm comes. Do not wait for tragedy to begin seeking God. Do not wait for hardship to test your foundation. Build now on the rock. Saturate your soul with the Word. Pour out your heart in prayer. Learn to worship in the silence, in the delay, in the tension between promise and fulfillment. Then, when sorrow comes—and it will—you will not be moved.

We must also learn how to grieve in faith. Job did not pretend. He mourned deeply. God does not call us to stoicism; He calls us to surrender. It is holy to weep. It is right to mourn. But in our mourning, let us worship. Let us not mourn as the world mourns, but as those who know the tomb is empty and the throne is occupied. Let us lay our pain before the Lord and find that even in suffering, He is near. For the Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those crushed in spirit.

And finally, let us see in Job a foreshadowing of the Man of Sorrows—Jesus Christ—who, though He was sinless, suffered more than any man. He too was stripped, not only of earthly possessions but of divine fellowship upon the cross. And what did He do? He did not revile. He did not curse. He entrusted Himself to Him who judges justly. Job’s worship was a shadow of Christ’s obedience, and now we, in Christ, are called to walk the same road—not in our strength, but in His.

Therefore, beloved, do not be surprised by fiery trials. Do not let sorrow lead you to silence, nor pain to rebellion. Let your grief become your altar. Let your suffering become your song. Fall down—and worship. For the God who permitted the trial will sustain you in it, walk with you through it, and bring you out refined as gold. And when the morning comes, your testimony will be like Job’s: “I had heard of You by the hearing of the ear, but now my eyes see You.”

To Him who sits on the throne, who was and is and is to come, be all praise, honor, glory, and dominion forever and ever.

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Almighty and Eternal Father, God of majesty, truth, and mercy, we come before You with bowed heads and open hearts, seeking the posture of one who has beheld Your sovereignty even in the valley of deepest pain. You are the God who gives and the God who takes away, and yet You remain worthy of all worship, whether in abundance or in loss. You dwell in unapproachable light, and yet You draw near to the brokenhearted. You are the beginning and the end, and none of Your purposes shall fail. So today, Lord, as we remember the moment recorded in Your Word—when Your servant Job, stripped of all his children and possessions, arose, tore his robe, shaved his head, fell to the ground, and worshiped—we ask You to teach us how to worship like that.

Teach us, O God, to worship in sorrow. Teach us to bring You not only the songs from our mountaintops, but also the silence from our deserts. Teach us that worship is not a performance of happiness, but a declaration of trust. That falling to the ground in pain, with hands lifted in surrender, is no less holy than standing in the sanctuary with praise. That when we are emptied of everything, what remains is the essence of true worship: a heart that still says, “You are worthy.”

Lord, we look upon Job and we are undone. What manner of man can lose ten beloved children in a single day, see his wealth vanish like dust in the wind, and yet respond with reverence rather than rage? What kind of heart can mourn and still magnify? And we are reminded: this was not a strength that came from himself, but from You. It was the fruit of a life rooted in Your fear, anchored in Your truth. So, Father, plant in us such a faith—unyielding, unmoved by circumstance, and unseduced by comfort. A faith that does not crumble when the winds howl, but a faith that bows low and blesses Your name.

We confess, Lord, that we often struggle to trust You when Your ways are hidden. We praise You easily when our prayers are answered, when our health is strong, when our relationships thrive, and when our barns are full. But when You lead us into seasons of silence or suffering, we confess we falter. Our mouths complain. Our hearts become anxious. We cry out for understanding more than we cry out in submission. Forgive us, O God, for our shallow worship. Forgive us for the times we have measured Your goodness by our comfort rather than by Your character.

Teach us, Lord, to embrace the sacredness of suffering when it comes—not as punishment from an angry deity, but as the mysterious refinement of a holy Father. Let our worship not be contingent on the preservation of what we possess. Let it not be dictated by our circumstances. Let it rise from the deepest place within, where Your Spirit groans with ours. May we learn to say, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” May we learn to bless Your name when the answers do not come, when the pain lingers, and when heaven seems silent.

Father, we pray not only for ourselves, but for every saint enduring trials that feel unbearable. For the grieving mother who sits alone in the nursery she prepared with hope. For the widow whose home echoes with memories. For the weary father whose strength is failing beneath the weight of financial strain. For the child crying out for healing. For those who have prayed and fasted and believed—and still are waiting in the ashes. Lord, speak to their hearts and remind them that You see. That You are not far. That You have not abandoned them. That You are not only God of the outcome, but God of the process. Not only the God of healing, but the God who sits beside us in the hospital room. Not only the God of restoration, but the God who is enough, even when nothing is restored.

We thank You that Job’s worship did not end in ashes. That the story You wrote for him was not one of meaningless pain, but of tested faith and eventual restoration. That the same man who once tore his robe and shaved his head would later lift his eyes to see the fullness of Your mercy. And we thank You that You are still the Author of such stories. That no grief is the final chapter when we belong to You. That though we sow in tears, we shall reap in joy. That You do not leave us in the dust, but lift us in due season. And so we wait. We trust. We worship.

Lord, give us grace to arise when sorrow strikes. Give us the courage to acknowledge pain without bitterness. Give us the strength to fall down not in defeat, but in adoration. May we learn, like Job, to weep and to worship in the same breath. To tear our garments, but not our faith. To be broken, but not barren of praise. And may our worship, born in affliction, rise like incense before You, pleasing in Your sight.

Let our lives become altars, even in the wilderness. Let our scars become testimonies. Let our questions be swallowed up in Your eternal wisdom. And let all who see us—friends, enemies, and onlookers—be astonished not at our suffering, but at our unwavering worship. That they might ask, “What kind of God is this, that even in sorrow, His people still sing?”

To You, O Lord, be glory and honor and dominion forever and ever. Whether we are in gain or in loss, whether we are clothed in joy or clothed in mourning, whether we stand tall or fall to the ground—we will worship. For You alone are worthy.

In the holy and righteous name of Jesus Christ, who endured the cross and now wears the crown, we pray.

Amen.