Ruth 1:14

Letters to the Faithful - Ruth 1:14

Berean Standard Bible

Again they wept aloud, and Orpah kissed her mother-in-law goodbye, but Ruth clung to her.

King James Bible

And they lifted up their voice, and wept again: and Orpah kissed her mother in law; but Ruth clave unto her.

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Grace, mercy, and peace be multiplied to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. I write to you, beloved brothers and sisters, not with the authority of one who stands above, but with the fellowship of one who walks beside you on the road of faith. In times of trial and uncertainty, when the winds of life scatter our plans and uproot our expectations, it is there—within the dust and ashes—that God often speaks most clearly. It is with this spirit of humble reflection that I draw your attention to a singular moment in the sacred story of Ruth, recorded in chapter one, verse fourteen:

“Then they lifted up their voices and wept again. And Orpah kissed her mother-in-law goodbye, but Ruth clung to her.”

There are few passages in Scripture as quiet and yet as profound as this one. No angel appears. No fire falls from heaven. There is no miracle, no thunder, no divine proclamation. But here, in the midst of loss, in the midst of human pain and decision, we witness something deeply holy: the moment of choosing. The moment of clinging.

The background is familiar: a famine, a journey to Moab, a family displaced, and then three graves—Elimelech, Mahlon, and Chilion. Death had spoken, and Naomi, bereft of husband and sons, resolved to return to Bethlehem, to her homeland, to whatever remnants of life still waited for her there. She turns to her daughters-in-law, both Moabites, and tells them to go back—to return to their families, to the gods of their people, to the lives they once knew. It is a reasonable plea. In her mind, there is no future for them with her. She has no more sons to give. Her bitterness is full, her heart broken, her hands empty.

And both women weep.

This is important. The weeping signifies that love was present. These were not cold, indifferent goodbyes. There was affection, history, perhaps even deep spiritual connection between these women. Both Orpah and Ruth grieved at the thought of leaving Naomi. But then comes the divergence: Orpah kisses her goodbye—and leaves. Ruth clings.

Oh, that one word: clung. Therein lies the path of the disciple.

In Hebrew, the word used for “clung” is dabaq, a word rich with meaning. It is the same word used in Genesis when a man is to “cleave” to his wife. It suggests not only physical closeness but spiritual allegiance, emotional loyalty, covenantal bond. It is no casual attachment. It is Ruth saying with her actions, “Where you go, I will go; where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people, and your God my God.” Though those words come in the following verse, it is in this moment—the clinging—that her heart is already speaking them.

We live in a generation full of Orpahs—people who feel deeply, weep sincerely, love genuinely—but when tested, they kiss and go. They do not cling. They do not stay. Their departure is not evil. It is understandable. It is not betrayal. It is human. But it is not covenant.

Dear saints, the Christian walk will present us again and again with the same crossroads. We will stand with Ruth and Orpah and look upon a Naomi—something broken, something bitter, something barren—and we will have to choose: Do I walk away, or do I cling?

We are not called to cling to every burden or every relationship, but we are most certainly called to cling to Christ, to His people, and to the narrow road He lays before us. We cling when the way is hard. We cling when the promises are obscure. We cling when others leave, not because we are stronger or better, but because something in us has heard the whisper of God saying, “This is the way. Walk in it.”

Ruth’s clinging was not merely to Naomi—it was to the God of Israel. Though she may not have fully known what she was walking into, though she was leaving behind family, culture, and future prospects, she had glimpsed something greater. She had seen enough of Naomi’s faith, even in grief, to know that there was a God worth following. And so she chose allegiance, not convenience.

This is what discipleship looks like. Not the absence of sorrow, not the assurance of prosperity, but the unwavering resolve to cling. To abide. To remain.

Jesus said, “Abide in me.” He did not say, “Feel strongly about me,” or “Remember me when it’s easy.” He said, “Abide.” Stay. Dwell. Cling.

The world respects those who follow their truth, but the kingdom honors those who cling to His truth. And His truth is often tested in the crucible of suffering, loss, and uncertainty. Ruth did not cling in a moment of clarity. She clung in a moment of clouded vision. She did not know how her story would end. She did not see Boaz on the horizon. She did not imagine herself the great-grandmother of a king. She only knew that the God of Israel was her God now, and that she belonged not in Moab but with the people of promise—even if that promise seemed distant.

So too for us. We cling in faith, not because we see the whole picture, but because we have seen enough of Jesus to trust Him with the rest.

Let us bring this word down from the lofty to the practical. What does clinging look like for us today?

It looks like reading your Bible when you don’t feel inspired.

It looks like praying when God seems silent.

It looks like showing up to serve in your church when your own life feels broken.

It looks like forgiving when it’s hard.

It looks like staying in covenant—whether in marriage, friendship, or fellowship—when every voice says walk away.

It looks like continuing to hope, even when the evidence says give up.

And for some, clinging means believing in Christ at all—believing when your past mocks you, when your pain accuses you, when your doubts whisper that maybe you’re not loved after all. But oh, beloved, you are loved. With a love stronger than death. A love that clung to a cross, that clung to the will of the Father, that clung to us even when we had nothing to offer. Jesus Himself was Ruth for us. He clung when others fled. He chose the hard road. He chose us.

May we, then, respond in kind. Let the world have its conveniences and comforts. Let the wide road boast of its many travelers. We will be among the few who cling. And in clinging, we will find life—not always easy, but always holy.

May grace sustain you. May faith strengthen you. And may the God to whom Ruth clung reveal Himself more clearly to you each day.

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Eternal Father, Maker of Heaven and Earth, we come before You with reverence and humility, acknowledging that You are the One who sees into the deep places of our hearts, who ordains our paths, and who walks with us through the valley and the wilderness. You are the God of Naomi, the Redeemer of Ruth, the One who turns mourning into joy and barrenness into fruitfulness. Today, we bow our hearts before You in reflection upon the quiet yet sacred moment recorded in Your Word—that moment when Orpah kissed her mother-in-law goodbye, but Ruth clung to her.

Lord, there is something in this moment that reaches beyond history and settles into the fabric of every soul that would follow You. It is a moment of decision, of surrender, of covenant. And so we ask You now to meet us at that same fork in the road, to search us, to reveal whether we are those who kiss and turn away or those who cling and abide.

O God, we confess that we have often chosen the easier path. We have wept, yes—we have wept over loss, over broken dreams, over unanswered prayers. But our weeping has not always turned into clinging. Sometimes we have mourned but then walked away. Sometimes we have loved but not followed. Sometimes we have desired comfort more than covenant. Forgive us, Lord. Wash us clean with the mercy that flows from Your throne. Reignite in us a heart that stays, a soul that endures, a spirit that cleaves.

Jesus, You are the greater Naomi—wounded and stricken, misunderstood and marred—and yet through Your suffering, You became the path to life. Like Ruth, we see no promises before us, no guarantees of ease, no certainty of the road ahead. But we see You. And we say with trembling hearts: where You go, we will go; where You dwell, we will dwell. You have become our God. Let nothing but death—and not even that—separate us from You.

Strengthen us, O Lord, to cling. When our hearts grow weary, when voices of reason call us back to Moab, when the road ahead looks bitter and barren—teach us to cling. Not out of religious obligation, but from the wellspring of covenant love. Let us not be people of impulse but of fidelity, not lovers of convenience but followers of the cross. May the clinging of Ruth be formed in us by Your Spirit, that we might abide in Christ even when we do not understand, even when we feel abandoned, even when the fruit has not yet come.

Holy Spirit, seal this work within us. Pierce through the noise of our circumstances and speak into the silence of our souls. Whisper the words that Ruth heard not with her ears but with her spirit—that this was a moment to choose destiny over comfort, to choose the unknown with God over the familiar without Him. Let us hear You again. Let us say yes again. Let us stay when it's easier to go.

We lift up to You those in our midst who are standing at the edge of their own Moab—those deciding whether to follow or turn back, whether to trust or retreat. Strengthen the wavering heart. Steady the feet of the discouraged. Let the same grace that drew Ruth draw them now. Let the same Spirit that stirred her stir in them a holy resolve.

And Lord, we pray also for those like Naomi, who walk in bitterness, who feel empty and forgotten, who believe the hand of God has turned against them. Reveal to them the Ruths who are clinging to their side. Open their eyes to see that Your faithfulness is often hidden in those who stay. Remind them that even in their lowest moment, You are still writing a redemptive story. That from the ashes of loss, You bring forth kings and kingdoms, and from the faith of one foreign widow You birthed a lineage that led to Christ Himself.

So now, Father, we surrender. We let go of the need to understand, and we take hold of Your hand instead. Make us those who cling. Not with clenched fists of fear, but with hearts full of hope. Let us be found faithful in the quiet moments, in the unseen decisions, in the hard yes that shapes eternity.

Let our lives testify that we did not turn back. That we chose You, again and again, when it hurt, when it cost us something, when it would have been easier to go back to what we knew. Let the record of Heaven declare that we were among the clingers. That we stayed with Jesus. That we followed the narrow road. That we held fast to the One who held fast to us.

And now, O God, fill us with the Spirit of Ruth—not in name only, but in depth of soul. Let her legacy become our pattern. Let her faith become our mirror. And let Your glory be revealed not only in the victories we see, but in the choice we make today—to cling to You, no matter the cost.

We ask all this in the precious, powerful, and matchless name of Jesus Christ, our Redeemer, our Companion, and our Coming King.

Amen.