What I’ve Learned from Job’s Friends (and How I’ve Been Like Them)

I used to read the story of Job’s friends and shake my head. How could they be so blind? So unhelpful? So… wrong? They sat in silence with Job for seven days, which was their best moment. But then they opened their mouths, and it all fell apart. Instead of offering comfort, they tried to explain his suffering. Instead of empathy, they gave theology lectures. Instead of listening, they assumed they had the answers.

And then one day, it hit me. I have been them. I have spoken when I should have been silent. I have tried to explain when I should have listened. I have offered “perspective” when what someone really needed was presence.

Maybe you have too.

Job’s friends aren’t just ancient figures in an old story. They are little portraits of all of us. They remind me of how easy it is to get so caught up in trying to say something helpful that I say something hurtful. How quick I am to offer answers when I should offer my attention. How much I want suffering to make sense, as if understanding it will make it hurt less.

Their mistakes aren’t just their mistakes. They are ours.

When We Try to Fix What Can’t Be Fixed

Job was in unimaginable pain. He had lost everything—his wealth, his health, and most devastating of all, his children. His friends started strong. They showed up. They sat with him in his grief. They wept with him. But then, instead of continuing to sit with him, they tried to fix him.

I recognize this impulse. When someone I care about is hurting, I want to help. I want to find the right words that will make things better. But more often than not, there are no “right words.” Some pain isn’t meant to be explained away. It’s meant to be carried together.

Yet I’ve done it. I’ve heard someone’s struggles and thought, well, if they had just made a different decision… as if I haven’t made some absolute disasters of my own. I’ve tried to be “helpful” by pointing out all the silver linings, as if noticing the good makes the pain disappear. And I’ve tried to offer perspective when what they really needed was for me to keep my mouth shut and pass the tissues.

Job’s friends teach me that sometimes, the best thing I can do is simply be there. Not with answers. Not with solutions. Just with my presence.

When We Assume We Know More Than We Do

Job’s friends didn’t just try to fix him. They tried to explain his suffering. They had a simple belief: good things happen to good people, and bad things happen to bad people. So if Job was suffering, then clearly, he must have done something to deserve it. Eliphaz tells him, “Consider now: Who, being innocent, has ever perished?” Translation: Come on, Job. Innocent people don’t suffer. You must have done something.

I’d love to say I have never done this. But I have. Maybe not out loud, but in my thoughts. I’ve seen people struggle and instinctively tried to find the “reason.” I’ve searched for cause and effect, as if suffering only comes to those who invite it. I’ve assumed I understood someone’s situation when in reality, I had no idea.

But Job’s story makes one thing painfully clear: we don’t always get to know the reason. And trying to force an answer can do more harm than good.

When We Get Awkward Around Grief

I think part of the reason Job’s friends started talking was because they got uncomfortable. Sitting in silence with someone in pain is hard. We feel helpless. We don’t want to make things worse. And so, instead of just being there, we try to do something—anything—to make the moment less heavy.

Or, sometimes, we go the opposite direction. We avoid it altogether.

One of the hardest things about grief is how lonely it can feel. People mean well, but they don’t know what to say or do. They don’t want to risk making things worse, so instead, they stay away. But that absence can hurt more than any clumsy words ever could.

I have done this too. I have seen someone in deep loss and thought, I don’t want to say the wrong thing. And in my fear of saying the wrong thing, I’ve said nothing at all. I’ve assumed they needed space when what they really needed was presence.

The lesson here is simple, but hard: just show up. Even if it’s awkward. Even if you don’t know what to say. Even if all you can do is sit there and say, I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.

When We Speak Truth Without Grace

Job’s friends weren’t entirely wrong in their theology. They just applied it with all the tenderness of a sledgehammer. In their minds, they were defending God’s justice. But in doing so, they misrepresented God’s heart.

I have done this too. I have told the truth in ways that weren’t helpful. I have given unsolicited advice that wasn’t needed. I have spoken with the right intentions but the wrong tone. And if I’m honest, there have been times I cared more about proving a point than truly helping the person in front of me.

The Bible tells us to speak the truth in love. If we’re not speaking truth in love, we’re not really helping. Truth without grace can wound more than heal.

What I’m Learning

Job’s friends remind me of all the ways I can get it wrong. But they also remind me of something deeper: that none of us are perfect friends.

We have all spoken when we should have been silent. We have all assumed when we should have listened. We have all, at some point, added to someone’s pain instead of easing it.

And yet—there is hope.

Job forgave his friends.

God blessed him abundantly.

His story didn’t end in pain, and ours doesn’t have to either.

So if you’ve ever been the friend who fumbled through a conversation, or the one who stayed silent out of fear, or the one who tried too hard to make sense of suffering—take heart. There is grace for us. And there is a way forward.

Jesus shows us how.

Unlike Job’s friends, who accused, misunderstood, and added to his suffering, Jesus stepped into ours. He didn’t come to explain why we hurt. He came to carry our pain on the cross. He is the friend who shows up. The friend who listens. The friend who speaks truth, but always with love.

So today, I’m asking Him to shape me into a friend who reflects His heart. To help me listen more than I speak. To remind me that my presence is more powerful than my advice. And maybe—to install a filter between my brain and my mouth while He’s at it.