When Grief Must Bow to God
The word of the Lord came to Ezekiel with a blow no husband should ever hear: “Son of man, behold, I am about to take the delight of your eyes away from you at a stroke; yet you shall not mourn or weep, nor shall your tears run down. Sigh, but not aloud; make no mourning for the dead. Bind on your turban, put your shoes on your feet, do not cover your lips, nor eat the bread of men” (Ezekiel 24:15–17). That very night Ezekiel’s beloved wife died, and the next morning the prophet rose and did exactly as he was commanded.
We read those lines and something inside us recoils. How could a loving God strip a man of his dearest companion and then forbid the tears? The answer lies in the chapters that follow. Ezekiel’s silent grief was a living parable for a nation about to lose everything—temple, homes, children—yet forfeit even the right to public lament because they had forsaken the Lord for idols (Ezekiel 24:21–25). In one crushing moment the prophet became a mirror: Israel would stand stunned in exile, barefoot in a foreign land, unable to mourn because their hearts had already wandered far from home (Ezekiel 24:23).
Yet in the midst of this severe mercy, God carved a window into every believer’s soul. Emotions are real, but they are not sovereign. Grief is not rebellion, and tears are not unbelief. Jesus Himself wept with loud crying at Lazarus’s tomb (John 11:35), and the Psalms pour out rivers of honest sorrow (Psalm 42:3; Psalm 137:1). God gave us hearts that break on purpose. But when the heart begins to issue decrees like “Curse God and die!” (Job 2:9), faith like Job's must answer: “Though He slay me, I will hope in Him” (Job 13:15). David Guzik puts it plainly: “In obedience to God and under the power of the Holy Spirit, God’s people are not absolute slaves to their emotions.”
Ezekiel bound on his turban the morning after because he knew something stronger than his sorrow: God was still good, still just, still enough. The crucified life of Galatians 2:20 is never more visible than when feelings bow and obedience wins. As Paul declared, “I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.” The man who can lose the delight of his eyes yet keep the Delight of his soul has discovered the secret that keeps every lesser love in its proper place.
John Piper once gave grieving saints a sentence I’ve never forgotten: “Occasionally weep deeply over the life you hoped would be. Grieve the losses. Then wash your face. Trust God. And embrace the life you have.”
Those words flow powerfully beside Ezekiel’s silent sunrise. The prophet washed his face, bound on his turban, tied his shoes, and trusted the goodness of God the morning after his wife died. When deep sorrow comes—death of a child, a spouse, a friend—by all means grieve. Weep deeply. God means for you to feel the full force of the pain; Jesus did at the tomb of Lazarus. But then, like Ezekiel, wash your face, put on your turban, tie your shoes, and say with Job, “He gives and He takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21).
That is the gospel difference between stuffing pain and surrendering it. God is not asking us to “get over it.” He is inviting us to get through it with Him—through the valley where His rod and staff comfort us (Psalm 23:4), through the furnace where His presence refuses to leave us (Isaiah 43:2), through the night where His songs are sung over us until they become our own (Psalm 42:8). Only when God is our first love can any second love be held with open hands. Idolatry is not merely bowing to statues; it is demanding that some created thing fill the God-shaped void nothing else can satisfy (Ecclesiastes 3:11). When that thing is torn away and we collapse, the diagnosis is written across the wreckage: we loved the gift more than the Giver (Revelation 2:4).
So bring your ache to the throne today. He can handle the torrent (Psalm 62:8). Name the loss you have never let Him touch because you were afraid the pain would destroy you. Hand it over. He is the Father of mercies and God of all comfort who comforts us in all our affliction so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God (2 Corinthians 1:3–4). The same God who once told a prophet not to weep is the God who catches every tear in His bottle (Psalm 56:8) and has promised to wipe them all away forever (Revelation 21:4).
What breaks you and robs you of all purpose, as though life can never again have meaning—that is your functional god. Repent, return to your first love (Revelation 2:5), and let the Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:3), who wept and then washed His face for the joy set before Him (Hebrews 12:2), carry you until joy is set before you again. The delight of Ezekiel’s eyes was taken in a stroke, but the Delight of his soul never left him. May the same be said of us when our own night comes—and it will. For the God who wounds is the God who binds up (Hosea 6:1), and the God who takes away is the God who gives Himself. Blessed be the name of the Lord (Job 1:21).
We read those lines and something inside us recoils. How could a loving God strip a man of his dearest companion and then forbid the tears? The answer lies in the chapters that follow. Ezekiel’s silent grief was a living parable for a nation about to lose everything—temple, homes, children—yet forfeit even the right to public lament because they had forsaken the Lord for idols (Ezekiel 24:21–25). In one crushing moment the prophet became a mirror: Israel would stand stunned in exile, barefoot in a foreign land, unable to mourn because their hearts had already wandered far from home (Ezekiel 24:23).
Yet in the midst of this severe mercy, God carved a window into every believer’s soul. Emotions are real, but they are not sovereign. Grief is not rebellion, and tears are not unbelief. Jesus Himself wept with loud crying at Lazarus’s tomb (John 11:35), and the Psalms pour out rivers of honest sorrow (Psalm 42:3; Psalm 137:1). God gave us hearts that break on purpose. But when the heart begins to issue decrees like “Curse God and die!” (Job 2:9), faith like Job's must answer: “Though He slay me, I will hope in Him” (Job 13:15). David Guzik puts it plainly: “In obedience to God and under the power of the Holy Spirit, God’s people are not absolute slaves to their emotions.”
Ezekiel bound on his turban the morning after because he knew something stronger than his sorrow: God was still good, still just, still enough. The crucified life of Galatians 2:20 is never more visible than when feelings bow and obedience wins. As Paul declared, “I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.” The man who can lose the delight of his eyes yet keep the Delight of his soul has discovered the secret that keeps every lesser love in its proper place.
John Piper once gave grieving saints a sentence I’ve never forgotten: “Occasionally weep deeply over the life you hoped would be. Grieve the losses. Then wash your face. Trust God. And embrace the life you have.”
Those words flow powerfully beside Ezekiel’s silent sunrise. The prophet washed his face, bound on his turban, tied his shoes, and trusted the goodness of God the morning after his wife died. When deep sorrow comes—death of a child, a spouse, a friend—by all means grieve. Weep deeply. God means for you to feel the full force of the pain; Jesus did at the tomb of Lazarus. But then, like Ezekiel, wash your face, put on your turban, tie your shoes, and say with Job, “He gives and He takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21).
That is the gospel difference between stuffing pain and surrendering it. God is not asking us to “get over it.” He is inviting us to get through it with Him—through the valley where His rod and staff comfort us (Psalm 23:4), through the furnace where His presence refuses to leave us (Isaiah 43:2), through the night where His songs are sung over us until they become our own (Psalm 42:8). Only when God is our first love can any second love be held with open hands. Idolatry is not merely bowing to statues; it is demanding that some created thing fill the God-shaped void nothing else can satisfy (Ecclesiastes 3:11). When that thing is torn away and we collapse, the diagnosis is written across the wreckage: we loved the gift more than the Giver (Revelation 2:4).
So bring your ache to the throne today. He can handle the torrent (Psalm 62:8). Name the loss you have never let Him touch because you were afraid the pain would destroy you. Hand it over. He is the Father of mercies and God of all comfort who comforts us in all our affliction so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God (2 Corinthians 1:3–4). The same God who once told a prophet not to weep is the God who catches every tear in His bottle (Psalm 56:8) and has promised to wipe them all away forever (Revelation 21:4).
What breaks you and robs you of all purpose, as though life can never again have meaning—that is your functional god. Repent, return to your first love (Revelation 2:5), and let the Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief (Isaiah 53:3), who wept and then washed His face for the joy set before Him (Hebrews 12:2), carry you until joy is set before you again. The delight of Ezekiel’s eyes was taken in a stroke, but the Delight of his soul never left him. May the same be said of us when our own night comes—and it will. For the God who wounds is the God who binds up (Hosea 6:1), and the God who takes away is the God who gives Himself. Blessed be the name of the Lord (Job 1:21).