When Grief and Faith Collide

You know that moment when grief and faith collide? When everything you thought you believed runs headfirst into the reality of what you’ve lost? It happens in hospital waiting rooms when the doctor’s face tells the story before the words come. It happens at kitchen tables when the divorce papers arrive or the job offer falls through. It happens in the quiet hours when you lie awake wondering why prayers you prayed with such certainty went unanswered.

In those moments, we discover what our faith is actually made of. The beliefs we recite on Sunday mornings suddenly feel different when Tuesday afternoon delivers news we never wanted to hear. We find ourselves caught between what we’ve always said we believe and what we feel in our bones—which is abandonment, confusion, and that haunting question: Where were you, God?

This is not a comfortable place to stand. But it may be the most honest place. Because faith that has never wrestled with disappointment is faith that has never really been tested. And faith that emerges from that wrestling—still fragile, still questioning, but still reaching toward God—might be the most authentic faith there is.

Today we meet two sisters who stood in exactly this place. Their brother had died. Their friend Jesus had arrived too late. And in the space between their grief and their hope, everything was about to change. Their encounter with Jesus is the first of several we’ll explore this season.

This Lent, we’re beginning a journey called “Witnesses: Encountering Jesus When It Matters Most.” Over the coming weeks, we’ll meet ordinary people who came face to face with Jesus during the most critical hours of his ministry—from Martha’s grief-stricken faith to Peter’s fearful denial, from Pilate’s political calculations to Mary’s Easter morning recognition.

Their stories invite us to examine our own responses when following Jesus becomes difficult, when faith costs something, and when resurrection hope seems impossible. We begin today with two sisters, a dead brother, and the question Jesus asks that changes everything. Before we go to Bethany, though, I want to show you what that kind of moment looked like for someone who spent his life explaining faith to others.

C.S. Lewis wrote The Problem of Pain and Mere Christianity—books that have guided millions through intellectual doubts about God. He spent decades explaining the Christian faith to skeptics, answering hard questions with clarity and conviction. Then his wife Joy died of cancer.

In the journal he kept afterward, published as A Grief Observed, Lewis wrote that when he turned to God in desperation, when all other help was gone, he found “a door slammed in your face.” The man who had explained suffering to others found his own explanations felt hollow when grief arrived at his door.

But Lewis didn’t stop writing. He didn’t walk away. Page by page, his journal traces the movement from that slammed door to something harder to name—a faith that had lost its polish but found its footing. Not answers, exactly. But presence. The God who had seemed absent slowly became real again, though different from before.

Lewis discovered what Martha would discover at her brother’s tomb: the faith we have before grief is not the same as the faith that emerges through it. The choice isn’t whether to feel certain. The choice is whether to keep reaching.

That’s exactly where Martha stood when Jesus finally arrived in Bethany—four days too late. The decision moment in this text is unmistakable. After declaring “I am the resurrection and the life,” Jesus looks directly at Martha and asks: “Do you believe this?” It’s one of the most direct questions Jesus poses anywhere in the Gospels—and he asks it not in a moment of triumph but in the midst of grief, disappointment, and confusion.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Notice what’s at stake for Martha. Her brother is dead. Jesus could have prevented it and didn’t. Every reason to walk away from faith is present in this moment. She could have responded with bitterness, with theological hedging, or with polite religious language that commits to nothing. Instead, she makes a confession that goes beyond what Jesus even asked: “Yes, Lord. I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

This is faith choosing to trust before understanding arrives. Martha doesn’t know Lazarus will walk out of that tomb in a few minutes. She makes her declaration while her brother is still dead, while her questions remain unanswered, while nothing has changed except that Jesus has asked her to decide.

The text presents the choice explicitly through Jesus’ question, but it also presents it implicitly through the structure of the narrative. Both sisters say the same words: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” The honest lament is identical. But Martha’s encounter includes this pivotal question that forces a response.

This pattern echoes other biblical decision moments—Joshua’s challenge to Israel (“choose this day whom you will serve”), Ruth’s commitment to Naomi, Peter’s confession when Jesus asked point-blank, “Who do you say that I am?” In each case, faith emerges not from certainty but from choice. Scripture consistently presents faith as both gift and response—God’s initiative creating space for human decision. But how does a person make that kind of choice—trusting before understanding arrives?

John Wesley understood that authentic faith must move from the head to the heart. His own spiritual journey included years of religious practice before that famous night at Aldersgate Street—a small-group Bible study in London—when his “heart was strangely warmed” and faith became personal. Martha’s confession reflects this same movement—from theological knowledge (“I know he will rise in the resurrection on the last day”) to personal trust (“I believe that you are the Messiah”).

Methodist theology names this journey through three expressions of grace. Prevenient grace was already at work in Martha’s life long before this moment—drawing her toward Jesus, preparing her heart. Justifying grace meets her in this decision, as she says yes to Jesus’ invitation. Sanctifying grace would continue shaping her faith in the days and years ahead.

The Wesleyan tradition honors both dramatic conversions and gradual awakenings. What matters is not the intensity of the moment but the authenticity of the response. Martha’s faith, forged in grief, shows us that saying yes to Jesus often happens not despite our struggles but right in the middle of them.

Jesus’ question to Martha—“Do you believe this?”—still echoes today.

Some of us have attended church for years without ever personally answering Jesus’ question. We’ve learned the songs, absorbed the stories, and shown up on Sundays. But there’s a difference between knowing about Jesus and trusting him with our lives. The move from spectator to participant often happens in moments like Martha’s—when life falls apart and we discover that cultural Christianity isn’t enough to hold us. If you’ve been circling the edges of faith, Jesus is asking you directly: Do you believe this? Not “Do you understand everything?” Just “Will you trust me?”

Others of us walked away. Maybe church hurt you. Maybe doubts piled up. Maybe life just got busy and faith quietly faded. Martha’s story offers hope: you can come to Jesus with disappointment and accusation on your lips and still find him ready to meet you. Coming back isn’t starting over—it’s coming home. The door never closed. If you’ve been distant, today can be the day you answer Jesus’ question again.

For those already following Jesus, the question invites us further in. What are you still holding back? What area of your life have you protected from God’s claim? Martha moved from general belief in resurrection to personal trust in Jesus himself. Comfortable faith becomes transformative discipleship when we stop hedging and let Jesus have access to everything—our grief, our doubts, our unanswered questions, and our whole hearts.

The good news is that Jesus meets us in our grief, not after it. He doesn’t wait for us to clean up our doubts or compose ourselves before approaching. He walks straight into the middle of our disappointment and asks his question there: “Do you believe this?”

Notice that Jesus didn’t require Martha to stop grieving before she could respond in faith. He didn’t ask her to pretend everything was fine or to have all her questions answered. He met her exactly where she was—angry, confused, heartbroken—and invited her to trust him anyway. Her faith didn’t erase her pain. It held her pain and her hope together in the same breath.

This is how grace works. God has been pursuing you long before this moment, preparing your heart through experiences you didn’t even recognize as divine wooing. Your “yes” to Jesus isn’t the beginning of God’s love for you—it’s your response to a love that has been reaching toward you all along.

And here’s the part that changes everything: the same Jesus who called Lazarus out of the tomb is calling you. Not to a faith that requires perfection. Not to a commitment you must maintain by sheer willpower. But to a relationship where grace meets you in every decision, every doubt, every day. The voice that commanded death to release its grip speaks the same word over your life: “Come out. Be free.”

So how do we respond to that invitation? How do we practice the kind of honest, reaching faith Martha showed us? As United Methodists, we make five promises when we join the church: to support the church with our prayers, presence, gifts, service, and witness.

This week, we focus on prayers—talking with God and building a real relationship through honest conversation. Martha shows us that faith doesn’t require polished words or perfect certainty. She brought her grief, her disappointment, even her accusation directly to Jesus—and that raw honesty became the ground where faith deepened.

Here’s how to live this out:

Bring your honest question to God. This week, name the specific disappointment or doubt you’ve been carrying silently. Speak it aloud in prayer. God can handle your real feelings.

Write it down. Lewis processed his grief by journaling—raw, unfiltered, honest. This week, try writing to God when prayer feels impossible. Put the slammed-door moments on paper. Sometimes faith finds its footing one sentence at a time.

Answer Jesus’ question. Before next Sunday, write your response to “Do you believe this?”—not what you think you should say, but what’s actually true right now.

Consider joining a Grace Group for accountability, growth, and encouragement as you practice honest faith with others.

We began in hospital waiting rooms and kitchen tables—those moments when grief and faith collide. Martha stood in exactly that place, her brother dead, her questions unanswered. And there, before anything changed, she chose to trust. Jesus still asks his question: “Do you believe this?” Your answer—however fragile—is enough. He meets you right there.

Will you pray with me?

God of resurrection, we reach toward you with fragile faith and honest doubt. Strengthen our “yes” when understanding hasn’t arrived. Through Christ who calls us to life. Amen.

In crafting today’s sermon, I employed AI assistants like Claude and Apple Intelligence, yet the ultimate responsibility for its content rests with me. These tools offered valuable perspectives, but the most influential sermon preparation hinges on biblical study, theological insight, personal reflection, and divine guidance. I see AI as a supportive aid to enrich the sermon process while ensuring my own voice in proclaiming the Word of God.