When Words Won’t Do: The Ministry of Presence in Unspeakable Grief

by Bart L. Denny, Ph.D., Th.M.

One of the most difficult things I’ve ever done in ministry happened during my time as a hospital chaplain resident, learning the ropes of clinical pastoral care. It was a weekend shift (always a busy time) when I was dispatched to a “code” in the pediatric intensive care unit. My heart sank. My stomach knotted up.

The patient was a baby—just a few weeks old—who had recently undergone surgery to correct a heart defect. For what must have been forty agonizing minutes, I stood by helplessly as the medical team fought with every ounce of strength and skill to save that child’s life. Despite their herculean efforts, the baby didn’t make it.

Eventually, the tearful staff left the room and turned it over to me, the chaplain.

As I stepped in, I saw the young parents, shattered, holding the lifeless body of their child. The baby’s distraught grandparents stood nearby. I have three children of my own, now grown, but I remember loving each of them fiercely before they ever took their first breath. I could not imagine  (and still cannot imagine) what it would be like to endure that kind of heartbreak. Just putting myself in their shoes brought tears to my eyes as I entered the room.

Despite all the training I’d received, nothing prepares you for this.

When Christians Say the Wrong Thing

Well-meaning believers often rush to fill the silence of grief with words. Too often, those words that are unhelpful, even harmful.

“God needed her more than we did.” Really? I believe with all my heart that a child who dies enters the loving arms of the Almighty. But the idea that the sovereign God of the universe somehow needed someone’s baby more than their own parents did? I couldn’t believe that if it were one of my children.

Or we hear: “Heaven gained another angel.” That’s not only theologically incorrect—human beings and angels are entirely different types of created beings—it’s also emotionally tone-deaf.

And then there’s perhaps the cruelest of them all, said to some grieving parents: “You can always have another child.” Maybe not. Maybe this was their one shot after years of infertility. Even if they could have more children, I immediately ask myself which one of mine could I ever replace? Each child is irreplaceable. Unique. Loved beyond measure.

These statements, though often offered with good intentions, can deepen the ache rather than comfort the soul.

What Can You Say in a Moment Like This?

Often, nothing.

Even those who believe in the truth and hope of Scripture, as I do, don’t always feel its comfort in the immediate aftermath of tragedy. There’s a time for that healing, but it rarely comes in the first few hours or even days. The shock is too raw. The pain too fresh. That’s when we need something else.

We need presence.

The Biblical Model of Presence

In John 11, Jesus arrives at the tomb of His friend Lazarus. He knows He’s about to raise him from the dead. And yet, before He performs the miracle, Jesus simply weeps.

“Jesus wept.” (John 11:35)

He enters into the grief of those He loves. He does not rebuke them for crying. He does not immediately explain what He’s about to do. He just weeps.

The Apostle Paul calls us to follow that same pattern:

“Mourn with those who mourn.” (Romans 12:15, NIV)

Job’s story in the Old Testament teaches a similar lesson. After Job loses everything—his wealth, his health, and his ten children—his friends Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar come to comfort him. Their first instincts are spot-on:

“When they saw him from a distance, they could hardly recognize him; they began to weep aloud, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads. Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great his suffering was.” —Job 2:12–13 (NIV)

They mourned with Job. They didn’t rush to explain or fix his pain. They simply showed up and sat with him.

It was only when they opened their mouths and tried to explain the suffering that everything went wrong. In their attempt to make sense of the senseless, they inflicted further wounds.

That’s still true today.

When Silence Is the Best Ministry

Here’s the hard truth: When someone is grieving a tragedy so deep, like the loss of a child, your words, however well-intended, are likely inadequate. And that’s okay.

In fact, recognizing that you don’t know what to say is a good thing.

So what should you do?

• Be quiet. Resist the urge to speak too soon.
• Be still. Sit in the discomfort. Let silence be your companion.
• Be present. Offer your company. Stay as long as needed.

Don’t speculate on God’s plans. Don’t quote Scripture like a bandage to stop the bleeding. Just be there. Listen. Weep. Pray silently if you must. Or gently acknowledge the pain without trying to explain it away.

That’s what the ministry of presence looks like. And in moments of deep grief, it often speaks louder than any sermon ever could.

Final Thoughts

Grief, especially the grief of losing a child, is sacred ground. Don’t trample it with careless theology or trite phrases. Instead, offer what Jesus offered. What Job’s friends first offered.

Offer your tears.

Offer your presence.

Offer your love.

And trust the Holy Spirit to bring healing in His time.

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About the Author

Bart L. Denny, Ph.D., Th.M. is a pastor, leadership enthusiast, and veteran church revitalizer. He serves as the lead pastor of Pathway – A Wesleyan Church in rural western Michigan and as an adjunct instructor in the College of Theology at Grand Canyon University. A retired U.S. Navy officer, Bart holds a Ph.D. in Christian leadership and has a passion for equipping churches and leaders for faithful, gospel-centered ministry—especially in small, rural, or revitalization contexts.