The Lord has brought me back empty
Ruth 1
Stuff happens. You live long enough it just does.
The dream job becomes a toxic nightmare.
The house you fought to buy turns into a money pit.
The relationship that once felt full of tenderness hardens into trench warfare.
The church community that seemed so beautiful reveals fractures, wounds and dysfunction beneath the surface.
Stuff happens.
And when it does, we tend to respond in one of two ways.
Some people get crushed by it. Their hopes collapse and it paralyses them. They stop dreaming. Stop believing good things can happen to them. They survive — but only just. Half-lives.
Others swing the opposite direction. They go stoic. Keep calm and carry on. Stiff upper lip. Don’t feel too much. Don’t cry. Don’t admit weakness. Just bury it.
But buried grief doesn’t disappear.
It leaks.
Into cynicism.
Anger.
Anxiety.
Exhaustion.
Bitterness.
The Bible offers a better way.
Not despair.
Not denial.
But lament.
Lament is what happens when pain is brought into the presence of God.
The Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann puts it brilliantly:
“Lament is the language of a people who believe in God’s goodness and yet live in a world where goodness is violated.” Walter Brueggemann
“Lament is the language of a people who believe in God’s goodness and yet live in a world where goodness is violated.”
And honestly, that’s where many of us are right now.
If you’ve been around City Church Manchester for any length of time, you’ll know the past couple of years have felt a bit like riding a roller coaster in the dark.
We were told this building, Central Hall, would be renovated in February 2025, so in September 2024 we moved out into the Chamber of Commerce building on Deansgate.
Picture of Chamber of Commerce
And honestly, we loved it. It was bright, modern, clean — it smelt amazing – unlike somewhere I knw.
Then last August, I got a phone call telling me the Chamber of Commerce was going into administration, and we had ten days to leave the building.
Ten days.
Mercifully, the renovation work here had been delayed, so we were able to move back in. But we knew we needed a permanent home.
Picture of Edgar Wood building
And that led us to the Edgar Wood Centre in Victoria Park — a stunning building that genuinely seemed full of possibility.
But then the surveys came back. Revealing major repair costs.
Huge financial liabilities.
And despite lengthy negotiations, the sellers were unwilling to move sufficiently on price.
So, the purchase fell through.
And the truth is: we’ve lost something.
Now, we need perspective. Around the world today there are Christians gathering under the threat of violence.
Some have lost homes, freedom, even family members because they follow Jesus Christ.
Our loss is not that.
But it is still loss.
And loss matters.
Which means it is right — even healthy — for us to process it.
Not ignore it.
Not minimise it.
Not pretend we’re unaffected.
But to bring it before God honestly, with confidence that He hears us, cares for us, and is good.
That’s what we’re going to do today.
And to help us do it, we’re turning to Book of Ruth chapter 1.
Now Verse 1 of chapter 1 helps us get our bearings – it tells us when this happened:
“In the days when the judges ruled…” Ruth 1:1
“In the days when the judges ruled…”
That was a time of chaos.
Spiritually.
Morally.
Politically.
The Book of Judges describes a downward spiral that repeats itself over and over again.
The people rebel.
God gives them over to judgment.
They cry out for rescue.
And God raises up a judge to save them.
But every cycle gets darker.
Every leader becomes more compromised.
Every rescue more temporary.
And the whole book ends with this chilling line:
“In those days Israel had no king; everyone did as they saw fit.” Judges 21:25
“In those days Israel had no king; everyone did as they saw fit.”
That’s the backdrop to Ruth.
And it’s most probably a judgment famine that causes Elimelek to make a decision.
Verse 1 and verse 2 both emphasise it:
he goes to Moab.
That repetition matters.
Because Moab was not a neutral place.
The Moabites were famous for their immorality and oppression.
Moab represented compromise.
Hostility.
Distance from God.
And yet that’s where Elimelek runs.
Which is deeply ironic when you realise what his name means:
“My God is King.”
His very name is a confession of trust.
But when famine comes, “God is my King” leaves Bethlehem — which means the “house of bread” — and heads to Moab in search of security.
The man whose name says,
“God rules me,”
starts acting as though,
“I rule me.”
And isn’t that often how suffering exposes us?
It reveals what we actually trust.
So, Elimelek takes his family to Moab.
And at first, perhaps it looks sensible.
But then verse 3 lands with brutal simplicity:
“Now Elimelek, Naomi’s husband, died.” Ruth 1:3
“Now Elimelek, Naomi’s husband, died.”
Just like that.
And we need to feel the weight of this properly.
Because in the ancient world, a husband was not merely a romantic partner.
He was security.
Provision.
Protection.
Social standing.
Identity.
So, when Elimelek dies, Naomi doesn’t simply lose a husband.
She loses her future.
Her stability.
Even, in many ways, her sense of self.
Which helps explain what happens next.
Her sons marry Moabite women.
Now within the story, that is presented as spiritually dangerous.
But you can understand the desperation beneath it. Naomi is trying to rebuild a family. Rebuild stability. Rebuild hope.
But then the unthinkable happens again.
Both sons die.
And verse 5 leaves Naomi standing in silence:
“…Naomi was left without her two sons and her husband.” Ruth 1:5
“Naomi was left without her two sons and her husband.”
That sentence feels empty because Naomi’s life now feels empty.
Everything gone.
But then a glimmer of hope emerges.
Word reaches Naomi that the famine has ended. The house of bread has bread again.
So, she starts the journey home.
At first both daughters-in-law go. But eventually Orpah turns back.
And then Ruth speaks some of the most beautiful words in the entire Bible:
“Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God.” Ruth 1:16
“Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God.”
Words of loyalty.
Faithfulness.
Love.
And honestly, those verses deserve a sermon of their own.
But today I want us to focus primarily on Naomi.
Because I think we can learn three important things from her about how to lament.
- Convinced of God’s Sovereignty – vv 13, 21
The first thing we see in Naomi is this: she remained convinced of God’s sovereignty.
Look at verse 13:
“It is more bitter for me than for you, because the Lord’s hand has turned against me!” Ruth 1:13
“It is more bitter for me than for you, because the Lord’s hand has turned against me!”
And then verse 21:
“The Almighty has afflicted me; the Lord has brought me back empty.”
Ruth 1:21
“The Almighty has afflicted me; the Lord has brought me back empty.”
There’s a version of Christianity that works like this:
When something good happens —
the promotion,
the engagement,
the healing,
the opportunity —
we say:
“Praise the Lord! God did that!”
But when something painful happens —
the diagnosis,
the redundancy,
the disappointment —
suddenly God gets distanced from it:
“Well, that wasn’t God.”
“God had nothing to do with that.”
“That’s just the enemy.”
Naomi will not let us shrink God like that.
Her theology is far too robust.
Far too biblical.
She knows that if God is truly God, then He is sovereign over all things.
Not most things.
Not pleasant things only.
All things.
Just like Daniel many centuries later, Naomi knows that God is the one who
“He changes times and seasons;
he deposes kings and raises up others.
He gives wisdom to the wise
and knowledge to the discerning.” Daniel 2:21
“changes times and seasons; [who] deposes kings and he raises them up”.
God rules over harvests and famines.
Births and funerals.
Gain and loss.
Open doors and slammed doors.
Nothing enters Naomi’s life without first passing through the hands of Almighty God.
And honestly, for some of us, that’s exactly what makes this so hard.
Because perhaps like Naomi, you do believe in God’s sovereignty.
And maybe right now you’re grieving.
Perhaps over Edgar Wood.
Or perhaps over something far more personal.
A marriage that never happened.
A child you longed for.
A job you lost.
A chronic illness.
A prayer that still feels unanswered.
And because you know God is sovereign, you quietly conclude:
“The Lord’s hand has turned against me.”
But don’t be so quick.
You see, Naomi had forgotten what had happened to Joseph many years before.
Joseph was a righteous man you see. Yet he knew what it was like to suffer.
His brothers hated him.
Sold him into slavery.
He was falsely accused.
Wrongly imprisoned.
Forgotten.
From the outside, his life looked like one long sequence of disasters.
And yet years later, Joseph says this astonishing sentence about what happened to his brothers:
“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.” Genesis 50:20
“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.”
Notice that carefully.
Joseph does not say:
“You meant evil, but God tried to salvage it.”
No.
He says:
“God intended it.”
Look, it is possible that Edgar Wood fell through because of mistakes we made. It's possible God is disciplining us. He disciplines those he loves after all.
But it is equally possible that, although all we currently see is disappointment, God is quietly weaving together purposes we cannot yet imagine.
God has used many a cancer to save seemingly immovable unbelievers.
He’s used dramatic falls and scandals to humble people and transform them into labourers useful to Him.
And yes —
He has used many failed property purchases to lead churches exactly where He wants them to be.
So, what do we do in moments like this?
We hold onto the sovereignty of God.
when the sun shines and when the storm clouds gather.
When the bank account is full and when it is painfully thin.
When the church grows and when plans collapse.
When a building seems to drop into our lap —
and when it gets snatched away at the eleventh hour.
We remain convinced:
God is sovereign over it all.
- Free to Grieve – v 20
Secondly, Naomi was free to grieve.
Look at verse 20:
“Don’t call me Naomi,” she told them. “Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter.” Ruth 1:20
“Don’t call me Naomi,” she told them. “Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter.”
There’s a painful wordplay happening there.
The name Naomi means “pleasant” or “sweet.”
But Naomi says:
“Don’t call me Sweet anymore.
Call me Bitter.”
Why?
“Because the Almighty has made my life very bitter.”
Look, there will be people here today who are puzzled by what we’re doing in this service.
Lamenting. Grieving.
“Let’s get over it already! It’s only a building.”
Others perhaps feel relief more than sadness:
“Honestly, I never really wanted that building anyway. I’m glad it fell through. I’d rather have a service of celebration than lament today.”
I hear you, but you need to know that for many of us – this hurts deeply. It grieves us.
Yes, it is “only” a building.
But it is also something we prayed for.
Dreamed about.
Planned around.
Sacrificed towards.
Hundreds of hours.
Tens of thousands of pounds.
Countless meetings.
Late-night conversations.
Hopes.
Imaginations.
Prayers.
We imagined inviting friends to hear the gospel there.
Watching our children grow up there.
Seeing our weddings celebrated there.
Gathering there for decades to come.
And now that future has disappeared.
That is loss.
And the God of the Bible gives His people permission to grieve loss honestly.
In fact, He gives us language for it.
Around 60 of the 150 Psalms in the Bible are Psalms of lament.
Think about that.
The largest category in the church’s songbook is not celebration.
Not victory.
Not thanksgiving.
Lament.
Prayers like Psalm 13:
“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart?” Psalm 13:1-2
“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart?”
God does not silence those prayers.
He preserves them in Scripture.
There is even an entire book of the Bible called Lamentations.
The Bible does not treat grief as spiritual failure.
And more than that:
God does not merely permit lament —
He enters into it.
This is one of the things that makes Christianity utterly unique.
If you’re here today and you’re not a Christian — perhaps exploring faith — we are genuinely so glad you’re here.
But one of the great challenges within atheism is this:
suffering ultimately has no objective meaning.
It hurts.
It devastates.
But in the end it simply is.
A universe of atoms and accidents cannot tell you why grief feels so unbearably wrong.
And other religions they offer only a distant God —
a detached God —
a God untouched by human sorrow.
But not the God of the Bible.
The Christian God steps into suffering.
He takes on flesh.
Walks among us.
Stands outside the tomb of His friend Lazarus.
And in perhaps the shortest and most extraordinary verse in the Bible, we read:
“Jesus wept.”
Jesus Christ knew grief.
He knew what it was to stand beside death and sorrow and loss.
And of course, Lazarus’ tomb was not the end of His suffering.
Jesus’ deepest lament came at the cross.
When Jesus cried out:
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
At the cross, Jesus experienced the ultimate loss:
the loss of the presence of God himself.
So, when we grieve, we are not speaking into emptiness.
We are bringing our sorrow to the God of the scars.
The God who wept.
The God who suffered.
The God who understands.
After the horrors of the First World War, the poet and chaplain Edward Shillito wrote these famous lines in his poem Jesus of the Scars:
“The other gods were strong; but Thou wast weak;
They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,
And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.”Edward Shillito
“The other gods were strong; but Thou wast weak;
They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,
And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.”
That is profoundly Christian.
Our wounds matter to God because He Himself has borne wounds.
So yes —
we are free to grieve today.
Free to lament.
Free to bring disappointment honestly before God.
Free to say: “Lord, this hurts.”
But —
and this is important —
Naomi is not only an example to us here.
She is also a warning.
Because grief can slowly curdle into bitterness.
Look again at verse 21:
“I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty.” Ruth 1:21
“I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty.”
Now try hearing that through Ruth’s ears.
“Empty?”
Ruth is standing right there.
Loyal.
Sacrificial.
Faithful.
Having left everything to follow Naomi and Naomi’s God.
And Naomi says:
“I have nothing.”
That’s what grief can do to us.
It can distort our vision.
We start overlooking the blessings we have.
We remember the past selectively.
We romanticise what was.
We magnify what is lost.
Naomi says:
“I went away full.”
Really?
Had she forgotten the famine?
The desperation that drove them to Moab in the first place?
And even the name “Mara” should have rung alarm bells for Naomi.
Because Mara is also the place in Exodus 15 where Israel found bitter water in the wilderness.
And what did the people do there?
They grumbled against God.
They forgot His deliverance.
Forgot His faithfulness. His goodness
Even though He was leading them toward Elim —
toward twelve springs and seventy palm trees —
they became bitter.
And honestly, we stand at that same crossroads today.
You see, today we can grieve —
or we can become bitter.
Bitter toward God:
“Why didn’t You provide?”
“Why didn’t You change the sellers’ minds?”
“Why did You let us get this far? Don’t you care?”
Or bitter toward one another:
“If only the building team had negotiated better.”
“If only the trustees had authorised a higher offer.”
“If only others had prayed more.”
And friends, we need to be really careful here.
Because Satan would love to use disappointment to divide us.
He would love to whisper lies about God:
that He is weak,
or stingy,
or indifferent.
And he would love to whisper lies about one another:
that people failed us,
used us,
let us down.
But we must not let grief harden into cynicism.
We lament.
We weep.
We process loss honestly.
But we refuse bitterness.
- Lean into God vv 6, 16-17, 22
Instead, we must do the third thing that Naomi and Ruth do. They lean into God.
Earlier in the chapter, Elimelek and Naomi had fled Bethlehem because the breadbasket of Israel was empty.
Faced with famine, they took matters into their own hands and headed to Moab — away from the place of God’s presence.
In effect, they said:
“We’ll secure our future ourselves.”
But now Naomi has lost everything.
And where does she go?
Back to Bethlehem.
Back to the place of God’s people.
Back to the house of bread.
And interestingly, at this point Ruth’s theology is actually stronger than Naomi’s.
Look at verse 16:
“Your people will be my people and your God my God.” Ruth 1:16
“Your people will be my people and your God my God.”
Ruth understands something profound:
it is better to suffer with the people of God than prosper without Him.
Better to die in Bethlehem than flourish in Moab.
Better to be poor in the presence of God than rich far from Him.
And church, we need to remember that too.
It would be far better for us to be scattered across rented venues and meeting in tiny school halls for the next twenty years — with our hearts alive to Jesus and committed to seeing people won for Christ —
than to own the Edgar Wood building outright and slowly lose our passion for the gospel.
Buildings are useful.
But they are not ultimate.
The mission is ultimate.
Even Naomi — with her bruised and battered theology — still knows this:
better to be with God in Bethlehem than without Him in Moab.
Look, I don’t know what the future holds. We might find a building next week and be in before Christmas.
We may still be searching in ten years’ time.
I don’t know.
But I do know this:
the safest place for the people of God is always on our knees before Him and with our Bibles open before us.
Because that is where we meet with God.
This —
His Word,
His presence,
His people —
this is our true house of bread. Regardless of what building we’re in.
And nothing is wasted.
Nothing.
You may be here today carrying grief far heavier than a failed property
purchase.
Perhaps you’ve only recently started coming to church and your loss is on completely another scale:
You’ve lost your
marriage,
a career,
your health,
your reputation,
your sense of purpose,
your peace of mind.
And perhaps you are wondering:
“What am I supposed to do now?”
Lean into Jesus.
He may not immediately explain every reason for your suffering.
Most of the time, He doesn’t.
But He does reveal the root of all the problems we see in the world. The uncomfortable truth that you, me and the rest of humanity have turned our backs on his loving rule.
And He reveals the astonishing thing He has done about it.
I love how Ruth chapter 1 ends.
“So Naomi returned from Moab accompanied by Ruth the Moabite, her daughter-in-law, arriving in Bethlehem as the barley harvest was beginning.” Ruth 1:22
Naomi and Ruth arrive back in Bethlehem “as the barley harvest was beginning.”
It’s such a quiet sentence.
But it pulses with hope.
The empty fields are filling again.
Bread is returning to the house of bread.
And if you know the rest of the story, you know what happens next.
Ruth goes out into those barley fields and meets Boaz — a redeemer from Naomi’s wider family.
They marry.
A child is born.
And the Naomi who returned saying,
“I am empty,”
ends the story full with new life in her arms.
And generations later, one of Naomi’s descendants would be born into the world.
And they named him Jesus.
At the cross, the bitterness of sin was poured onto Him so that the sweetness of God’s grace could be poured onto us.
At Calvary, Jesus was emptied in judgment for our sin so that we could be filled with His righteousness.
That is the gospel.
Have you received it?
And will you lean into it now?
Friends, with Jesus the barley harvest is always beginning.
Because Joy always follows mourning.
Comfort always follows sorrow.
Resurrection always follows death.
So yes —
let’s grieve what we’ve lost.
But let us lean hard into our sovereign, good, and saving God.
Let’s pray.
