%201.avif)
“Jesus wept.” — John 11:35
Sometimes the most comforting thing someone can do is sit beside us and cry.
Not explain. Not offer advice. Not remind us that things could be worse. Just stay close enough to feel some of what we’re feeling.
When Jesus arrived in Bethany, Mary and Martha were grieving their brother, Lazarus. Their home, once filled with familiar conversation and shared meals, had become a place of mourning. People had come to comfort them, but no visitor could give them what they wanted most: their brother back.
Both sisters said something painfully honest to Jesus: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
There’s faith in those words. They believed Jesus could have helped. But there’s hurt there, too. “Where were you? Why didn’t you come? Why did this happen when you could have stopped it?”
We might ask those questions under similar circumstances.
Jesus knew something the sisters didn’t fully understand. Lazarus would soon walk out of his tomb. Before long, this terrible day would become a day they would never stop talking about.
But here’s the important thought I have; Jesus didn’t rush past their sadness to get to the happy ending.
John tells us that when Jesus saw Mary weeping, along with the people who had come with her, he was deeply moved and troubled. Then, standing near the place where his friend was buried, Jesus wept.
Reading his tears as a response to their grief gives us a tender picture: Jesus loved these people, and their sorrow mattered to him.
He didn’t stand at a safe emotional distance. He entered the sadness of people he loved.
He knew what he was going to do. And still, he cried.
That means we don’t have to choose between believing in God’s goodness and admitting that something hurts. Jesus held certain hope and real sorrow together. We can bring both to him.
Not all grief begins beside a grave. Sometimes we grieve a marriage that has become lonely. Sometimes it’s a friendship that quietly disappeared, a child who no longer calls, or a future that hasn’t turned out the way we hoped.
We can grieve the lost strength we used to have. The work we can no longer do. The home we had to leave.
And sometimes we’re simply saddened by the world: another war, another hungry family, another story of cruelty that leaves us wondering how people can hurt each other so badly.
We might hesitate to bring these things to Jesus. Other people have bigger problems, after all. We should be more grateful. We should be stronger by now.
But the tears of Jesus invite us to stop treating our sadness as something we must tidy up before approaching him.
You don’t need to prove that your pain is serious enough.
You can simply say, “Lord, this hurts.”
Take heart; the story of Lazarus ends with resurrection. But, our own stories don’t always turn around so quickly. Some prayers remain unanswered for years. Some losses stay with us for the rest of our lives.
We shouldn’t turn this passage into a promise that every painful situation will be fixed by tomorrow. But we can receive its picture of a Saviour who is neither helpless before death nor indifferent to tears.
His compassion means we are not asking a cold, distant Lord to notice us. We are coming to Jesus, who stood among mourners and wept.
Today, perhaps faith looks less like finding an explanation and more like letting him meet you where you are.
Tell him what you miss. Tell him what frightens you. Tell him what you wish had happened differently.
And when someone else is hurting, remember his example. You don’t always need the perfect sentence. Sometimes love looks like staying, listening, and allowing their sorrow to touch you.
PRAY:
Jesus, thank you that you did not hurry past Mary and Martha’s grief. Meet me in the things that sadden me today. Help me trust you without pretending I’m fine. Give me courage to be honest, patience for unanswered questions, and tenderness toward hurting people. Keep me close while I wait. Amen.