August 7th, 2025
In a world that often encourages us to "stay positive" and "look on the bright side," sadness can feel like an unwelcome guest. We're quick to push it away, distract ourselves, or even spiritualize our pain with well-meaning but sometimes hollow phrases like "Just have faith!" But what if sadness isn't something to escape—but something to enter with God? What if our tears hold more purpose than we realize?
The story of Lazarus in John 11 offers a profound glimpse into how Jesus himself approached grief and sorrow. It challenges our assumptions about sadness and invites us to see it through a different lens—one of sacred encounter rather than shameful weakness.
When Jesus arrived in Bethany, Lazarus had already been dead for four days. All hope seemed lost. Martha and Mary, Lazarus' sisters and close friends of Jesus, were devastated. Their grief was palpable, shared by a community of mourners who had gathered to comfort them.
It's in this context of raw sorrow that we witness one of the most poignant moments in Scripture: "Jesus wept" (John 11:35).
These two words—the shortest verse in the Bible—speak volumes about God's heart toward our pain. Jesus, knowing full well that He would soon raise Lazarus from the dead, still chose to enter fully into the grief of the moment. He didn't bypass the pain on His way to performing a miracle. He didn't chide Mary and Martha for their lack of faith. He wept.
This tells us something profound about sadness: it is not a sin. It is not a sign of weakness. If the perfect, sinless Son of God could weep, then our tears are nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, they might just be sacred.
Isaiah 53:3 describes Jesus as "a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief." Hebrews 4:15 reminds us that we have a high priest who can sympathize with our weaknesses. Jesus doesn't just tolerate our sadness—He understands it intimately.
This understanding opens the door to genuine comfort. In the Beatitudes, Jesus says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted" (Matthew 5:4). Notice He doesn't say, "Blessed are those who always smile" or "Blessed are those who never show their pain." It's in our mourning—our honest expression of sorrow—that we position ourselves to receive divine comfort.
The Apostle Paul calls God the "Father of compassion and the God of all comfort" (2 Corinthians 1:3-4). This comfort isn't a quick fix or a bandaid for our wounds. It's the presence of a loving Father who sits with us in our pain, who understands, and who promises to redeem even our deepest sorrows.
But the purpose of our pain doesn't stop at personal comfort. Sadness, when embraced rather than avoided, has the power to deepen our compassion and strengthen our communities. We see this in how Jesus responded to Mary's tears: "When Jesus saw her weeping... He was deeply moved" (John 11:33). His compassion wasn't theoretical—it was visceral, born out of shared sorrow.
The Apostle Paul echoes this in Romans 12:15, urging us to "Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep." Our experiences of sadness equip us to truly empathize with others. They soften our hearts and open our eyes to the pain around us. In a world that often feels disconnected, shared sorrow can be a powerful force for unity and love.
Moreover, sadness can be a catalyst for deeper faith and more authentic prayer. The Psalms are filled with honest laments, cries of anguish, and expressions of doubt. "Why, my soul, are you downcast?" the psalmist asks in Psalm 42:5. But he doesn't stop there. He continues, "Put your hope in God."
This pattern of lament followed by hope is not a sign of weak faith—it's an act of profound trust. It's bringing our whole selves, including our pain and questions, before a God who can handle them. Sadness, when brought to God, becomes the soil in which deeper faith can grow.
The story of Lazarus doesn't end with Jesus weeping. It culminates in a powerful demonstration of God's ability to bring life out of death. Jesus approaches the tomb, visibly moved and angered by the reality of death. He calls out with a loud voice, "Lazarus, come out!" (John 11:43). And the dead man walks out, still wrapped in grave clothes.
This miraculous moment points to an even greater truth: through Jesus, God is in the business of redemption. He doesn't just comfort us in our sorrows—He works to transform them. The resurrection of Lazarus foreshadows Jesus' own death and resurrection, the ultimate defeat of death and the source of our hope.
But notice what happens next. Jesus tells the crowd, "Unbind him, and let him go" (John 11:44). Even after the miracle, there's a process of unwrapping, of removing the remnants of death. This speaks to the often gradual nature of healing and restoration. God's work in our lives is both instantaneous and ongoing, and He often invites others to participate in our journey toward freedom.
As we reflect on the sacred nature of sadness, we're invited to approach our pain differently:
Sadness is not a detour on the path of faith—it's often the very road God uses to draw us closer to His heart. So the next time sorrow visits, don't rush to push it away. Instead, invite God to meet you there. You might just find that your place of deepest pain becomes the ground of your most profound encounter with divine love.
The story of Lazarus in John 11 offers a profound glimpse into how Jesus himself approached grief and sorrow. It challenges our assumptions about sadness and invites us to see it through a different lens—one of sacred encounter rather than shameful weakness.
When Jesus arrived in Bethany, Lazarus had already been dead for four days. All hope seemed lost. Martha and Mary, Lazarus' sisters and close friends of Jesus, were devastated. Their grief was palpable, shared by a community of mourners who had gathered to comfort them.
It's in this context of raw sorrow that we witness one of the most poignant moments in Scripture: "Jesus wept" (John 11:35).
These two words—the shortest verse in the Bible—speak volumes about God's heart toward our pain. Jesus, knowing full well that He would soon raise Lazarus from the dead, still chose to enter fully into the grief of the moment. He didn't bypass the pain on His way to performing a miracle. He didn't chide Mary and Martha for their lack of faith. He wept.
This tells us something profound about sadness: it is not a sin. It is not a sign of weakness. If the perfect, sinless Son of God could weep, then our tears are nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, they might just be sacred.
Isaiah 53:3 describes Jesus as "a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief." Hebrews 4:15 reminds us that we have a high priest who can sympathize with our weaknesses. Jesus doesn't just tolerate our sadness—He understands it intimately.
This understanding opens the door to genuine comfort. In the Beatitudes, Jesus says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted" (Matthew 5:4). Notice He doesn't say, "Blessed are those who always smile" or "Blessed are those who never show their pain." It's in our mourning—our honest expression of sorrow—that we position ourselves to receive divine comfort.
The Apostle Paul calls God the "Father of compassion and the God of all comfort" (2 Corinthians 1:3-4). This comfort isn't a quick fix or a bandaid for our wounds. It's the presence of a loving Father who sits with us in our pain, who understands, and who promises to redeem even our deepest sorrows.
But the purpose of our pain doesn't stop at personal comfort. Sadness, when embraced rather than avoided, has the power to deepen our compassion and strengthen our communities. We see this in how Jesus responded to Mary's tears: "When Jesus saw her weeping... He was deeply moved" (John 11:33). His compassion wasn't theoretical—it was visceral, born out of shared sorrow.
The Apostle Paul echoes this in Romans 12:15, urging us to "Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep." Our experiences of sadness equip us to truly empathize with others. They soften our hearts and open our eyes to the pain around us. In a world that often feels disconnected, shared sorrow can be a powerful force for unity and love.
Moreover, sadness can be a catalyst for deeper faith and more authentic prayer. The Psalms are filled with honest laments, cries of anguish, and expressions of doubt. "Why, my soul, are you downcast?" the psalmist asks in Psalm 42:5. But he doesn't stop there. He continues, "Put your hope in God."
This pattern of lament followed by hope is not a sign of weak faith—it's an act of profound trust. It's bringing our whole selves, including our pain and questions, before a God who can handle them. Sadness, when brought to God, becomes the soil in which deeper faith can grow.
The story of Lazarus doesn't end with Jesus weeping. It culminates in a powerful demonstration of God's ability to bring life out of death. Jesus approaches the tomb, visibly moved and angered by the reality of death. He calls out with a loud voice, "Lazarus, come out!" (John 11:43). And the dead man walks out, still wrapped in grave clothes.
This miraculous moment points to an even greater truth: through Jesus, God is in the business of redemption. He doesn't just comfort us in our sorrows—He works to transform them. The resurrection of Lazarus foreshadows Jesus' own death and resurrection, the ultimate defeat of death and the source of our hope.
But notice what happens next. Jesus tells the crowd, "Unbind him, and let him go" (John 11:44). Even after the miracle, there's a process of unwrapping, of removing the remnants of death. This speaks to the often gradual nature of healing and restoration. God's work in our lives is both instantaneous and ongoing, and He often invites others to participate in our journey toward freedom.
As we reflect on the sacred nature of sadness, we're invited to approach our pain differently:
- Acknowledge your sadness—don't hide it or be ashamed of it.
- Invite God into it—pray honestly, even if that means expressing doubt or anger.
- Allow others into it—let community carry you when you can't walk alone.
- Believe that God will redeem it—your sorrow has purpose, even if you can't see it yet.
Sadness is not a detour on the path of faith—it's often the very road God uses to draw us closer to His heart. So the next time sorrow visits, don't rush to push it away. Instead, invite God to meet you there. You might just find that your place of deepest pain becomes the ground of your most profound encounter with divine love.
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