That’s normally how I picture Jesus. Walking around with a serene demeanor, a glint in his eye. Even in the face of opposition or danger, there is a certain lightness in his gait. Every gesture of his hands is smooth and gracious. There is a warm equanimity that seems to subtly radiate from him, spilling over onto anyone who gets near to him. He is, after all, the Prince of Peace.
That is, until he encounters Mary and her companions in their grief. Lazarus had died, and while Jesus had his own relationship with him, and loved him, we do not see him visibly moved until Mary falls at his feet.
Weeping. Wailing. Sobbing. Grieving her loss. Even angry that Jesus had not been present to heal Lazarus.
In that moment, the cool-cucumber-Jesus broke character.
Her brokenness stabbed something deep within him that emanated out through his entire body. English translations can vary greatly at this point, most saying something like, “he was deeply moved and troubled.” But simple, short English translations fail to capture the depth and volatility of what Jesus was feeling.
He was sad. Grieved. Angry. Indignant. Boiling like water. Struck with dread. Overcome by anxiety and distress. And before he could even say a word, it all erupted out of his mouth with a loud, pained groan. The kind of groan that must have been like what the Apostle Paul described when he said that the Spirit intercedes for us with groans that are too deep for words.
Know this: When your grief is so deep that you have no words, Jesus is right there with you.
