When Jesus Wept

Chapter 30



Before he called me forth from the grave, Jesus wept. His was not the loud, frantic keening of the women who mourned outside my tomb. His was a sigh and a groan and a single, salty tear. It was, at first, almost imperceptible, even to those standing closest to him.

But his sigh shook the universe, and the place where I was quaked. I stood in the midst of those who watched and waited for all things to be set right.

Jesus groaned, and the heads of angels and saints turned to look down upon the earth in wonder. His tear trickled down his cheek, and a spring burst forth at my feet. Pure, clear water spilled from its banks and flowed down a mountainside, leaving a myriad of new stars, like flowers, blooming and rising in its wake. I remember thinking, On a clear night, constellations above the earth reflect on the still surface of the sea. But here? Only one of Jesus’ tears contains a galaxy.

My eternal companions and I listened. We heard his voice echo from Bethany across the universe! He commanded, “Roll away the stone!”

We all waited in anticipation for the next word from his lips.

Then Jesus spoke my name: “Lazarus!”

Surely he could not mean me, I thought. But all the same, I whispered, “Here I am, Lord.”

Centuries have come and gone since his holy sob ripped me loose from timeless conversation with the ageless ones. Ten thousand, thousand scholars and saints have asked, “Why? What made the King of heaven bow his head and cover his eyes and spill holy tears onto the earth? Why? Why did Jesus weep?”



When Jesus called my name, it echoed in my head. His voice raised a shiver along my spine. Why was my hearing suddenly so muffled? A moment earlier every sound had been bell-like in clarity. Now all was indistinct, as if I had fallen into a well.

Worse yet, why was everything dark? From brilliant, joyful light I had passed into all-encompassing blackness, deeper than the deepest night.

Why was I unable to move? I could feel my arms but not move them. I sensed my feet but could barely wiggle my toes. It felt as if someone were sitting on my chest.

The aroma of myrrh and spikenard flooded my nostrils.

What had happened? What was wrong with me?

I suddenly recognized what it was Jesus had commanded me to do: “Come out.”

He meant, “Come out of the grave!”

I was back in my body as it had been before the glories of paradise.

I was alive … but entombed!

As realization dawned, the emotion that overwhelmed me was not terror. It was sorrow. I had the most crushing feeling of disappointment and loss. Eliza! Eliza!

The only relief came in knowing that Jesus—Jesus!—had called me. To answer his call, to be with him again, was the only cure for my pain.

Rolling my body, I bumped futilely against a stone wall. The opening to the niche in which my corpse had been placed was on the other side of the slab. It felt as if Mary and Martha had enclosed a hundredweight of spices in the grave clothes. I could barely move! Lunging, I almost fell to the ground. My legs hit stiffly, propping me up only because they were tightly bound together.

Coins over my eyes had a metallic coldness. My face, wrapped in a cloth separate from the one that locked my arms across my chest, gave me a little freedom of movement to turn my head.

From which direction had Jesus’ voice come? Turning toward the memory of his call, I shuffled forward.

I heard shrieking cries. Mary? Martha?

Then I heard Jesus again: “Take off the grave clothes and let him go.”1 Faster now, I moved toward his voice and reentered the world of men.



Jesus’ disciples Peter, James, and John, as well as Samson and Patrick had rolled away the stone from the grave. They jumped back in terror as I groaned under the burden of a hundred pounds of burial spices.

Mary ran up the path as Peter and the others sprinted away. “He’s alive!” Mary cried.

“Something is …” Peter’s voice trembled.

“Come help me!” Mary snatched Peter’s fishing knife from his belt and, gathering her skirts, ran to me. “David! David!” She laughed and wept at the same time as she charged to the mouth of the tomb.

Others hung back, at once terrified and astonished by the sight of me standing in my shroud. I saw them motionless and wide-eyed below. All but Mary! My sister had no fear of what lay beneath the shroud.

“David! Alive! You are …”

She was breathless when she reached me. Wrapping her arms around my cocoon, she would not let me go.

“Mary,” I cried! “Cut me loose!”

She laughed and babbled and set to work with Peter’s blade. “Four days! Four days away from us, my dear brother!”

“Only four?” I marveled. “Four days?” I imagined centuries had passed in my absence. Time was nothing beyond this world.

Mary loosed my arms. “Oh, I thought my heart would break except the thought that you were with Eliza and the baby. Oh, David!” She filleted my spice-stiffened shroud like I was a giant fish. “You’re back. You’ve come back to us!” The weight of spices in the grave clothes was soon cut away.

Her joy at our reunion was not something I shared. “I saw them, Mary,” I told her quietly. “They’re all there. Waiting for us to join them.” I could not tell her the glory and beauty I had left behind. This world was a faded image of what I had experienced. “Eliza and my son. Only he’s all grown. A perfect, beautiful young man!” I worked with her to free my legs. Now others in the fearful crowd walked cautiously toward us.

“David! Our hearts were broken! Broken! It seemed so … so unfair that you, of all, would perish.”

“But Mary!” I stepped free. “I didn’t perish. I was alive, more alive … oh, the colors! Music! Mountains higher and more majestic than you could ever … Our dear ones who have gone before … they came to meet me! And so many others! How can I ever explain?”

I spotted Jesus over Mary’s shoulder. Sorrow for me filled his eyes. Of all those who witnessed my return from the vineyards of heaven to fallen earth, only Jesus knew what joy and beauty I had left behind.