Jesus knew Grief

Who has believed what he has heard from us? And to whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed?” the prophet Isaiah asks (Isa. 53:1). The promise of salvation had gone out. God’s mighty arm—His power to redeem—was being revealed. But no one could have imagined that it would come this way. Weakness, obscurity, rejection, sorrow—this is how God chose to unveil His strength. The mighty arm of the Lord would be extended not in conquest but in crucifixion.

The Servant of the Lord “grew up before him like a young plant, and like a root out of dry ground” (v. 2), not like a towering oak or conquering king. There was no majesty, no spectacle, no beauty that would draw the eye. Nothing in Him looked like deliverance. He was common—so common that we despised and dismissed Him. “He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” (v. 3).

This should make the beleaguered, sorrowful sufferer pause. This promised Christ didn’t come to observe our pain from afar. He came to enter it. To feel it. To carry it.

From the very beginning, His life was marked by sorrow. The eternal Son of God took on flesh and was born into poverty, not privilege. The Creator was laid in a feeding trough. The Lord of glory was wrapped in cloths, not robes. There was no room for Him—not just in the inn but in the hearts of men. From the cradle, He was hunted. Herod sought His life. The King of kings fled to Egypt—a land of idols, once a place of bondage for Israel, now a place of refuge for Israel’s Deliverer.

He grew up in Nazareth—forgotten, mocked, dismissed. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” they asked (John 1:46). Yet there, in obscurity, the Son of God learned obedience. The hands that had fashioned the stars now crafted tables and doors. The One who upholds the universe by the word of His power lived under the curse of sweat and toil.

Thirty years He lived in obscurity. The One worthy of worship walked unknown in the streets. People gave Him orders, not knowing that they spoke to their Maker. He was the treasure buried in the field—the diamond mistaken for the common.

Yet when He stepped into public ministry, it did not bring Him ease. Rejection followed Him still. His hometown tried to kill Him. Religious leaders accused Him of demonic possession. His own family doubted Him. The God-man was called a madman. The Giver of life was plotted against. He came to love and was hated for it. He spoke truth, and they crucified Him for it.

That cross—His death—was the height of sorrow. Betrayed for silver. Falsely accused. Beaten, mocked, crowned with thorns. Nailed between criminals. The sinless One treated as the worst of sinners. The King of Glory, hung in shame. The eternal Son of God became the object of His Father’s wrath.

The suffering child of God in this life has the ultimate unassailable guarantee that our God is for us.

This is the glorious gospel mystery: His suffering wasn’t for His own sin; it was for ours. “He was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed” (v. 5, emphasis added). He didn’t just suffer with us. He didn’t simply suffer because of us. He suffered for us. In our place. As our substitute. The contrast is stunning: He/us. His/our.

He was pierced—not for His sin but for ours. He was crushed—not for His rebellion but for our iniquity. He was wounded—not for His good but for our healing.

The glory of the gospel is that our Saviour offers not mere sentiment but rather substitution. The Servant did not come simply to empathize. He came to redeem. “The Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all” (v. 6). Paul echoes this in 2 Corinthians 5:21: “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.”

All this means that the suffering child of God in this life has the ultimate unassailable guarantee that our God is for us. Our sufferings often thunder more loudly in our hearts and minds. But this the Christian must know: “God is for you.”

Psalm 56 speaks directly to the heart that suffers. In it, David writes: “You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” (v. 8). 

This is not poetic exaggeration. This is divine tenderness. Every sleepless night. Every tear cried in silence. Every restless turning on your bed—He sees. He remembers. He keeps a record. Your sorrows are not lost on your Saviour.

Then comes the verse that changes everything: “This I know, that God is for me” (v. 9). It is one thing to know that God exists. It is another to know that He is your God. 

But it is greatest of all to know this: that the God who is your God is for you. How do you know? Because the Son of God didn’t stay distant. He entered in. He bore your griefs. He carried your sorrows. He died your death. If you are in Christ, then the God who holds all things together holds you close—and He is for you.

When the light shines, the shadows follow

David understood this in troubling times. In that most famous of psalms, Psalm 23, he says, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life” (v. 6). David is clear. Not some days. Not most days. All the days.

Polycarp, a disciple of the Apostle John, stood in the coliseum and was told to curse Christ or be burned. He answered, “Eighty-six years I have served Him, and He has done me no wrong.” In the midst of our sufferings, let us each fill in our own number. Sixteen years. Forty years. Seventy. And still, He has done us no wrong. One day, in eternity, we will each look back after two million years and say the same. This is the confidence and solace of the Christian: not that life is easy, not that sorrow is absent, but that Christ is present. And He is acquainted with grief.

So come. Come with your sadness. Your fears. Your griefs. Your sorrows. He knows them. He has felt them. He has redeemed them. The arm of the Lord was revealed through weakness. The King wore thorns. The Saviour bore a cross. By His wounds, you are healed. You can trust Him.

In His humiliation, we find our hope.

In His suffering, we find our healing.

In His rejection, we find our redemption.

Oh, the beauty of our Savior.

Oh, the love of our Lord.

There is no Savior like this Savior.

Rev. Jason Helopoulos is senior pastor of University Reformed Church in East Lansing, Mich. He is featured teacher for the Ligonier teaching series Contending for the Faith: The Book of Jude, and author of The New Pastor’s Handbook and A Neglected Grace: Family Worship in the Christian Home.