My dear sisters and brothers,
Among the shortest verses in the Bible, one stands out with immense power: “Jesus wept.” In today’s Gospel, the raising of Lazarus (John 11:35), we encounter this deeply moving moment.
It is striking, even shocking, when we pause to think about it.
Jesus knows what is about to happen. He knows Lazarus will rise. He knows the tomb will not have the last word. Yet, He still weeps.
Why would God weep?
This is the first point for our reflection: the shock of a weeping God. Often, we imagine God as distant, untouchable, almost immune to human suffering. But here we see something very different. Jesus does not bypass human pain. He does not stand above it. Instead, He enters into it. He allows Himself to be affected by the grief of Mary and Martha, by the tears of the community, by the reality of death that wounds human hearts.
This moment reveals something very important about God. God is not indifferent. The heart of God is moved. The theology we often discuss in abstract terms becomes very tender here. The Sacred Heart of Jesus is not stoic or cold; it is a heart wounded by love. Love makes the heart vulnerable. Love allows itself to feel.
In a sense, our own hearts become a kind of tabernacle where God chooses to dwell. Just as God chose humble places—the crib of Bethlehem, the broken city of Jerusalem, an ordinary tomb to lay down—God also chooses our hearts. Sometimes those hearts are joyful, but often they are also wounded, confused, or tired. Yet God enters them.
Jesus weeps because He sees Mary’s grief. He sees the pain of the sisters. He sees the sorrow of the crowd. But beyond that moment, He also sees the suffering of humanity itself—the poor, the marginalized, the forgotten. Jesus’ tears are the tears of a God who refuses to remain untouched by the human condition.
This is very close to what Pope Francis constantly reminds us about mercy. Mercy is not just a theological concept or a beautiful word in a homily. Mercy is God’s response to human misery. God sees our weakness, our sin, our brokenness, and He responds not with condemnation but with compassion. Pope Francis often says, “God never grows tired of forgiving; we are the ones who grow tired of asking.”
In the story of Lazarus, we also notice something else about Jesus. He does not rush. When He hears that Lazarus is sick, He does not immediately run to Bethany. When He arrives, He listens. He asks questions. He speaks to Martha. He encounters Mary. And finally, He stands before the tomb.
That moment is very powerful: Jesus standing before the tomb. Each of us also has our own “tombs.” These are the places in our lives where hope seems buried. Sometimes it is a relationship that feels broken beyond repair. Sometimes it is a deep disappointment, a failure, a wound we carry silently. Sometimes it is a loss we have never fully processed. Sometimes it is a part of ourselves we believe cannot change.
The question for us today is very simple but very personal: Where do I need Jesus to stand before my tombs? Like Mary and Mary, where in my life do I feel the story is already finished?
In the spirituality of St. Ignatius of Loyola, we often speak about consolation and desolation. Consolation is when we feel close to God, when hope and love are alive within us, and when there is assuredness, clarity, and joy in us. Desolation is when we are in doubt, confusion, sadness, we feel distant, discouraged, or spiritually dry.
Sometimes Jesus seems late. Martha even says it clearly: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. ”Many of us have probably prayed something similar: “Lord, where were you? Why didn’t you come sooner?” Yet in God’s mysterious timing, even death itself becomes the place where God reveals His glory.
Please keep in mind: before Lazarus walks out of the tomb, Jesus wept. The miracle does not erase the tears. The tears come before the miracle.
And perhaps that is the message we need today. God does not erase our pain by pretending it does not exist. Instead, He enters it. He stands beside us. He cries with us.
So, as the event of Lazarus reminds us that even in moments of desolation—when everything seems dark and final—God is still present and working. All we need to do is be patient, do not rush, and give God a chance. Trust in God and trust in the inspirations and resources gathered in moments of consolation like this retreat. Keep in mind, desolation is temporary, and it will pass away. But consolation is lasting, and it will surely return.
And so, when we look at our world today—with all its misunderstandings, condemnations, judgments, wars, injustice, untruth, and pride—we can almost imagine the same scene repeating itself.
Jesus, who once wept, is standing before the tomb of our wounded lives, families, humanity, and He still weeps.
He weeps in our hearts.
He weeps in our families.
He weeps in the Church.
He weeps in our wounded world
He weeps in our leaders in their judgments, condemnations, untruth, and pride.
He weeps for victims of injustice, violence, and war.
He weeps for the poor and forgotten.
He weeps for hearts hardened by pride and fear.
But the story does not end with tears.
Standing before the tomb, Jesus finally cries out with a loud voice: “Lazarus, come out!” The God who weeps is also the God who calls us back to life. (And we are going to focus on that in our next talk).
But remember, before Lazarus walked out, Jesus first called him by name. That is how God works. He does not deal with crowds; He calls persons. He calls each of us personally, lovingly, patiently.
And perhaps today, in the silence of this retreat, the Lord is standing before one of the tombs in your life. Not with condemnation, but with compassion. Not with impatience, but with tears. Not with judgment, but with hope.
And He is ready to speak life again.
So, as we end this reflection, let us take a moment of silence and ask ourselves:
Where does Jesus weep in my Life?
If Jesus were to call my name today—inviting me to step out of fear, hurt, or desolation—what is the stone I must allow Him to roll away?
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