When Jesus himself was downcastNår Jesus selv var mismodig

There's something many of us believe, but rarely say out loud:

A good Christian shouldn't be downcast.

If I believed more. If I prayed more. If I found the right sentence or the right podcast. Then the discouragement would disappear.

It's a quiet thought. But it sits in most of us. And it has a cost.

It makes us hide that we're struggling. It makes us put on a brave face while, under the surface, we carry a weight we don't know what to do with. It lays an extra burden on top of the one that's already there.

Let me say it very plainly:

Discouragement is not a sign of weak faith. It's a human experience Jesus himself took part in.

The Gospels write about it in three different places. Every time it stands out in the open. Every time it stands without explanation.

In Gethsemane

The evening before Jesus was to die, he went into an olive grove with his three closest disciples. He was going to pray.

"He was sorrowful and troubled. 'My soul is deeply grieved, to the point of death,' he said. 'Stay here and keep watch with me while I pray!'" (Matthew 26:37-38)

Notice the words. Sorrowful. Troubled. Deeply grieved.

That's not a high-functioning Son of God in full control of his emotions. It's a man on his knees in the dark, who can't bear what awaits him.

And he prays:

"Father, if it is possible, take this cup of suffering from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will." (Matthew 26:39)

He asked to be spared. The cup was not taken from him.

He prayed three times. Three times.

At Lazarus' grave

Earlier he had lost a friend. Lazarus had died. Jesus came too late — deliberately. He knew what he was going to do.

But that's not what we read about first.

"When Jesus saw her [Mary] weeping and heard the others weeping too, he was deeply moved in his spirit." (John 11:33)

And then the shortest verse in the Bible:

"Jesus wept." (John 11:35)

He wept. Even though he knew that a few minutes later Lazarus would come out of the grave, he wept.

He didn't weep over what he didn't know. He wept over what he felt.

The pain didn't remove what he had to do. But it was there. And he didn't hide it.

On the cross

Three o'clock in the afternoon. Darkness had lain over the earth for three hours.

"At three o'clock Jesus cried out loudly: 'Eli, Eli! Lema sabachthani?' That means: 'My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?'" (Matthew 27:46)

That's perhaps the most terrible sentence in the whole Bible.

The Son — who had lived in the unbroken fellowship of the Trinity from all eternity — cried out in a moment when he had become infinitely alone.

In that second the sin of the world was laid on him. Everything we've done. Everything we've hidden. Everything we should never have done. It was laid on him — and the Father, who is holy, had to turn his face away.

That's the deepest loneliness that has ever existed. To be the Son and at the same time be cut off from the Father. To carry everything that stands between God and man — alone. Forsaken by family. Forsaken by friends. And in that one moment also by the Father himself.

So that you and I would never have to stand there.

What it means for you and me

Jesus was sorrowful. He was troubled. He was deeply grieved. He wept. He cried out.

Every time it was legitimate. Every time it was human. Every time it was faith.

What we've forgotten — or maybe were never allowed to hear — is that discouragement is not the opposite of faith.

Discouragement is something a believing body and a believing soul do when they meet something too big.

It does it together with Jesus. Never outside of him.

When you're downcast today, you're in the company of the One who carried it all the way to the cross.

He knows it from the inside. He didn't hide it. He didn't put on a brave face.

He asked to be spared, knew that he wouldn't be, and walked the way obediently anyway.

The letter to the Hebrews puts it like this:

"Let us fix our eyes forward on Jesus, who started us on the journey of faith and will also lead us to the goal. By looking ahead to the joy that awaited him, he could endure the shame and death of the cross, and now he sits on the throne at God's right hand." (Hebrews 12:2)

You were the joy he looked forward to.

The fellowship with you. That you would be able to stand freely before the Father — without distance, without shame, without forsakenness. That you would be able to come home.

He was rejected so that you could be accepted.

He was made alone so that you would never have to be.

He carried the whole distance between heaven and earth, so that there's no longer any distance between you and your heavenly Father.

And that's why his last words to the disciples, before he ascended to heaven, are these:

"And remember: I am always with you, to the very end of the age." (Matthew 28:20)

You are not alone in your darkness.

Also when you can't see him. Also when you can't feel him. He is there — close by.

He has promised it. And he has paid the price to be able to keep that promise.

What would you answer if Jesus asked you the question today:

Where are you carrying some discouragement you haven't dared to say to me?

Feel free to write it — or just answer him quietly. That's where the important thing happens.

That's my take on Tuesday Theology — have a blessed day and add your input to the conversation 🙏

Der er noget mange af os tror, men sjældent siger højt:

En god kristen burde ikke være mismodig.

Hvis jeg troede mere. Hvis jeg bad mere. Hvis jeg fandt den rigtige sætning eller den rigtige podcast. Så ville mismodet forsvinde.

Det er en stille tanke. Men den sidder i de fleste af os. Og den har en pris.

Den får os til at skjule, at vi har det svært. Den får os til at spille rask, mens vi inde under tæppet bærer en tyngde, vi ikke ved, hvad vi skal stille op med. Den lægger en ekstra byrde oven på den, der er der i forvejen.

Lad mig sige det helt enkelt:

Mismod er ikke et tegn på svag tro. Det er en menneskelig erfaring, Jesus selv tog del i.

Det skriver evangelierne om tre forskellige steder. Hver gang står det åbent. Hver gang står det uden forklaring.

I Getsemane

Aftenen før Jesus skulle dø, gik han ind i en olivenhave med sine tre nærmeste disciple. Han skulle bede.

“Han var sørgmodig og urolig. ‘Jeg er dybt bedrøvet her op til min død,’ udbrød han. ‘Bliv her og hold jer vågne, mens jeg beder!’” (Matt 26,37-38 — BPH)

Læg mærke til ordene. Sørgmodig. Urolig. Dybt bedrøvet.

Det er ikke en høj-funktionerende søn af Gud i fuld kontrol over sine følelser. Det er en mand på knæ i mørket, der ikke kan bære det, der venter ham.

Og han beder:

“Far, hvis det er muligt, så tag det her lidelsens bæger fra mig. Dog ikke som jeg vil, men som du vil.” (Matt 26,39 — BPH)

Han bad om at slippe. Bægeret blev ikke taget fra ham.

Han bad tre gange. Tre gange.

Ved Lazarus’ grav

Tidligere havde han mistet en ven. Lazarus var død. Jesus kom for sent — bevidst. Han vidste, hvad han skulle gøre.

Men det er ikke det vi læser om først.

“Da Jesus så hende [Maria] græde og hørte de andres gråd, blev han heftigt oprørt i sin ånd.” (Joh 11,33 — BPH)

Og så det korteste vers i Bibelen:

“Jesus brast i gråd.” (Joh 11,35 — BPH)

Han græd. Selvom han vidste, at Lazarus få minutter senere ville komme ud af graven, græd han.

Han græd ikke for det, han ikke vidste. Han græd for det, han følte.

Smerten fjernede ikke det, han skulle gøre. Men den var der. Og han skjulte den ikke.

På korset

Klokken tre om eftermiddagen. Mørket havde lagt sig over jorden i tre timer.

“Klokken tre råbte Jesus højt: ‘Eli, Eli! Lema sabaktani?’ Det betyder: ‘Min Gud! Min Gud! Hvorfor har du forladt mig?’” (Matt 27,46 — BPH)

Det er måske den mest forfærdelige sætning i hele Bibelen.

Sønnen — der havde levet i Treenighedens uafbrudte fællesskab fra evighed af — råbte ud i et øjeblik, hvor han var blevet uendelig alene.

I dét sekund blev verdens synd lagt på ham. Alt det vi har gjort. Alt det vi har skjult. Alt det vi aldrig skulle have gjort. Det blev lagt på ham — og Faderen, som er hellig, måtte vende sit ansigt bort.

Det er den dybeste ensomhed, der nogensinde har eksisteret. At være Sønnen og samtidig være afsondret fra Faderen. At bære alt det, der står imellem Gud og menneske — alene. Forladt af familie. Forladt af venner. Og i dét ene øjeblik også af Faderen selv.

For at du og jeg aldrig skulle stå der.

Hvad det betyder for dig og mig

Jesus var sørgmodig. Han var urolig. Han var dybt bedrøvet. Han græd. Han skreg.

Hver gang var det legitimt. Hver gang var det menneskeligt. Hver gang var det tro.

Det vi har glemt — eller måske aldrig fået lov til at høre — er at mismod ikke er det modsatte af tro.

Mismod er noget en troende krop og en troende sjæl gør, når den møder noget, der er for stort.

Den gør det sammen med Jesus. Aldrig udenfor ham.

Når du er mismodig i dag, så er du i selskab med Ham, der har båret det hele vejen til korset.

Han kender det indefra. Han skjulte det ikke. Han spillede ikke rask.

Han bad om at slippe, vidste at han ikke ville, og gik lydigt vejen alligevel.

Hebræerbrevet skriver det sådan:

“Lad os rette blikket fremad mod Jesus, som startede os på troens vandring og også vil føre os til målet. Ved at se frem til den glæde, der ventede ham, kunne han udholde skammen og døden på korset, og nu sidder han på tronen ved Guds højre hånd.” (Hebr 12,2 — BPH)

Du var den glæde, han så frem imod.

Fællesskabet med dig. At du skulle kunne stå frit overfor Faderen — uden afstand, uden skam, uden forladthed. At du skulle kunne komme hjem.

Han blev forkastet, så du kunne blive accepteret.

Han blev alene, så du aldrig skulle være det.

Han bar hele afstanden mellem himmel og jord, så der ikke længere er afstand mellem dig og din himmelske Far.

Og derfor lyder hans sidste ord til disciplene, inden han stiger op til himlen:

“Og husk: Jeg er altid hos jer indtil verdens ende.” (Matt 28,20 — BPH)

Du er ikke alene i dit mørke.

Også når du ikke kan se ham. Også når du ikke kan mærke ham. Han er der — tæt på.

Han har lovet det. Og han har båret prisen for at kunne holde det løfte.

Hvad ville du svare, hvis Jesus stillede dig spørgsmålet i dag:

“Hvor bærer du noget mismod, du ikke har vovet at sige til mig?”

Skriv det gerne — eller bare svar ham stille. Det er der, det vigtige sker.

Hermed mit take på tirsdags teologi — Ha' en velsignet dag og giv dit input til samtalen 🙏