THE GOD WHO ENTERS YOUR GRIEF AND CALLS YOU BACK TO LIFE: A WIX LEGACY ARTICLE ON JOHN 11
- Douglas Vandergraph
- 2 days ago
- 4 min read
Some chapters in Scripture speak softly. Some instruct. Some comfort. But then there are chapters that step directly into the broken places of your soul, pull back every layer of disappointment, and show you the heart of God in a way you never forget. Gospel of John Chapter 11 is one of those chapters. It is not merely a story of resurrection. It is the story of a God who steps into sorrow, delays on purpose, feels what you feel, and restores what everyone else has declared over.
This is the chapter for the one who prayed and nothing moved. The one who trusted and still hurt. The one who waited, and all they got was silence. The one who watched something precious die while God seemed still. The one who wonders why heaven didn’t intervene sooner.
John 11 isn’t theoretical. It is emotional. It is human. It is divine. It is the intersection between your pain and God’s purpose.
The chapter begins with a message from two sisters who know Jesus intimately: “Lord, the one You love is sick.” Notice their confidence. Their appeal isn’t based on Lazarus’ performance or reputation. They anchor everything in love — in relationship — in the certainty that Jesus already loves them.
This is real prayer. Not performance. Not persuasion. Not panic. Just trust in a love that has already been proven.
But then Scripture introduces a mystery that every believer has struggled with: “Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So He stayed where He was two more days.”
He loved them — so He waited.
This truth breaks many hearts before it heals them. Because we expect love to rush. We expect love to intervene instantly. We expect love to prevent the pain. But divine love is strategic, intentional, and unbound by our sense of timing.
Jesus delays not because He doesn’t care, but because the miracle He is preparing requires the depth of disappointment that will soon be reversed in glory.
By the time Jesus arrives in Bethany, Lazarus has been dead for four days. Four days of unanswered questions. Four days of tears. Four days of watching the road for Jesus and seeing no one. Four days of “Lord, where were You?”
And then Martha sees Him. Her heart breaks open. Her first words are both faith and pain woven together: “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.”
This is the honest prayer of every believer who has lived long enough to wrestle with God’s timing.
“Lord, You could have stopped this.” “Lord, You could have changed the outcome.” “Lord, You could have prevented my heartbreak.” “Lord, You could have healed me sooner.”
Jesus is not offended by honesty. He does not correct her pain. He does not rebuke her emotion. He meets her where she is and lifts her eyes to who He is.
“I am the resurrection and the life.”
Not “I can.”Not “I might.”Not “I will someday.”
“I am.”
Resurrection is not an event — it is a Person. Life is not a concept — it is Christ Himself.
Then He asks Martha the defining question of every believer’s journey: “Do you believe this?”
Not “Do you understand My timing? "Not “Do you like the path that brought you here? "Not “Does this make sense right now?”
Only — “Do you believe?”
Belief is what survives long before clarity arrives.
Then Mary comes to Jesus. She collapses at His feet weeping, repeating the same words: “Lord, if You had been here…” And Scripture says Jesus is deeply moved — and then “Jesus wept.”
This is the God who holds galaxies in place — weeping. The God whose voice created the universe — crying. The God who knows resurrection is moments away — feeling the full weight of human sorrow.
He does not minimize your grief. He does not ignore your tears. He does not dismiss your heartbreak.
Instead, He enters it.
Even though He knows resurrection is coming, He allows Himself to feel the pain with you before He reverses it.
Jesus then goes to the tomb. The air is heavy. The atmosphere is final. The stone is large. Everything about the moment suggests it is over.
“Take away the stone,” He says.
Immediately Martha objects. “Lord, by now he stinks. He has been dead four days.” In other words — “Please don’t make me reopen this wound.” She isn’t resisting Jesus’ authority — she’s protecting her heart from another wave of pain.
Isn’t that what many of us do?
“Lord, don’t make me revisit that.” “Lord, don’t touch that part of my story.” “Lord, don’t take me back to what hurt me.”
But Jesus responds with gentle authority: “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?”
So they roll the stone away.
Light breaks into the darkness. Hope enters the place of decay. Possibility breathes into the impossible.
Then Jesus calls out with a voice that shakes the foundations of death itself:
“Lazarus, come forth!”
And the dead man gets up.
This is not metaphor. This is not parable. This is not symbolism.
This is resurrection.
Lazarus emerges still wrapped in grave clothes — and Jesus gives one more instruction: “Unbind him, and let him go.” Because God doesn’t just resurrect you — He frees you from what held you.
This is where John 11 becomes your story.
God resurrects what you thought was beyond saving. He calls out what you buried. He revives what you gave up on. He restores what time destroyed. He speaks life into what people labeled impossible.
Your Lazarus is not gone. Your tomb is not final. Your delay is not denial. Your heartbreak is not the last chapter.
You may be in the darkest part of your story — but God is standing outside of it, calling you back to life.
Walk toward His voice. Walk toward His presence. Walk toward resurrection.
Your God does not write endings. He writes resurrections.
Douglas Vandergraph
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