Journeeman.

What the shortest verse in the Bible tells us about the longest nights of our lives?
Jesus wept.

For centuries readers of Scripture have wrestled with the silence at the end of the book of Job. Job never receives an explanation for his suffering. Instead, he places his hand over his mouth and accepts the mystery of God.

But in the Gospel of John, something extraordinary happens.

God Himself stands before a grave and weeps.

In that moment, the silence of Job finds its answer.

Over the past few years, I’ve faced some incredibly difficult challenges—moments that tested every part of me: my body, my mind, and my spirit. Before I even went into prison, the stress of everything was already taking a heavy toll. The relentless police visitations—early mornings, unpredictable and constant—added an unbearable pressure. The stress was so intense that I suffered a stroke. It was a frightening experience, and it left me struggling to get my body to function properly. I had to get a pacemaker because of the strain on my heart, and even after that, the physical struggles didn’t disappear. I was still battling issues with walking, with balance, and with the lingering effects of the stroke, which I worked on within prison.

On top of that, my neurodiversity brought its own challenges—the constant anxiety, the overwhelming feelings that made everything harder to bear. The mental and emotional strain was just as intense—feeling the weight of false accusations, and trying to hold onto the truth amidst the chaos. It was unbearably difficult to explain or even understand how much I was suffering—how much my body, mind, and spirit were being stretched beyond what I thought I could bear.

While I was in prison, for a while, my health seemed to improve—perhaps because some things slowed down. But towards the end of my imprisonment, my health took a sharp downturn. I developed a significant abscess deep in my muscle tissue. During a procedure called an EUA (Examination Under Anesthesia) in February 2026, the surgical team discovered this abscess and had to make a large incision—about 10 centimeters—to open it up and drain it properly. This wound has been left open to continue draining, and I am scheduled for two more operations to fully address and heal it. It’s a serious, ongoing challenge—a physical reminder of how deeply my body has paid the toll of everything I’ve been through.

Throughout all of this, I found myself sitting quietly before God, wrestling with the pain, the confusion, and the uncertainty. I came to see that suffering isn’t always about clear answers or explanations. Sometimes, it’s about trusting that even in the silence—when God seems distant—He is present. And I hold onto the truth that through Jesus Christ, God is not distant or detached from our pain. Instead, He enters into it fully—sharing in our suffering, our struggles, and our grief—and revealing His love and compassion in ways that go beyond words.

The Silence of Job:

Recently, my wife and I spent time reading through the entire book of Job, morning by morning, reflecting on its profound truths. As we journeyed through, I became deeply aware of the silence that Job faces at the end of the book. In Job 40:3-5, Job responds to God’s powerful speech by saying, ‘Behold, I am of small account; what shall I answer you? I lay my hand on my mouth. I have spoken once, and I will not answer; twice, but I will proceed no further.’ That silence—putting a hand over his mouth—is a profound moment. It’s a silence filled with awe, humility, and the recognition of mystery.

Then in Job 42:1-6, Job acknowledges God’s sovereignty: ‘I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted… Therefore I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me, which I did not know… I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes.’ Here, Job doesn’t receive direct answers about why he suffered, but he embraces the mystery and God’s greater purposes.

This silence is not just the absence of answers; it’s a space where the complexity, paradox, and even absurdity of suffering remain. It’s a silence that resonates with the human experience of pain and confusion, where we long for explanation but find none. And yet, it’s in this silence that we are invited to trust God’s presence beyond our understanding.

This struck me deeply. It reminded me that God’s silence isn’t neglect or indifference but part of a larger divine mystery. It points us forward to a fuller revelation—one found in Jesus Christ, who enters into our suffering, shares our pain, and reveals God’s love in the midst of silence and sorrow.

Jesus as Job’s answer to his silence:

What we find in Job—the silence, the mystery, the unanswered questions—is ultimately answered in Jesus. The silence of Job, that profound space of mystery and suffering, is no longer a mystery once we see Jesus. In Him, God steps into the very heart of human pain and suffering.

But to truly grasp what Jesus’ feelings reveal, we need to go beyond the words and into the raw, visceral emotions they express. When Jesus ἐσπλαγχνίσθη—He was moved with deep compassion—it’s not just a gentle feeling; it’s a gut-wrenching, heart-piercing compassion that makes Him feel the pain of others as if it were His own. When He ταράχθη, He was deeply troubled—so much so that His whole being was stirred with anguish, as if He was on the brink of being overwhelmed by the weight of human suffering. And when He ἐδάκρυσεν, He wept—not merely a tear, but a profound, uncontrollable grief that reveals a God who truly feels our pain in the depths of His being.

These are not distant or stoic emotions; they are raw, real, and deeply human. They surprise us because we don’t expect to see such intense feelings from God—feelings that shake Him to the core in the face of death and grief. It’s a reminder that the divine heart is not untouched by suffering but is fully engaged—feeling, weeping, and moved to action.

This moment isn’t just about sadness; it’s about God entering into our brokenness through the incarnation—God becoming human, feeling deeply, and standing with us in our grief. It’s a glimpse of divine love that is active, personal, and profoundly present.

I encourage you to look at John 11 for yourself and reflect on how Jesus’ emotions show us a God who suffers with us, who weeps with us, and who ultimately brings life out of death.

Standing with Jesus before my own tomb stone:

Through my own suffering and endurance, and through reflecting on Job’s silence and Jesus’ tears before Lazarus, something has become very clear to me: God is not unfamiliar with our pain. There is still mystery here. I may not know every reason for suffering, but I understand something of its source. We suffer because the world is broken—because of fallenness, because people harm one another, and because creation itself still waits for renewal.

When Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead, He’s planting the seed of what will be—what is to come in the fullness of God’s new creation. In that moment, Jesus shows us that suffering’s purpose isn’t here and now, but later—pointing us to the hope of resurrection and renewal.

And yet, from my own experience in prison, I’ve learned something wise: even in suffering, we can find purpose. We can create sacred space—moments where God’s presence becomes real and transformative. It’s up to us how we stand before our own tombstones—our trauma, our loss, our pain, our frustration, and the betrayal and uncertainty that life brings.

I choose to stand before my tombstone not alone, but with Jesus standing right beside me. And I hear Him say, ‘Malcolm, come forth.’ In that, I find the promise—not only of walking through this life with Him, but of trusting Him to bring about the new creation. That’s the hope that sustains me—the hope that no matter how dark the tomb, the risen Christ is already at work, making all things new.

And I have found one more purpose in all this enduring and suffering: that in some way, I too share in the suffering that Christ bore for us. I’ve discovered that it’s only when we embrace and walk through these times—not with blind faith, but with hope and confidence in Jesus—that something great is happening within us. We mature, we understand more deeply, and strangely enough, I find myself more grateful today than I ever was before all this. In fact, I am more content and at peace than I’ve ever been.

So in a strange way, amidst all the suffering, the physical pain, the exhaustion and tiredness, I find a deep contentment. That’s the paradox of standing before one’s own tombstone with hope and faith—it changes us from the inside out.

I do not carry the silence of Job, rather I carry the pain and sadness with gratefulness and anticipation, willing to speak directly and honestly with God and grateful that He knows what it is to suffer. In Jesus, God did not merely visit human suffering. He assumed it. And what Christ assumed is now carried into eternity — Divinity is not only aware of our suffering, Divinity experiences it and assumes it within Divinity’s essence.

Heavenly Father,

We come before You with hearts weighed down by pain, suffering, and the uncertainties of life. We thank You that You are not distant or indifferent, but that in Jesus, You have entered into our pain, feeling it with us, weeping with us, and standing beside us.

Lord, we trust in Your promise that suffering is not the end, but a seed of what is to come. Help us to stand before our own tombstones—our losses, our trauma, our exhaustion—with hope and faith, knowing that You are making all things new.

Jesus, we hear You say, ‘Come forth,’ and we cling to that hope. Fill us with Your peace, strengthen our faith, and help us to find purpose and contentment in You, even in the midst of our trials.

We thank You for Your love that sustains us, for Your presence that never leaves us, and for the promise of new life. We trust in You now and forever.

In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.