Gentle and Lowly

Gentle and Lowly Plot Summary

Introduction

At the heart of Christianity lies a profound paradox: the creator of the universe, infinite in power and glory, describes himself as "gentle and lowly in heart." This single self-description from Jesus, found in Matthew 11:29, forms the centerpiece of one of the most comforting truths in all of Scripture, yet it is often overlooked in contemporary Christian thought. Throughout history, humans have tended to project onto God our own temperaments—stern, demanding, easily disappointed—rather than embracing the heart that God himself reveals. This exploration invites us to peel back layers of misconception about Christ's disposition toward sinners and sufferers. We will discover how Jesus relates to those who struggle, fail, and feel unworthy of love. Rather than offering mere theological abstractions, we will examine what Scripture actually teaches about the emotional life of Christ, his deepest affections, and the stunning reality that his heart is drawn toward the very people who would expect him to be repulsed. Through engaging with biblical passages and insights from theological giants like the Puritans, we will rediscover the revolutionary tenderness that stands at the center of Christian faith and transforms how we approach God in our weakness.

Chapter 1: A Heart of Compassion

When we search through all four Gospels—comprising eighty-nine chapters of biblical text—a remarkable fact emerges: there is only one place where Jesus explicitly tells us about his own heart. While the Gospels richly describe Jesus' teachings, miracles, conflicts, and conversations, only once does Jesus pull back the curtain to reveal his innermost nature. In Matthew 11:28-30, Jesus says, "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls." The word "gentle" in the Greek appears just three other times in the New Testament, indicating someone who is meek, humble, and not harsh or reactionary. Jesus is saying he is not trigger-happy or easily exasperated. He is, in fact, the most understanding person in the universe. The term "lowly" adds another dimension, suggesting accessibility. Despite his resplendent glory and dazzling holiness, no one in human history has ever been more approachable than Jesus Christ. There are no prerequisites or hoops to jump through to access him. What's particularly striking is that Jesus defines his core identity not as "exalted and dignified in heart" or even "joyful and generous in heart," but as "gentle and lowly in heart." This is the fundamental reality of who Christ is toward those who come to him. It's not a temporary mood or an occasional stance—it's his very nature. The heart in biblical terms refers not merely to emotions but to the central animating center of a person's being. Jesus is telling us that at his core, in his deepest self, he is gentle and approachable. This self-description directly challenges our natural assumptions about divine power and authority. We instinctively expect greatness to correspond with severity, for holiness to produce distance. Yet Jesus reveals that his heart operates according to a different principle. His yoke is "easy" (which translates the same Greek word elsewhere rendered as "kind"). His burden is "light." The posture most natural to him is not a pointed finger but open arms, not a furrowed brow but a welcoming embrace. This gentleness and lowliness is what draws people to him. Throughout the Gospels, we see the most broken and despised people flocking to Jesus while religious leaders often kept their distance. Tax collectors and sinners were drawn to him because they sensed this core truth about his heart—he was safe for sinners. This revelation forms the foundation for understanding everything else about how Christ relates to struggling humanity.

Chapter 2: The Pursuit of Sinners

The compassionate heart that Jesus claims with his words in Matthew 11:29, he proves with his actions throughout all four Gospels. His ministry was marked by a consistent pattern of moving toward, not away from, human brokenness. This movement against the natural current of religious expectation revealed a heart that actively pursued connection with those society deemed unworthy. When a leper approached Jesus saying, "Lord, if you will, you can make me clean," Jesus did something shocking by Jewish standards—he immediately stretched out his hand and touched him, saying, "I will; be clean" (Matthew 8:2-3). In a culture where touching a leper meant ceremonial defilement, Jesus' willingness to make physical contact spoke volumes about his heart's priority: compassion over convention. The exchange reveals more than just a healing; it shows Jesus' deepest desire to connect with those society had cast aside. Throughout the Gospels, we see this pattern repeatedly. When a group of men brought their paralyzed friend to Jesus, he couldn't even wait for them to speak before saying, "Take heart, my son; your sins are forgiven" (Matthew 9:2). Traveling from town to town, "he saw the crowds, and he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless" (Matthew 9:36). The Greek word for "compassion" refers to the bowels or innermost core of a person—it's an ancient way of saying that something rose up from the depths of Jesus' being when he encountered human suffering. What is particularly striking is how Jesus consistently gravitates toward those deemed morally disgusting and socially reviled. He earned the nickname "friend of sinners" from his critics (Luke 7:34), a title intended as an insult but which reveals a profound truth about his mission. The dominant note ringing in our ears after reading the Gospels is not Christ's power or authority, though these are present, but the way he moves toward, touches, heals, embraces, and forgives those who least deserve it yet truly desire it. Jesus' ministry reversed the prevailing understanding of clean and unclean. In the Old Testament, when something unclean touched something clean, the clean thing became unclean. But with Jesus, the opposite occurred: when he, the Clean One, touched an unclean sinner, Christ did not become unclean—the sinner became clean. His touch restored dignity and humanity. As theologian Jürgen Moltmann observed, Jesus' healings were not supernatural interruptions of the natural order but rather the restoration of the truly natural order in a world distorted by sin and suffering. This same heart of compassion continues today. Hebrews 13:8 assures us that "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." The Christ who wept at Lazarus' tomb still weeps with us in our despair. The one who reached out to touch lepers still extends his arm around us when we feel misunderstood and sidelined. Through his Spirit, Christ is now even closer to us than he was to those he physically touched during his earthly ministry.

Chapter 3: The Depth of His Sympathy

One of the most profound revelations about Christ's heart is found in Hebrews 4:15: "For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin." This verse opens a window into the emotional life of Jesus and his capacity to enter into our human experience with an unmatched depth of feeling. The word "sympathize" in this passage comes from a compound Greek term meaning to "co-suffer" or suffer with. This isn't detached pity or clinical observation of human pain. It describes a depth of felt solidarity that echoes the closest human bonds we experience. In our pain, Jesus is pained; in our suffering, he feels the suffering as his own even though it isn't. His human nature engages our troubles comprehensively, feeling alongside us in our distress. Jesus is not merely a divine being who observed humanity from a distance. He was "made like his brothers in every respect" (Hebrews 2:17) and "suffered when tempted" (Hebrews 2:18). The Puritan Thomas Goodwin beautifully captured this reality when he wrote that Hebrews 4:15 "lets us feel how feelingly and sensibly affected the heart of Christ is to sinners under all their infirmities." Our difficulties draw out a depth of feeling in Christ beyond what we ourselves know. The sympathy of Christ is rooted in his full humanity. He was a sinless man, not a sinless Superman. He woke up with bed head. He had pimples as a teenager. Isaiah tells us he had "no beauty that we should desire him" (Isaiah 53:2). He knew what it was to be thirsty, hungry, despised, rejected, scorned, shamed, embarrassed, abandoned, misunderstood, falsely accused, suffocated, tortured, and killed. He knew what it was to be lonely. His friends abandoned him when he needed them most. This means that when the relationship goes sour, when feelings of futility come flooding in, when it feels like life is passing us by, when we can't sort out our emotions, when the longtime friend lets us down, when a family member betrays us—in short, when the fallenness of the world closes in on us—we have a Friend who knows exactly what such testing feels like. Our tendency is to feel that the more difficult life gets, the more alone we are. The Bible corrects us. Our pain never outstrips what Christ himself shares in. Though Jesus never sinned, his sinlessness actually means he knows temptation better than we do. C.S. Lewis made this point by speaking of a man walking against the wind. Once the wind gets strong enough, the man lies down, giving in—and thus not knowing what it would have been like ten minutes later. Jesus never gave in; he endured all our temptations to their full strength. He therefore knows the strength of temptation better than any of us. This sympathy of Christ doesn't diminish with time or distance. Though now in heaven, his heart remains as tender and responsive to our weaknesses as it was during his earthly ministry. The One who rules the cosmos with undiminished glory is the same One who feels every pang of your heartache and understands the full weight of your struggles.

Chapter 4: A Friend in Our Weakness

When we consider the heart of Christ, one profound category to explore is that of friendship. Throughout his ministry, Jesus was explicitly identified as "a friend of tax collectors and sinners" (Matthew 11:19). Though his critics intended this as a scathing indictment, it actually reveals one of the most comforting aspects of Christ's character—his willingness to draw near to those whom society rejected. What does it mean that Christ is a friend to sinners? At the very least, it means that he enjoys spending time with them. In Luke 15:1, we read, "Now the tax collectors and sinners were all drawing near to hear him." The very people whom religious leaders avoided found themselves inexplicably drawn to Jesus. They were at ease around him. They sensed something different about him. Others held them at arm's length, but Jesus offered the enticing intrigue of fresh hope. This friendship of Christ goes deeper than our human friendships. Think of your own relational circle. Some people know your name but remain on the periphery of your affections. Others are closer to the middle but not intimate friends. Some of us are blessed with particularly close friends who know us and "get" us. But even with our closest friends, most of us don't feel fully comfortable divulging everything about our lives. We love them and go on vacation with them, but we don't entrust ourselves to them completely. Christ's friendship is different. In him, we are given a friend who will always enjoy rather than refuse our presence. His embrace doesn't strengthen or weaken depending on how clean or unclean, how attractive or revolting, how faithful or fickle we presently are. The friendliness of his heart toward us is as fixed and stable as his declaration of our justification. In John 15:15, Jesus tells his disciples, "No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you." Jesus's friends are those to whom he has opened up his deepest purposes. He doesn't channel over to his disciples some of what the Father has told him; he tells them everything. There is nothing held back. The Puritan Richard Sibbes reflected on the mutuality of Christ's friendship: "In friendship there is a mutual consent, a union of judgment and affections... There is liberty which is the life of friendship; there is a free intercourse between friends, a free opening of secrets... In friendship, there is mutual solace and comfort one in another. Christ delights himself in his love to the church, and his church delights herself in her love to Christ." This friendship with Christ addresses one of our deepest human needs—the need for companionship. In Revelation 3:20, Jesus says, "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me." Jesus wants to come in to you—wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, naked you—and enjoy meals together. Spend time with you. Deepen the acquaintance. The heart of Christ not only heals our feelings of rejection with his embrace but also heals our aloneness with his sheer companionship. As Sibbes concludes, "As his friendship is sweet, so it is constant in all conditions... If other friends fail, as friends may fail, yet this friend will never fail us."

Chapter 5: Rich in Mercy

The works of Thomas Goodwin fill twelve volumes, over five hundred pages each, in small font, densely written. Volume 2 is devoted entirely to Ephesians chapter 2, with several sermons focused on a single verse: "But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us..." (Ephesians 2:4). This verse reveals something profound about the heart of Christ. Nowhere else in the Bible is God described as rich in anything. The only thing he is called rich in is mercy. What does this mean? It means that God is something other than what we naturally believe him to be. The Christian life involves a lifelong shedding of tepid thoughts about the goodness of God. In his justice, God is exacting; in his mercy, God is overflowing. Goodwin writes: "He is rich unto all; that is, he is infinite, overflowing in goodness, he is good to a profuseness." The verse says, "God, being rich in mercy..." Not becoming, but being. This statement takes us into the inner recesses of the Creator, into heaven's Holy of Holies, disclosing the animating center of God's very nature. "He is the spring of all mercy... it is natural to him," writes Goodwin. "It is his nature and disposition, because when he shows mercy, he does it with his whole heart." This is why David acknowledged in prayer to God that the mercy shown him was "according to your own heart" (1 Chronicles 17:19). God is a fountain of mercy. He is a billionaire in the currency of mercy, and the withdrawals we make as we sin our way through life cause his fortune to grow greater, not less. How can that be? Because mercy is who he is. If mercy was something he simply had, while his deepest nature was something different, there would be a limit on how much mercy he could dole out. But if he is essentially merciful, then for him to pour out mercy is for him to act in accord with who he is. The context of Ephesians 2:4 makes this all the more stunning. The preceding verses describe our hopeless condition: "And you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked, following the course of this world, following the prince of the power of the air..." (Ephesians 2:1-2). Paul is not speaking of sin as an occasional misstep or struggle but as the comprehensive, enveloping flow of our lives. We were dead, utterly helpless, and hostile to God. Christ was sent not to mend wounded people or advise confused people, but to raise dead people. And how does he do this? "He loves life into us," according to John Owen. His resurrection power that flows into corpses is love itself. The mercy of God reaches down and rinses clean not only obviously bad people but fraudulently good people, both of whom equally stand in need of resurrection. What does this mean for us practically? It means that our regions of deepest shame and regret are not hotels through which divine mercy passes but homes in which divine mercy abides. The things about you that make you cringe most, make him hug hardest. It means his mercy is not calculating and cautious, like ours. It is unrestrained, flood-like, sweeping, magnanimous. It means our sins do not cause his love to take a hit. Our sins cause his love to surge forward all the more.

Chapter 6: Loved to the End

John 13:1 stands as one of the most profound statements about the enduring nature of Christ's love: "Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end." This simple declaration launches the passion narrative in John's Gospel and encapsulates the unwavering heart of Christ as he approached the cross. As Jesus stood at the precipice of his greatest suffering, John pauses to reflect on the consistency of his love. Looking back, John says Jesus had "loved his own who were in the world." Looking forward to the cross, "he loved them to the end." The text reveals that Jesus knew "his hour had come to depart out of this world to the Father." He was entering the final chapter and deepest valley of his earthly ministry. Yet even as the horror of crucifixion and divine abandonment loomed before him, his love for his people remained steadfast. What was impending for Jesus? Throughout his ministry, despite its demands and difficulties, Jesus had always known the pleasure and favor of his Father. It had been pronounced over him (Matthew 3:17; 17:5). Now his worst nightmare was about to wash over him. Hell itself—not metaphorically, but in actuality, the horror of condemnation and darkness and death—was opening its jaws. At the cross, Jesus absorbed the cumulative judgment for all the sinfulness of his people. The righteous human wrath we feel toward evildoers is a mere drop in the ocean of righteous divine wrath the Father unleashed on Christ as he stood in our place. The Puritan John Bunyan reflected on this love: "It is common for equals to love, and for superiors to be beloved; but for the King of princes, for the Son of God, for Jesus Christ to love man thus: this is amazing... Love from Christ requires no taking beauteousness in the object to be beloved. It can act of and from itself, without all such kind of dependencies." Jesus's statement that he loved his own "to the end" means far more than that he loved them until the end of his life. It signifies that his love has no limit, no breaking point, no conditions. The Greek text literally reads, "he loved them to the uttermost." Jesus set his heart upon his people, and he would not withdraw it even in the face of their failures and frailties. This love is not indiscriminate, however. The text says it is "his own" whom he loves to the end. "His own" refers to Christ's true disciples, the children of God. To those who are not his own, Jesus will one day be a fearful judge. But for those who belong to him, Jesus endured punishment in their place. John Owen wrote, "There is not the meanest, the weakest, the poorest believer on the earth, but Christ prizes him more than all the world." What does this mean for believers? First, it means that your future is secure. If you are his, heaven is coming, for you cannot be made un-his. He himself made you his own, and you can't squirm out of his grasp. Second, it means he will love you to the end because he cannot bear to do otherwise. No exit strategy. No prenup. He'll love to the end—"to the end of their lives, to the end of their sins, to the end of their temptations, to the end of their fears." When we sin, we tend to project onto God a fickle heart that grows cold or distant. But the cross proves otherwise. Jesus walked into the darkness of divine judgment, bearing the horror of our sin, because he set his heart upon us and would not turn back. For those united to him, the heart of Jesus is not a rental; it is your new permanent residence.

Chapter 7: Our Eternal Refuge

What is the ultimate purpose of our existence? What is the telos, the aim, the macro reason for our small, ordinary lives? Christians have rightly answered: "To glorify God." We are pieces of art, designed to draw attention to our artist. We function properly when we live for God's glory rather than our own. But how exactly does this glorification happen? What is the means by which God will be eternally glorified? Jonathan Edwards, America's greatest theologian, provides a stunning answer: "The creation of the world seems to have been especially for this end, that the eternal Son of God might obtain a spouse, towards whom he might fully exercise the infinite benevolence of his nature, and to whom he might, as it were, open and pour forth all that immense fountain of condescension, love, and grace that was in his heart, and that in this way God might be glorified." Edwards is saying something profound—God made the world so that his Son's heart had an outlet. Picture a dammed-up river, pent up, engorged, ready to burst forth—that is the kindness in the heart of Christ. The creation of the world, and the ruinous fall into sin that called for a re-creative work, un-dammed the heart of Christ. And Christ's heart flood is how God's glory surges forth further and brighter than it ever could otherwise. This viewpoint is thoroughly biblical. In Ephesians 2:7, Paul reveals the ultimate purpose of salvation: "So that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus." The point of unending eternal life in the new heavens and the new earth is that God "might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus." What does this mean for those in Christ? It means that one day God will walk us through the wardrobe into Narnia, and we will stand there, paralyzed with joy, wonder, astonishment, and relief. We will never be scolded for the sins of this life, never looked at askance, never told, "Enjoy this, but remember you don't deserve this." The very point of heaven is to enjoy his "grace in kindness." If his grace in kindness is "immeasurable," then our failures can never outstrip his grace. Our moments of feeling utterly overwhelmed by life are where God's heart lives. Our most haunted pockets of failure and regret are where his heart is drawn most unswervingly. If his grace in kindness consists of "immeasurable riches"—as opposed to measurable, middle-class grace—then our sins can never exhaust his heart. For those in Christ, this life is the worst it will ever get. In that resurrection morning, when the Sun of Righteousness appears in all his glory, we will experience the culmination of everything Christ's heart has been moving toward. Edwards writes that Christ "shall as it were take her by the hand, and lead her in with him: and this glorious bridegroom and bride shall with all their shining ornaments, ascend up together into the heaven of heaven." This is the ultimate refuge—not just that we are saved from sin and death, but that we are saved into the unfiltered enjoyment of the heart of Christ. Our salvation is not merely a technical legal transaction but an invitation into the eternal experience of a love that defies comprehension. The immeasurable riches of his grace will be displayed through us forever, as the objects of his tender affection, the treasured ones for whom his heart has yearned from eternity past.

Summary

The heart of Christ stands as the most revolutionary revelation in human history: that the infinite Creator who holds the galaxies in place describes himself fundamentally as "gentle and lowly in heart." This self-disclosure upends our natural assumptions about divinity and power. Rather than being distant, stern, or easily disappointed, Jesus reveals a heart that is drawn toward sinners and sufferers, that actively moves toward brokenness rather than away from it, and that finds its deepest delight in showing mercy. The implications of this truth transform everything about how we approach God. We need not hide our weaknesses or failures, for these are precisely what draw out Christ's deepest compassion. His love is not contingent on our performance but flows from his unchangeable nature. In a world that increasingly measures worth by achievement and abandons those who fail to measure up, Christ's heart offers the ultimate counter-cultural message: there is one whose love cannot be earned or diminished, whose mercy is inexhaustible, and whose deepest joy is to welcome the unworthy. This is not just comfort for the religious, but hope for every human who has ever felt unlovable or beyond redemption—that at the center of the universe beats a heart of immeasurable tenderness, waiting for us to simply come and receive what we could never deserve.

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Dane C. Ortlund

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