The Emotional Vulnerability of Jesus
On how he allowed others into his emotional Gethsemane
Good day, friends! I hope that today brings all good things. This last Sunday, I had the gift of preaching a sermon on the Prayers of Paul at Rose Church in Portland. I had a blast. As promised, I wanted to share some excellent resources on prayer that I’ve found to be helpful over the years. Feel free to use these resources. I hope they serve you as they have served me. Also, for my Slow Theology listeners, do note that we have a number of new episodes out as of recent. Today’s devotional continues our series on The Relational Genius of Jesus. Up to now, we have looked at the boundaries of Jesus, his enjoyment of people, and the truth-telling of Jesus. Today’s devotional continues this journey and explores Jesus as the emotionally vulnerable One. God’s grace. And I hope you find it worth your time.
“Then Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, ‘Sit here while I go over there and pray.’ He took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, ‘My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.’” (Mt. 26:36-38)
The night before the crucifixion of Jesus Christ carries the profound emotional weight of what looms on the horizon. The sun of Friday will move Jesus toward his crucifixion, but the night before will be his emotional crucifixion—what Mary-Kate Morse, my seminary Greek professor, called his “emotional Gethsemane.” As Matthew painstakingly narrates, during this night, Jesus withdraws a short distance into the olive grove where he has brought his disciples and prays—pleads, really—that the Father would take the cup of suffering from him.
What follows is a sequence of three movements of prayer, each followed by Jesus returning to the disciples only to find them asleep. Upon his first return to Peter, James, and John (the only disciples permitted to witness this night’s prayers), Jesus discovers them sleeping. After sternly warning the men to stay awake, Jesus returns to prayer. But, once again, he finds his disciples asleep upon his return. One final time, Jesus steps into the darkness of his excruciating prayer. Perplexingly, Matthew opts not to record the exact words of this final prayer. He simply notes that Jesus “prayed the same thing” (v. 44). It’s as if no one heard that final prayer. No one could. Everyone had left Jesus. This moment stands as the crucible of the total abandonment of the Son of God laid bare in aloneness.
Vulnerability is a divine attribute. God is a vulnerable God.1 Yet, this is an aspect of his nature that the church has not always been eager to emphasize. In fact, during the Council of Trent (1545–1563), it was decided that Christ should never be depicted as naked in the church’s artistry, painting, or sculpture. Why? Because the vulnerability of God is almost too overwhelming to bear—too inappropriate, perhaps, for people to confront with complete seriousness.
But this negative reaction toward the sheer vulnerability of God is something never picked up in the writings of Scripture—from beginning to end. The very first Adam, of course, is depicted as a naked man in a good garden in need of a helper in Genesis 3. God comes and sees his need and moves to bring the “helpmate.” Sadly, Christians are too quick to see such a narrative as being primarily about the role of the woman as the ‘helper’ rather than seeing it as being about a man in need of ‘help.’ What a helpful corrective for a church that sees masculinity as being about self-sufficiency, strength, and muscular power. The first man—in his pre-rebellious state—is a vulnerable human being in need of help. Humanity is created to be vulnerable and to need help.
All of this is beautifully bookended by the inspired brilliance of Scripture. The first Adam was naked and unashamed—until he entered into a sinless world and sinned his way into shame only to clothe himself in garments of his own making. The last Adam, Jesus Christ, entered a sinful world and overcame its deception and masquerade with a perfectly sinless life, eventually “scorn[ing] the shame” (Heb. 12:2) of death as his garments are stripped from him by sinful humanity below. Humans were created as vulnerable beings—crafted, it seems, by a vulnerable Creator who, in the words of Curt Thompson, “is open to wounding. Open to pain. Open to rejection. Open to death.”2 Perhaps it’s only through vulnerable love that vulnerable prodigals can be restored.
What is most striking, however, is the emotional vulnerability of Jesus. He not only opens himself to the cross but also lays bare his deepest emotions for three disciples to witness. If Peter, James, and John could recount what they saw in that moment of raw vulnerability, they would indeed have much to say. What did they see? Jesus chose to invite his closest allies into his emotional Gethsemane. Jesus Christ, God incarnate, deliberately embraced humanity in an unprotected, unguarded, truthful, and trembling state. And God allowed his friends to see it.
But they also saw that Jesus did not reveal this emotional state to everyone. In fact, many were not permitted to witness him going further and deeper into his plea with God. Judas, for instance, would soon arrive in the garden to betray him—yet he was not given the opportunity to see this moment of vulnerability. As John later writes, “He would not entrust himself to them, for he knew all people. He did not need any testimony about mankind, for he knew what was in each person” (Jn. 2:24–25). The very author who penned those words was there in the garden with Jesus. In this, Jesus embodies the wisdom of withholding one’s deepest struggles from those who cannot be trusted.
They were also permitted to witness the darkest depths of Jesus’ emotions. He doesn’t hold back. Matthew records that he was “sorrowful and troubled” (v. 37)—a phrase that, in Greek, essentially conveys deep distress, even depression. This very passage troubled the 4th-century theologian Origen, who believed that Jesus was only beginning to feel sorrow and distress. Why? Because he struggled with the notion that God could truly enter into brokenness and sadness. This reflects a long-standing resistance to the idea of God's emotional vulnerability. But the text allows no such resistance. Jesus' anxiety and pain are so intense that he sweats blood (Lk. 22:44).
There is much we can learn from this. Jesus chose to live with emotional vulnerability, allowing his friends and closest allies to witness it. Yet, he also exercised wise boundaries, refraining from oversharing with those who could not be trusted. As a father, pastor, and professor, this challenges me to reflect deeply: is it appropriate to allow those I lead to see my emotional pain? In Jesus, we see the Lord of the disciples willingly sharing his anguish with them—not recklessly or without discernment, but with wisdom and intentionality. Clearly, there is something for us to learn in following a Jesus who experiences deep emotional suffering.
As a preacher, I’ve had to come to grips with one of my own places of healing. How often have I used the pulpit or public ministry as a place to overly share my emotional state—not in a desire to teach or serve—but as an attempt at bringing myself some therapeutic healing. As the great preacher Spurgeon once said, “Don’t ever preach to save yourself.” I’ve had to come to grips with the fact that I’m too often using the pulpit as a place for emotional exhibitionism in a secret desire to feel a semblance of love in my public vulnerabilities. In short, there are, sadly, misuses of vulnerability.
Yet, at the same time, I’ve learned that the right vulnerability with the right person at the right moment is one of the most healing things a person can experience from their leader. My son needs to see my emotions. He needs to know his father is broken, vulnerable, imperfect. Why? Because he doesn’t need a perfect father. Or, better yet, he doesn’t need another perfect Father. He needs a human as his earthly father.
Just as we needed God to become a true human.
Thanks for reading. You can always find me wasting time on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. Or check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. If you found this content helpful to your journey, yay! Consider enjoying my most recent book The Gift of Thorns: Jesus, the Flesh, and the War for our Wants, which was released with Zondervan in February of 2024. Within, I explore the topic of human desire from the perspective of Scripture, theology, and experience—with particular interest to how we can be formed into the image of Christ through our desires. In short, it’s about why our cultural mandate to “you do you” is so profoundly unhelpful to the follower of Jesus. You can support my work by reading it! And sharing about your experience. Click on the image below to get yourself a copy.
As is titled the book William Placher, Narratives of a Vulnerable God: Christ, Theology and Scripture (Louisville, KY: WJK, 1994).
Curt Thompson, The Soul of Shame: Retelling the Stories We Believe About Ourselves (Downers Grove, IL: IVP, 2015), 121.
Wow, so rich. “Perhaps it’s only through vulnerable love that vulnerable prodigals can be restored.” I’m going to be sitting with this line for a while. Thank you for this!
This is really good.