It felt a little strange going to a Broadway show on Good Friday. Having gone to the Maundy Thursday service at our church the night before and meditating on Jesus’ anguish in the Garden of Gethsemane on the night of his arrest, it seemed a little sacrilegious to spend the evening of Good Friday eating dumplings in Chinatown and taking our seats for an 8pm show at the Boston Opera House. When I bought the tickets back in October, I didn’t quite catch that I was buying them for Easter weekend.

But as the first notes of the opening song thundered in my chest, I was once again swept into a story of humanity that brought me back full circle to Thursday night. I have loved Les Miserables since I first saw it at the Geary Theater in San Francisco, years ago. I’ve seen it five times, if you include the movie. I’ve listened to the sound track ad nauseam. I know every note and every word. And it still moves me to tears.

Its brilliance lies in its depiction of humanity – every facet of the human experience – and every response we have to God. Those who cry out to him. Those who mock and reject him. Those who discover his grace and are forever changed. Those who are confronted with his grace and can’t fathom it at all. Woven through all of that is a multi-faceted story of the human experience. Of the human struggle. Of human anguish. That’s what brought me back to Thursday night.

Our pastor had given a message driving home the depth of Jesus’ anguish in that garden. And he said something I’d never really thought about before. Jesus knew that he was headed to the cross. He knew that he was on a path to crucifixion. And he would have seen many crucifixions in his lifetime. That was a punishment of choice by the Romans. It wasn’t uncommon and it was well known to the people of the day. As he struggled in that garden, pleading with his Father to spare him from his fate, Jesus did so with full knowledge of every gruesome and gory detail that his own crucifixion would entail. He’d seen it all before. I’d never really thought of that. Never mind that his physical anguish would only be surpassed by his spiritual agony when his Father turned his face away, leaving him completely alone.

So it makes sense that witnesses to his experience that night describe him as being “deeply distressed and troubled.” (Mark 14:33) He was “overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” (Matthew 26:38) He fell to the ground praying, his face in the dirt. (Matthew 26:39) He was in “anguish…and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground.” (Luke 22:44) Can you imagine?

The lyrics that stood out to me from Les Mis last Friday night were from one of my favorite songs. Having lost all of his friends in a fruitless battle, Marius shares his heartache with us, opening with the line, “There’s a grief that can’t be spoken…there’s a pain goes on and on.” I imagined Jesus in the garden, barely able to speak – words escaping his aching throat, forced out in a rasped whisper. And then I thought of another, similar, lyric from the musical Hamilton: “There are moments that the words don’t reach. There is suffering too terrible to name….the moments when you’re in so deep, it seems easier to just swim down.”

The greatest works of art are great, not just because of the masterful talent behind them, but because of how they touch us in our humanity. They speak to the human existence. And they connect. For me, Les Miserables is one of those great works of art. Hamilton is another one. And the Bible is another one. For some, the Bible is simply a great work of art. But it’s more than a work of art. It’s the story of God’s love for his creation. It’s the story of how he’s weaving his love and grace through the history of humanity. And the recording of Jesus’ last night in the garden is an integral moment in that story. It was a moment in which he connected with us in our anguish…when he, too, endured a moment that words couldn’t reach, as he faced a suffering that was too terrible to name.

But here’s the thing. The stories that inspire me the most, take me through the anguish, but are laden with hope. There’s hope in Les Miserables. And there’s hope in Hamilton. But the greatest hope can be found in Jesus Christ, who willingly took the sins of the world upon his shoulders, endured the rejection of his Father, and died a brutal death, only to conquer it all on the other side. The anguish of Thursday night led into the brutality of Friday, only to give way to the glory of Sunday, when he was raised from death to life. Jesus paid it all, so he could break the power of sin in our lives and lavish us with his love and grace. His anguish became our hope.

I love these lyrics from Hamilton: “There are moments that the words don’t reach. There’s a grace too powerful to name. We push away what we can never understand. We push away the unimaginable. Forgiveness. Can you imagine? Forgiveness. Can you imagine?”

For some of us, Jesus’ death and resurrection are too difficult to understand. And we push them away as unimaginable. For others, forgiveness is too difficult to understand. And we push it away as unimaginable. But Jesus’ anguish in that garden was all about his coming death. And his decision to carry through with the plan was all about forgiveness, motivated by love.

Have you discovered Jesus’ love? Have you been touched by his grace? Have you let him meet you in your anguish? Is that something you can even imagine?

If you’re intrigued by Jesus at all, then Jesus’ death and resurrection, his love and his grace, and his power to walk us through the darkest hours of our anguish are all worth investigating for yourself. There is no anguish you can walk through that he will not walk through with you. He’s been there. He understands. And he cares – more than you know, more than you can imagine.

We don’t have a priest who is out of touch with our reality. He’s been through weakness and testing, experienced it all—all but the sin. So let’s walk right up to him and get what he is so ready to give. Take the mercy, accept the help. (Hebrews 4:15-16)