Narrator: What is God’s immediate, instinctive feeling toward us when we fail? Not what doctrine says he will do, but what his heart feels in that moment. For many, the default assumption is one of disappointment, of patience wearing thin. We imagine a divine sigh, a sense of frustration that we have stumbled yet again. We project our own limited, transactional way of loving onto God, assuming his affection is something we must maintain through good behavior. But what if this core assumption is wrong? What if his deepest impulse isn't frustration, but a surprising and overwhelming tenderness?

In his book, Gentle and Lowly: The Heart of Christ for Sinners and Sufferers, Dane Ortlund argues that the single most important discovery a person can make is the true nature of Christ’s heart. He contends that our natural, sin-marred instincts about God are fundamentally mistaken. The book embarks on a journey to look past our own performance and our flawed projections to discover who Jesus is at his very core, revealing a heart that is not distant and demanding, but startlingly gentle, accessible, and drawn to the very people who feel they deserve it least.

Narrator: Throughout the Gospels, Jesus is described in many ways: as a teacher, a healer, the Son of God. But in only one place does he pull back the curtain on his own inner being and tell us what his heart is like. In Matthew 11, he declares, “I am gentle and lowly in heart.” Ortlund argues this is not just one attribute among many, but the very center of who Christ is. It is his most natural, instinctive disposition.

This self-revelation is profound because it defies our expectations. We tend to assume that someone so high and holy would be severe or demanding. Yet, Jesus defines his core identity by his gentleness—his meekness and restraint—and his lowliness, which signifies his accessibility and his readiness to meet us where we are. This isn’t a description of his actions, but of his heart, the animating center of his being. It means that when sinners and sufferers approach him, his first impulse is not judgment or disappointment, but a tender, welcoming embrace. This is who he is.

Narrator: This gentle and lowly heart is not a New Testament invention that contradicts the God of the Old Testament. Ortlund demonstrates that this disposition is woven throughout Scripture. A key passage is found in the book of Lamentations, written in the devastating aftermath of Jerusalem’s destruction—a clear act of divine judgment. Amid the rubble and despair, the prophet writes that God “does not afflict from his heart.”

This reveals a crucial distinction. While God is sovereign over all things, including suffering and judgment, these actions do not flow from his deepest desire. Theologians like Thomas Goodwin, drawing on passages like Isaiah 28:21, called judgment God’s “strange work” or his “alien act.” In contrast, showing mercy is his natural work. When God restores his people, the Bible says he does it “with all my heart and all my soul” (Jeremiah 32:41). But when he punishes, he does so with a kind of divine reluctance, for a higher redemptive purpose. His heart is not in the affliction itself, but in the mercy that he delights to show.

Narrator: Christ’s tender heart for his people did not cease when he ascended to heaven. Ortlund highlights the often-neglected doctrine of Christ’s present-day heavenly ministry, where he continues to act on behalf of sinners and sufferers. This work takes two key forms: intercession and advocacy.

Hebrews 7:25 states that Jesus “always lives to make intercession for them.” This is not a desperate plea to a reluctant Father, but a continuous application of his finished work on the cross. Ortlund uses the analogy of an older brother at his younger brother’s track meet. Even if the younger brother is far ahead and victory is certain, the older brother cheers wildly from the sidelines, not because the outcome is in doubt, but out of sheer love and solidarity. In the same way, Christ’s intercession is the constant, loving cheer of our older brother, celebrating our secure position before the Father.

Furthermore, 1 John 2:1 reveals that when we sin, “we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous.” Advocacy is even more personal than intercession. It means Christ stands with us, as our defense attorney, silencing all accusations. His advocacy means that our stumbles do not jeopardize our standing, because his perfect righteousness speaks louder than our failures.

Narrator: A common and damaging misconception is to pit a gentle, loving Son against a stern, wrathful Father. Ortlund argues this is a distortion of the Trinity. The heart of the Father is one and the same with the heart of the Son. In 2 Corinthians, Paul calls God “the Father of mercies,” and in Ephesians 2:4, he writes that God is “rich in mercy.” Mercy is not just something the Father has; it is who he is.

Theological tradition speaks of the pactum salutis, or the covenant of redemption, an agreement within the Trinity before time began to save humanity. In this eternal plan, it was the Father who ordained the way of mercy, the Son who agreed to accomplish it, and the Spirit who agreed to apply it. The Father was not a reluctant participant who needed to be convinced; he was the willing author of the rescue plan. When we see the gentle and lowly heart of Christ, we are seeing the very heart of the Father made visible.

Narrator: Because we so often misunderstand God’s heart, we tend to live the Christian life backward. We live for Christ’s heart, trying to earn his affection through our performance, rather than living from it, as a result of his already-secured love. This subtle but pervasive legalism is what Ortlund calls our “law-ish” heart resisting Christ’s “lavish” heart.

He tells a story to illustrate this folly: a twelve-year-old boy, despite living in a loving home, becomes convinced he must earn his place in the family. He tries to create a new birth certificate, scrubs the kitchen obsessively, and mimics his father’s every move. His parents are not pleased but baffled and saddened. His father finally tells him, “You don’t have to do any of this. You are my son. That is settled.” Similarly, our sonship is settled. We are not orphans trying to earn a place; we are children living from a place of full acceptance. This truth is anchored in Romans 5:8: “God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” If he loved us at our absolute worst, he will certainly not forsake us now in our stumbles.

Narrator: The ultimate purpose of all human history, and of eternity itself, is not what we might expect. According to Ephesians 2:7, God saved us “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 heaven is for God to spend eternity lavishing his kindness upon his people.

This reframes our entire understanding of sin and failure. Our fallenness is not an obstacle to enjoying heaven; it is the very ingredient that makes heaven what it is. Our past sins and present struggles become the dark velvet backdrop against which the diamond of his grace will sparkle for all eternity. As C.S. Lewis wrote, heaven will work backward and turn even our deepest agonies into glory. Our messy, complicated, and often-failing lives are the very canvas upon which God will display the breathtaking masterpiece of his gentle and lowly heart forever.

Narrator: The single most transformative message of Gentle and Lowly is that Christ’s heart is not what we naturally assume it to be. Our default setting is to expect from God what we experience from the world: conditional acceptance, limited patience, and a love that must be earned and maintained. Ortlund systematically dismantles this, showing from Scripture that Christ’s deepest impulse is a tender, merciful, and relentless affection for those who are broken and aware of their need for him.

The real-world impact of this truth is profound. It frees us from the exhausting treadmill of performance-based religion and allows us to rest in his unwavering love. The book’s greatest challenge is not to do something with this information, but to let it undo us—to allow the reality of his gentle and lowly heart to calm our anxious souls and rewire our deepest assumptions about who God is, and who we are to him.