Gentle and Lowly

What does Jesus actually feel when he looks at you—at your failures, your exhaustion, your fear? In Gentle and Lowly: The Heart of Christ for Sinners and Sufferers, Dane Ortlund invites you to rethink your most basic assumption about God. Drawing deeply from Scripture and the Puritans, especially Thomas Goodwin and Richard Sibbes, Ortlund argues that Jesus Christ’s deepest impulse is not condemnation but compassion; not a clenched fist but open arms. His central claim is revolutionary in its simplicity: at the very core of his being, Jesus is gentle and lowly in heart (Matthew 11:29).

For many Christians, God feels distant, cold, and frustrated by our ongoing weakness. Ortlund insists this is exactly the misconception Scripture wants to heal. We tend to project our own fickle love onto God, imagining his patience wears thin. But if you let the Bible reshape your expectations, you discover a Savior whose heart moves toward—not away from—our failures. In fact, Ortlund says, our very sins and sorrows draw out Christ’s compassion as naturally as a loving father runs toward his injured child.

Reframing God's Character

The first chapters explore what Jesus reveals about himself when he says he is gentle and lowly. In Scripture, the heart is the center of what someone most naturally is. When Jesus lifts the veil on his heart, he shows us tenderness and humility—not aloof holiness, but accessible love. He is the most approachable person in the universe. Ortlund shows that the very burdens we think disqualify us from his love are the ones that qualify us for it. His kindness is not a reluctant mercy but a reflex of his nature.

Through stories from the Gospels—where Jesus touches lepers, embraces outcasts, and weeps with mourners—Ortlund demonstrates how Christ’s “heart in action” reveals divine compassion in motion. You don’t meet a deity repulsed by uncleanness; you meet one who cleanses with a touch. This is the God who, rather than flinching at our mess, enters it to heal it.

The Triune Tenderness

A recurring concern in the book is whether this tender-heartedness applies only to Jesus or to God the Father as well. Ortlund insists the heart of Christ perfectly expresses the heart of the Father and the Spirit. In later chapters (“Why the Spirit?” and “Father of Mercies”), he explores how the entire Trinity shares this redeeming posture. The Spirit makes Christ’s compassion felt internally, turning doctrine into experience; the Father is described by Scripture as “the Father of mercies.” The cross, then, is not the Son placating a ruthless Father—the cross is the Father’s own love poured through the Son’s open heart.

When Suffering and Sin Collide with Mercy

Throughout the book, Ortlund moves between two kinds of human experience: sin and suffering. Whether you are weighed down by guilt or grief, his argument remains the same—Christ’s heart is drawn to you there. Drawing from passages like Hebrews 4:15 (“We do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses”) and Hosea 11:8 (“My compassion grows warm and tender”), he traces how divine holiness doesn’t make God less merciful—it guarantees his mercy. The purer a heart, the more it recoils from evil and runs to relieve the one trapped in it.

(Similar authors, such as A. W. Tozer in The Knowledge of the Holy, emphasize God’s greatness; Ortlund complements this by showing that the greatness of God is most visible in his goodness.) Through key texts like Isaiah 55, Exodus 34, and Lamentations 3, he demonstrates that God’s heart for sinners has always been one of abundant pardon and tender compassion.

Union, Advocacy, and Joy

In the middle and later chapters, Ortlund explores how this heart is expressed today. Christ intercedes for us continually (Hebrews 7:25), advocates for us when we sin (1 John 2:1), and takes joy in showing mercy. Drawing on Thomas Goodwin’s analogy of a doctor rejoicing when patients allow him to heal them, Ortlund shows that Jesus’ happiness increases as he pardons and restores. To hide from him in shame, then, is to rob Christ of his joy.

By the book’s end, Ortlund has transformed a theological point into an existential invitation. He echoes 17th-century pastor John Flavel’s exhortation: “Why should you resist your own peace?” The only application of this book, Ortlund concludes in his Epilogue, is to “come to him.” Not to do, but to rest—to allow Christ’s gentle and lowly heart to embrace you in your sin and suffering. Because this, he says, is not merely how Jesus acts. It is who he is.

When Jesus wanted to describe his heart—the seat of his desires and emotions—he used just two words: gentle and lowly (Matthew 11:29). Those words, Ortlund argues, dismantle every caricature of a distant, disappointed God. The book opens by considering what this self-description reveals about Christ’s posture toward human failure and exhaustion.

Gentle: Safe for the Weary

In the New Testament, “gentle” carries the sense of meekness and humility, the same word used for “the meek shall inherit the earth.” Christ’s gentleness does not mean timidity—it means he will never handle the weak roughly. He is not trigger-happy, not hard to please. When you think of how the holy God feels about your recurring sin, Ortlund says, imagine open arms rather than crossed arms. Jesus’s default posture toward those who come to him is one of understanding compassion.

He compares it to a drowning man who resists a life preserver—Christ’s yoke is as natural and light as helium to a balloon. To take it is not to add a burden but to drop the crushing weight of self-justification. His gentleness moves toward sinners just as a father’s instinct is to comfort a crying child, not to lecture them.

Lowly: Accessible to the Broken

“Lowly” carries the idea of humble circumstance—those who are socially small, unimpressive, even despised. Christ identifies himself here as fully accessible; there are no spiritual prerequisites to approach him. You don’t have to clean up to come. You come dirty, burdened, doubting—and he meets you there. The only qualification is weariness and need. Unlike religious leaders who impose more laws, Jesus’s heart is for the crushed and exhausted.

The Heart That Cannot Change

Ortlund underscores that “gentle and lowly” is not one attribute among many. It is the defining reality of Christ’s inner life. His holiness includes his humility. His greatness expresses itself in tenderness. Even after his resurrection and ascension, Hebrews 13:8 reminds us that “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” To know him now is to know the same heart that embraced lepers and wept over Jerusalem.

“The posture most natural to him,” writes Ortlund, “is not a pointed finger but open arms.”

So if you’re still waiting to be good enough or faithful enough before collapsing into his embrace, Ortlund urges you to hear Christ’s invitation again: “Come to me.” He doesn’t ask for improved behavior—he offers rest for your soul. The only thing required, the author insists, is to open yourself up to him.

What makes Jesus happy? Thomas Goodwin’s work, which Ortlund draws from, answers: showing mercy. Christ’s joy expands when he is able to pardon, relieve, and comfort his people. Ortlund uses Goodwin’s analogy of a doctor traveling deep into a plague-ridden jungle. The doctor’s joy increases not when people stay away but when they finally accept the cure. Likewise, Jesus delights most when sinners come to him for healing.

Mercy as Christ’s Joy

Christ does not reluctantly forgive. He rejoices to do so. His happiness is not diminished but actually enlarged by showing mercy. This reframes repentance: when you confess your failure, you are not aggravating Jesus; you are answering one of his deepest pleasures. Goodwin even argues that Jesus receives more comfort in our pardon than we do, just as a loving spouse feels joy in the other's healing.

The Joy Set Before Him

Hebrews 12:2 says Jesus endured the cross “for the joy that was set before him.” That joy was the sight of us made clean and fully forgiven. He went through despair and death with eyes fixed on that outcome. To him, the agony was worth it—not just for victory over sin, but to be reunited with the people he loves. This makes his heart a fountain, not a reservoir: it is constantly flowing outward toward his followers.

The Healing Head and His Body

Paul calls believers the “body of Christ” (Ephesians 5:29–30). When one part is wounded, the head feels it. Ortlund brings this image to life: when you draw on Christ’s forgiveness, you’re not burdening him; you are healing part of him, because he so identifies with you. His heart and yours rise and fall together. Far from shrinking back in exasperation, Jesus finds new joy in your return. His happiness is tied to your restoration.

When Isaiah declares that God’s thoughts are higher than ours (Isaiah 55:8–9), we often assume it means God works in mysterious, inscrutable ways. But Ortlund exposes a deeper meaning: this passage reveals not the mystery of God’s providence, but the surprise of his compassion.

God’s Abundant Pardon

Isaiah invites the wicked to return to the Lord, promising that “He will abundantly pardon.” Not grudgingly. Not with limits. The Hebrew rhythm of the text paints overflowing mercy—God’s forgiveness is as boundless as the sky above the earth. Calvin noted that human beings, quick to anger and slow to forgive, project that same tight-fisted mercy onto God. But the divine logic runs opposite ours: “He is far from resembling men.”

The Scale of Divine Compassion

Just as Psalm 103 measures God’s love “as high as the heavens are above the earth,” Isaiah links divine transcendence not to power but to mercy. God’s ways are higher precisely because his heart is lower—stooping, embracing, pardoning. The contrast between our instinct and God’s character is infinite: we are “law-ish,” tit-for-tat people who think fairness is the highest virtue; he is lavish, extravagant with forgiveness.

Ortlund compares us to a child who, upon receiving a birthday gift from his father, immediately rummages for coins to pay him back. The father doesn’t need repayment—he wants the child to change his whole view of who his father is. So too, God’s abundant pardon corrects our low view of his heart.

The Infinite Mercy and the Future Hope

Isaiah’s chapter ends with creation erupting in joy—mountains singing, trees clapping—as God restores his people. This is mercy with momentum: forgiveness that expands into cosmic renewal. Even the natural world will dance when his people are healed. God’s heart, Ortlund concludes, is “building toward a crescendo” that will explode into joy at the end of history. His ways are not our ways—because he loves more wildly and forgives more fully than we ever dared hope.

Ephesians 2:4 calls God “rich in mercy.” Nowhere else in Scripture is he described as rich in anything. Ortlund calls this a window into God’s essence: his wealth is measured in compassion. Whereas we fear mercy runs out, Paul says it overflows. Thomas Goodwin described this as God’s mercy being “natural to him”—it spills from his heart the way light flows from the sun.

The Depth of Our Need

Before mercy reaches us, Paul paints the backdrop of our condition: we were dead in sin. Not drowning, not sick—dead. Spiritual corpses cannot resuscitate themselves. But God, who is rich in mercy, makes us alive with Christ. This isn’t divine pity from a distance; it’s resurrection love. Goodwin and Sibbes both emphasize that you cannot exhaust this mercy—it grows as it is spent. Every sin you confess enlarges the reservoir rather than draining it.

Ortlund’s modern reader may think of mercy abstractly, as a theological concept. But in the New Testament it took on flesh. When Christ appeared, Paul could say, “Grace has appeared” (Titus 2:11). Jesus is “pure grace clothed in humanity.” To see his healings, his kindness to prostitutes and tax collectors, is to watch “rich mercy” moving through the world.

Mercy as God’s Natural Work

Punishment, Scripture says, is God’s “strange work” (Isaiah 28:21), but mercy is his “natural” one. Ortlund quotes Goodwin’s insight that when God judges, he “does violence to himself”; when he shows mercy, he acts most like himself. If you belong to Christ, your deepest shame is not a barrier but a home where divine mercy dwells. “The things that make you cringe most,” Ortlund writes, “make him hug hardest.” To discover that, he says, is to discover the beating heart of Christianity.

In John 13:1, as Jesus approached the cross, John writes that he “loved his own... to the end.” Ortlund calls this one of the most beautiful sentences in the Bible—a window into the perseverance of Christ’s heart. He didn’t love until it hurt; he loved until it killed him.

The Love That Doesn’t Weaken

We love until we are betrayed. Jesus loved through betrayal. We love up to a point; he loves past every point. This is what John means by “to the end”: to the utter limit and through to eternity. Ortlund draws from Warfield and Bunyan to show that Christ’s heart was not gradually hardened by suffering but expanded. The more pain he endured, the more tender his affection for the people he died to redeem.

The Weight of Wrath, the Strength of Love

Christ went into the darkness of divine wrath to rescue those who least deserved it. “It was not the nails,” writes Ortlund paraphrasing Warfield, “but love that held him there.” The cost of absorbing humanity’s sin was immeasurable—“the physical torments retire into the background,” Warfield says, compared to “the mental anguish” of separation from the Father. Yet he endured because he desired that we would never experience that abandonment ourselves.

Love beyond Worthiness

John Bunyan marveled that Christ could love such “vile, filthy, unworthy” creatures and called this “love naturally”—it is in Christ’s nature to love beyond worthiness. For believers, that means nothing you do can make him love you more—and nothing can make him love you less. His cross proves that your future and your security are as sure as his finished work. He loved you then; he’ll love you now; and he will love you to the very end.

The book concludes by addressing one of our deepest struggles: though we confess grace, we often live as if God’s favor must be re-earned daily. Ortlund calls this our “law-ish” heart—a residual instinct of self-justification that blinds us to the ongoing tenderness of Christ.

Living from, Not for, God’s Smile

Using Paul’s teaching in Galatians, Ortlund reminds us that the gospel is not just the doorway into the Christian life but the path itself. “Having begun by the Spirit,” Paul asks, “are you now being perfected by the flesh?” Every attempt to secure our place through performance reveals that we are living for God’s acceptance instead of from it. We are like adopted children scrubbing the kitchen to prove we belong. The Father’s message: “You are my son. You already belong.”

The Cure for Gospel Deficit

Ortlund compares the result of this lawish mindset to a closed heating vent on a winter’s day—the warmth of divine grace is circulating, but we’ve shut ourselves off from its flow. The Spirit’s role is to open the vent again, letting the love of Christ flood our heart. The antidote to anxiety, fear, and self-reliance is not moral effort but renewed wonder at being loved.

John Newton summarized it well: “Our sins are many, but his mercies are more; our sins are great, but his righteousness is greater.” Grace is not a static principle but the beating heart of Christ in motion toward us. The Christian life, Ortlund concludes, is simply replacing our “of works” posture with a “from love” posture—again and again. Our law-ish hearts finally rest only when they discover the lavish heart of Christ.