Anger or sadness? I wonder why people choose anger?

The Bible doesn't condemn anger.  Jesus got angry in the temple.  God gets angry.  It's not a bad emotion in itself, but it is also possible -- even likely -- to sin when you are angry. 

 

In contrast, Jesus says those that mourn are blessed. 

 

So when life smacks me in the face, when circumstances get hard, why do I choose anger instead of sadness? 

 

Anger makes me feel strong. 
Sadness makes me feel weak.

 

Anger energizes.
Sadness is still. 

 

Anger makes me feel like the issues are clear.
Sadness often comes with confusion.

 

Anger feels there is a solution.
Sadness leads me to admit my inability to find solutions.

 

Anger is self-protective.
Sadness makes me feel vulnerable.

 

The audience applauds anger.  Think of the last rousing speech you heard.
Sadness invokes an awkward silence. 

 

Anger affixes the problem firmly onto others.
Sadness leaves me open to consider my own participation in the problem.

 

Anger demands justice.
Sadness knows that what we really need is mercy.

 

Anger doesn't feel like it hurts me.
Sadness hurts me, it hurts badly.

 

Most people don't say they want to be angry.  It doesn't feel like a choice to be angry.  Instead we say the other person, situation, issue caused my anger!

 

But,

 

I wonder if the real reason people are angry is that the alternative is sadness, and that would just plain hurt too much.

 

What is the end of the race like exactly?

Many of you know that in April I signed up for a century bike challenge as a way to deal with my grief about losing my dad and hopefully do some good in the process.  The long-awaited ride was yesterday.

From time to time, I have thought of this ride as a metaphor for life.  The 100 mile bike ride was my race to celebrate dad's 81-year race.  The struggle to prepare and finish my bike ride reminded me of the struggles of life and death and finishing well.

It was no less true yesterday.  At about mile 70, I wanted to be done.  When I signed up for this particular ride (Escape New York), a biker friend of mine said, "Are you crazy? You shouldn't sign up for that one for your first century ride.  It has unbelievable hills on it.  One place you go up a hill for ten miles." 

Of course, I didn't listen, but yesterday I was starting to think she was right. 

From about mile 70 to 90, I thought a lot about dad's last years.  The last leg of a journey is not easy. Getting old and dying is not for the faint of heart. Even though one "does everything right," there is physical pain to deal with, many losses of relationships because many of your friends and family members die, and then there is the loss of daily independence and dignity.  Add all this to the waves of doubt and questions that the enemy sends along. Dad's last years were rich but it was really, really hard for him, and I don't think his struggle was particularly unique.  It is just plain hard to finish a race.

Four miles from the end of my ride, there was the Walnut Climb, 302 total vertical feet to be exact, 171 of it with no leveling out at all.  In that moment, I experienced a glimpse of what dad's last months were like.  It takes everything you have to finish your race.

At the top of the hill I trudged forward, a little bleary-eyed. 

Then it happened.  I turned a corner and emerged from the evening shadows into a scene that is forever etched in my memory.  I think pain has a way of making one more receptive to beauty because the scene before me was among the most beautiful I have ever seen.

The ground gently dropped away from under my feet until I was 200 feet above the banks of the Hudson river. The river -- more like a lake at this point -- was dotted with various peaceful boats and a lazy barge.  The setting sun turned the Manhattan buildings on the other side into a warm golden color. The cool ocean breeze was a refreshing contrast to the sticky humidity of the long day. The towering arches of the GW Bridge looked to me like giant gates welcoming me home, and I wondered if this is what it was like for dad.  Welcome home, thy good and faithful servant.  Your race is done.

As tears streamed down my face, somewhere in the deepest part of me I made a vow, "I will finish my race" -- even if it is hard, even if it takes more tenacity than I have, even if it takes 40 more years, even if I suffer, I will finish my race having spent all my energy for things that matter. 

As the saying goes, "Its not easy, but its worth it." 

  

Here are a few pics attempting to capture the grandeur of what I saw.

 

 

Here's the card my wife gave me after it was all over.

 

 

 

Does pain matter?

Does God promise a life of ease? No. 

So, what about all the promises of peace and light yokes?

This verse has often intrigued me.  "Forasmuch then as Christ hath suffered for us in the flesh, arm yourselves likewise with the same mind: for he that hath suffered in the flesh hath ceased from sin;" (I Peter 4:1). There is something good about  suffering, and he even specifies that it is real, physical suffering. 

This verse has often puzzled me.  I get the picture of monastic flagellation.  Folks obsessed with their own sinfulness that beat themselves in prayer and confession.  Worse yet, it sounds masochistic or sadistic like the phrase that has always given me chills -- "It pleased the Lord to crush him. . ." (Isaiah 53:10).  Is it somehow good for us to be in pain?  What kind of God proposes these sorts of things ?!?

Certainly, the Biblical concept of pain and suffering is wildly more complex and rich than I can understand and certainly more complex than the view proposed by modernism.  By modernism, I am referring to the basic approach dominant in the western world that says, "Pain is bad. Hard work and modern science can fix it."

There is a fascinating phenomenon common among teens who are in tremendous emotional pain.  They cut themselves.   Using razor blades or glass or knives, they pierce their skin to the point of gentle bleeding.  The cuts are significant but not to be confused with suicide attempts.  Cutting is an on-going way to express pain.  The behavior, of course, baffles care givers and frustrates child advocates.  If one is in so much pain, why hurt oneself more?!?  Ironically, the more one tries to correct the behavior, the more the teen insists on it.

I have been intrigued by this cutting behavior and now wonder if it is less bizarre/dysfunctional and more,  simply a reality, deeply rich with meaning. For someone who can't cry, cutting is their tears. One of the most vivid pictures I have seen is a drawing one teen gave me.  It is a simple pencil drawing of an eye that is crying -- only instead of drawing the tears, the teen used her own blood to paint the tears. This is not the type of art they teach in high school art class.

So am I saying cutting is beautiful?  No, but we all understand the beauty and health in tears.  When crying, the body, emotion, and spirit express a singular emotion.  Like tears, cutting brings the pain into the light by expressing it in the body.  This seems more redemptive than endless rationalizations or Pollyannaish optimism. At least it is real.

Jesus is real, too. 

Perhaps it wasn't enough for Christ to bear the consequence of sin in a spiritual sense.  He wanted to make his pain corporeal, so we could see it, so it would be real, real pain, real shame, and he calls us to do the same.

Protestants typically show the cross empty, clean, brilliant, triumphant -- perhaps with a gleaming purple robe draped decoratively over it.  Is this not indicative of our view of redemption.  Christ makes us confident, clean, raised up, but I think I see why people call us plastic.  The bloody crucifix is more real.  This is the type of Christ we have.  One who feels so deeply that he embodied his pain lifted up for us to see and enter into. It is only in that identification with Him.  It is only with a little blood and pain, that sin can be destroyed.  We need to have "that same mind" Peter says. When we make our pain visible with His, it is redemptive, and sin melts away.  Perhaps you have felt this pain in fasting or in serving others.

I thought about this as I was biking the other day.  My thighs were burning, my heart was burning, and God was there.  My pain was real, and God was real, right there with me. Sin was the farthest thing from my mind. Perhaps this is a little taste of what Peter was talking about.

I don't advocate choosing pain, but when it comes my way, I am learning to let it do its work.  Pain takes us to the end, to the bottom, to the place where transformation happens.  As the love song goes, "take me to the place you cry from."  

Christ went there.  I want to go there too -- even if it hurts.

Why is it so hard to walk your own journey?

I can't believe its been three months since I wrote a few lines to you.  I have missed you.  To be honest, I have been taking a detour from my journey.

You know, its hard to walk your own journey. 

Its much easier to rush after someone else, or just to follow the constant stream of life that is provided to us electronically.  Maybe it was my calendar, our my in box, the headlines, or my facebook newsfeed. Is it any wonder I am glued to my phone where all these streams converge ready at all times to entice me to respond.  Or maybe it is the constant call of little voices that call me, dad. 

Do you know what I mean?  The life of constant, mild panic.  In the last few months, five of my staff at work resigned.  That's enough to send any team leader into panic.  And its hard to walk your journey when you are running in circles wondering if the sky itself will fall down any second.

It really is hard to walk your own journey. 

Thankfully, I have a bike.  It's on the open road with my bike that I remember that I have a journey to travel.  When you walk your own journey. it is often a bit confusing and painful, but you know it is the murky water you were meant to walk through.

I have pain to feel, joy to rest in, decisions to ponder, confusion to muddle through, and hurt to embrace.  Urgency and panic and my cell phone insulate me from these things and distract me from my journey.

There's a funny thing about Scripture.  Gradually through hundreds of pages, we learn more and more about God and finally at the pinnacle of revelation when Jesus himself shows up in the text, He doesn't offer ten theological axioms that perfectly summarize the main truths to believe.  He says simply, "Follow me." 

Come apart from the daily grind and travel the journey you were made to travel. Give away all these things you are trying to manage, you "perfect" young ruler!   Give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven.  Know the destitute, freedom of homelessness, just like me, Jesus is saying.  Take up your cross, your shame, your pain, your confusion, and walk your journey up the Via Delerosa, just like I am walking up Mine.

Ah, the sacred whisper compels me.  I have heard that voice before.  Will I turn back sadly or follow him into the wild unchartered territory of the journey that is meant for me? 

God, give me the courage to walk the journey I was made for!!!

Does God show up for orphans?

I had planned to get started training today for the 100 mile bike race.  I was going to do 40 miles with a friend in one stretch to see if I could make it.  This would be my first step on my 8 week training plan, and my first real test to see if the 100 mile race was doable for this old guy.

Life seemed to have other plans.  Last night I got wrapped up in a home improvement project and ended up not going to bed until about 2 am.  Also, I was fighting a virus, perhaps the Strep that my son, Liam, has.  My friend texted to say he was sick too.  My plan was to start the ride at 7 am, but clearly that was unrealistic.  "Let me just not set the alarm and see what happens," I thought.  "Maybe, I will just do a shorter ride or none at all." 

At about 6:45 am, I awoke to the gentle sounds and sunshine of Spring.  Unable to sleep, I dragged myself out of bed and into my sweats.  I made my latest breakfast sandwich (peanut butter on toast with a whole bunch of walnuts and honey). A few raisins or cranberries would have made it better, but it was enough to get me out of the house and onto my bike.  Stone-faced and robotic I moved like a machine stuck in a very low gear.

Then it happened.

Just several blocks from my house, I randomly asked God what was up with this ride?  As clear as crystal the answer came, "I just want to love you."  Tears come even now as I recall that Voice.  I can hardly describe it.  "But why?" I asked.  His candid response was, "No reason really, just because." 

I road on down to the bay.  It was a bright and brisk Spring morning.  Every several miles or so, the bike path rose to a bridge over a little river, road, channel, or swampy area.  As I crossed each bridge, out to the left I could see into the ocean bay.  The water glistened in the morning sun.  I saw a few ducks launch out across the water like overloaded single-engine de Havilland Otters taking off from Sioux Lookout waterfront.  In the quietness, it was as if God was painting a picture just for me.




When I was a depressed teenager, dad and I used to get up early on mornings like this.  We went jogging.  At age 15, I could already outpace him, a man of 55, but he never seemed to mind.  I think he kind of enjoyed it.  He would chuckle and act amazed when he was done, and I could still sprint the last half block or so home. Yes, it was mornings just like this one.

Then it came together for me. 

Why had I awakened after only 5 hours of sleep?  Why had I somewhat automatically decided to ride even though health and sanity would have said, "no?"

Really simple. My Father woke me up for a ride with Him.

Needless to say, I completed all the miles I attempted.  I feel like I could do another 40, but the miles aren't the point anymore. 

Through tears and more tears, I can only think of one thing . . .

I have a Father again.



Here's a song I like:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXsiWoyjw60

When does grief end?

Two days after dad passed away, Logan asked me, "When are you going to get over missing Grandpa?"

"I don't know.  I will probably always miss him."

"I know," he said, "but I was just wondering because my birthday is next month and my friends might say, 'What's wrong with your dad?'"

Its been four months now, so I ask myself, "When does grief end?"  The question both puzzles me and angers me at the same time.  Does it end?  What makes it end? Should it even end? It's like trying to measure love by using the yardstick of time.  Illogical at best, offensive at worst.

The journey of grief is like walking on a long winding road in the fog at night. Where are you going? How far have you come? When will you get there?  What is "there" anyway?  Sometimes it feels like you are going in the wrong direction?  Sometimes all you can do is plod aimlessly.

If only the journey would make sense!

And my situation is pretty straight forward and normal.  If any grief journey made sense, mine should. Most middle-aged folks lose their parents at some point.  The life cycle goes on.  I can't even imagine the complexity and depth of fog that others face -- like the family member of someone on the missing Malaysian airlines flight.  What about the family member of someone on death row? I can't even imagine the agony and pain of protracted grief.

So how can we make sense of it all.  Once when Jesus was asked about tragedy, he said it wasn't because of sin, but to bring glory to God (John 9:3).   At times, I thought this explanation to be devious.  God brings tragedy, so people can say how good a guy He is?!?! That sounds more like a "Cosmic Sadist," to borrow C.S. Lewis' term, than any kind of real explanation.

But I have been thinking about it in a different way lately.  If God is full of selfless love, love shown to Him only results in more love to the world.  We cannot out give God.  If that is true, Jesus statement really says. "This pain has a purpose, a good purpose."  It benefits the greater good.  It is not lost on the world.  It does something.  It matters. This is "meaning" and according to Victor Frankl, this is the key ingredient that enables folks to survive suffering.  If our pain has a point, it doesn't seem as painful.

To think that out of my experience something beautiful and significant could be made that would benefit God and people. That makes the fog lift a little.

Yesterday, I went on a bike ride.  The open road is the best place for me to think.  It is not so different from when I would take my little red bike with the banana seat across the street, past "the pond" and up "the mountain."  As the song says, "Life is a highway."

So I have this idea.  I want to do a 100 mile bike race for dad. I could raise money for ministries that matter.  It would give me an excuse to talk about dad.  I could be like Don Showalter when he wrote on the back of his biking shirt, "For Marilyn."  Something about that just seemed right.  I might even lose a little weight as a I train for it.  I could use the endorphins, too.  I am really getting excited about this.  Even though I am limping in pain today from having done 39 miles yesterday, I can't wait to do 100.  I am thinking I could easily do it before dusk. 

So when does grief end?

It doesn't.

But I am pretty sure the journey goes faster if you ride your bike.

Why is it so hard to find our way home?

That last post about "church" surprised me.  It was the most often viewed post on this blog.  Why is that?  There must be a lot of pain related to church and religion.  I suppose that is why so many "imagine" a better world like John Lennon did.

But why all the pain? Why is it so hard to so hard to make it work?  Why is it so hard to love and be loved? 

I wonder if the pain involved with church has something to do with the inner call home and the simultaneous inner pull away from home?

Once I heard of a church that after the altar call was done, they told new converts to turn around and the whole church said, "Welcome Home!"  I thought that sounded pretty cool and strikes at something real.

Antoine Fisher is a deep movie about a young man who has a recurring dream/nightmare in which he is a little boy.  He runs through a field of flowers until he comes to a house and a dinning room lined with smiling guests.  He slides through the crowd until he finds his place at the table.  In front of his spot is a giant plate loaded with a stack of pancakes with butter and syrup cascading down all sides.  This is the "home" that calls us all in our dreams, but is so absent from our daily lives.

Why is it so hard to find your way home?  My Canadian friends would say it is easy.  Just buy a ticket from Air Canada.  We'll pick you up. Thanks, guys, but the urge I am feeling runs even deeper than the call of the moose or the laugh of the loon. And frankly, these days, I feel like my home has died.

I am reading a book by Henri Nouwan on the prodigal son.  He writes, "coming home meant, for me, walking step by step toward the One who awaits me with open arms and wants to hold me in an eternal embrace." It is so right but so hard all at the same time.  Like the prodigal, coming home is an acknowledgement of childlikeness, inability to earn your way back into favor.  Its a pretty helpless feeling that actually kept both the younger and the older son away in their own way for many years.  It took the hunger pangs and the feel of pig slop on his lips to finally force one of the sons to come home.  The other son ironically never really made it home.

The same consternation is in the voice of the servant who had only one talent.  "I knew that you were a very hard man. You harvest things you did not plant. You gather crops where you did not put any seed. So I was afraid."  Aren't we all a little afraid of coming home to the father?

At our wedding, 13 years ago, dad told a story of a professor/mentor who he admired greatly.  After some absence, he went back to visit.  He wasn't sure how he should greet this honored man.  Should he shake hands? Perhaps embrace shoulders a bit?  As it turned out, the man met him with arms wide open, there was not much else he could do but just let himself be hugged.  For a moment, he was afraid, then he was "home."

Here's a song for you that says it well.  May we all find our way home, even if it hurts.

"Lowell's favorite song about home"

What's the big deal with church?

Donald Miller, best-selling evangelical author, created a firestorm recently when he wrote a blog post about why he doesn't go to church much anymore. He talked about how the didactic event on Sunday was not how he best learned.

It got me thinking. 

Learning about God or even connecting with Him aren't the reasons I go either.  It's odd perhaps, but that has always been true for me.  A book, a mountain trail, a quiet stream, a coffee shop, a late night talk at Bible school -- these are the places I have experienced God.

So what of the organized church?

I realize I am way out on the end of the church attendance bell curve. I've attended over 6,000 church services in my day -- easily averaging three a week for my entire life. So please don't immediately apply my thoughts to your life. I am odd and I know that.

But the question remains. Why church?  Is it the social connection? 

Judging from sites like Recovering Grace -- and actually the daily news -- the church hurts people.  How many people can I count who have been deeply wounded by the "chuch"?  Lots.

Whatever happened to the "Safest Place on Earth?" The safest place is right outside Timbuktu -- far from anyone!

Either I am hopelessly depressed or I am on to something. Relationships are not safe. Who ever heard of a safe marriage? To love is to be hurt.

Associations are safe. Do you know anyone hurt by the National Model Railroad Association? Who ever saw the Parks Dept on the nightly news?  Have you ever seen a support group for survivors of the local PTA?

So here is what I am thinkin'.   The church is a painful place because its suppose to break us.  Like marriage any relationship entered into deeply results in a desperate realization that I like my own way and I need grace. I am not the nice guy I thought I was. This is the existential crisis we must face if we are to truly love.  As Jesus said, "Except a kernel of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abides alone, but if it die, it brings much fruit."  I remember that I honestly don't like most people, much less love my neighbor as myself. In that stark realization, I sink down into the childlike place where tears come from and prayer is real.  In that place, the Comforter comes, and I inexplicably see others as I am, a kid, and His love starts flowing.

I think this is the fruit he is talking about -- love, gentleness that comes when I know I have been given grace, patience, peace, stuff like that. This is the sort of thing that then marks the true followers of Jesus. By your love for each other they will know you (to paraphrase another of Jesus'words).

This love is a rare thing, particularly when it lasts. It is mostly in the brokenness of painful relatipnships that God births this love in us.

That's worth getting up on Sunday morning for.

P.S. If you hearing me saying in this post that I always get hurt by people at my church, that's not the point. The point is that as an introvert, faith commumity is often annoying and most Sundays I would rather hit the bike trail, but I stay because God has something good for me that only comes in relationship and relationship only comes through pain.

Is grief good? Why does tragedy turn some folks ugly and makes others beautiful?

Why did the tragedy in King David’s life give us the Psalms, and the tragedy in Solomon’s give us only vanity. My dad lived some of his most effective years of ministry after losing his wife, my mom, in a tragic car accident 16 years ago.  On the other hand, there is a man I know who lost his wife and seems to have lost his very soul. 

Once Jesus said “Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted” (Matthew 5:4).  I used to think of this verse as a nice axiom roughly equivalent to “Blessed are they that skin their knees for they will get a lollipop” -- sort of a Christian version of karma to tell us it is ok when bad things happen because we will be cheered up later.

But . . . since bad things really do happen to all of us, perhaps Jesus isn’t saying blessed are those who have bad things happen to them, but blessed are those who mourn about those bad things.  It’s as if we have a choice to mourn or not mourn over the bad things we all face.

So how do you choose to mourn? 

After looking at about 15 other translations and the Greek, I discovered that the word “mourn” basically means “mourn,” so where else can I look?

Once when Jesus was discussing the tragedy of a man born blind, some folks asked him whose fault it was, his own or his parents.  Jesus said, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him” (John 9:3).  Blaming and deciding whose fault it is – that’s not so important. That’s not mourning. The proper response to bad things involves your transformation, the exercise of the glory of God in you.

The same is true in Job.  They spend the whole book arguing about whose fault it is.  Job was right.  God says so at the end, but, that doesn’t seem to be the main point.  There is a work of transformation to be done in Job.  The climax in chapter 40 gets me every time. Job falls down with his hand on his mouth and surrenders all his theology and impeccable logic; then as if looking up through his tears he says, “I had heard of you, but now I have seen you.”  The man was correct before, but now he is transformed… comforted, blessed. 

What would have happened if Job had just accepted the explanation of his friends, or, for that matter, if they would have accepted his?  They would have been like a lot of Christians that say, “Just have faith and be happy,” correct but not comforted.

No, something tells me mourning involves more – perhaps silence, quite a bit of fog, some tears, not a lot of logic, no judgment, an emptying, an inner death. 

Then the Comforter comes.   

How do you walk through fog?

During my dad's last months, the question I kept coming back to was, "How do you watch a sunset?"  That question pulled together all the helplessness and beauty of those months.  Tears, quietness, worship, gratefulness, mostly just stillness, that seemed to be the only way to respond to that question.

Now I have a different question.  How do you walk through fog?

Grief feels like a fog. 

But why?

And what do you do about it?

Do you just quote some random scripture to try to cut the fog out of the way?

I was thinking that maybe grief feels like fog because it is more than just missing someone and being sad that they are gone.  There is something inside me that is gone as well.  There has been a strike at my own identity. That got me thinking.

If your wife, dies, are you still a husband?
If your husband, dies are you still a wife?
If your child dies, are you still a father?
If your father dies, are you still a son?

I remember dad wrestling with his new identity after mom died. "Widower" was not a word that he liked. It sounded like a person that you wouldn't take very seriously, someone you wouldn't want your children around too much.

Yes, we are mostly defined by our relationship to something or someone else, and death strikes a blow at that identity.

I remember vividly the first time I said good-bye to dad for the last time (I said good-bye on three different visits).  Dad's last words on that visit were, "You are a good man."  There were tears streaming down his face. And now there are tears streaming down mine just thinking about it. It was a holy moment not unlike the voice from the clouds as Jesus was baptized.

But now as I wonder through the fog, those words are fading.  Who am I now?  Am I a good man?  I don't feel like a good man.  At least 5 times a day I feel like cussing someone out.  My family is feeling abandoned.  No one would want to know the random dark thoughts that go through my head.  I don't feel like a good man anymore.  I feel more like a man on an ash heap, scraping soars with a potsherd.  I want to run to Montana by myself and never come back.  Perhaps Bellview is in my future.

Dad's last words to me seem like a distant echo.  Does he still believe it to be true?

The fog says no.
The world says no.
What does God say? 

Not sure.

All I see is fog.

Why do people die?

It's been a while since I have written anything on this blog.  You see, my dad died, and I haven't felt like I had much to say.

I have been trying to get back into life this week, but my feet are dragging.
I have everything -- hundreds of condolences, plenty of vacation time off of work, frankly, we have been treated like royalty.  There is nothing anyone could do better than what has been done for us.

Yet, there is still the ache, deep down inside.
My dad is gone.

He was like the sky, something you don't notice most days, but you never actually even wonder if it is there.  You just assume it is there.  You mostly don't stop and look
until it is time for the sunset.

Well I have been stopping and looking, and it has been beautiful.
I even told people it is morning now,
but it still feels like midnight.

Why do people die?

I thought of various redemptive meanings. Every great conflict needs a buzzer to end it all, to signal the victory.  There needs to be a climax and an end to any great story.  There is a rhythm to life and death that somehow keeps things going.
but tonight I say hogwash.

Death is the enemy.

Why do people die?  Because someone has sucked the life out of this world, that's why.  It's not the way it is suppose to be. It was not their time.  It is not that God needs another flower for his garden.  It's not that he lived a good life and was 81.

I used to think that the death of old people was legitimate, in the sense that, "What else did you expect? Your grandmother was 96.  Do you really miss feeding her every day and watching her drool?"

I see it differently now.  Death is always the enemy.  God is life.  Death came by sin. Death hurts.

So when I miss my dad, I am not dealing with something very logical or unusual or even entirely unexpected, but I am beating my head against the universal wall of mortality,
and it sure does hurt,
period.

There is that place in Scripture where Jesus wept.  I have heard that story in sentimental terms, but I read something else recently.  The more little rendering apparently is that Jesus groaned with sorrow mixed with anger.  Ughhhhh, the enemy stole another one. 

This rendering also sheds a different light on what happens later.

Jesus speaks in a very loud voice.  The description is more like a war cry. Its as if he is speaking straight into Hell -- the place he himself is going to enter and bust open in a few months.  Its as if his mission is becoming clearer by the moment, and he screams with the clarity only great conflict can bring, "Lazarus, come forth!!!"