Man of Sorrows, Prince of Peace, Lord of All
The last thirty‑six hours have weighed heavily on my heart and soul. We live in a world that is beautiful and fragile, hopeful and profoundly broken.
On Sunday evening, many from our church were gathered in the shadow of the Harbour Bridge, across the water from the Opera House—singing carols, proclaiming again the ancient hope that the world was forever changed when a Saviour entered it. And yet, not many kilometres away, at another iconic Sydney landmark, men, women, and children were being shot and killed.
It is almost unbearable to write those words. This kind of act of terrorisim feels so foreign to our city, so utterly abhorrent, that even naming it feels surreal. And yet it happened. Lives were taken. Families shattered. A community gathered in peace and faith for a Hanukkah celebration left traumatised and bloodied.
This world is broken. This world needs saving. This world needs a Saviour.
There are moments when the world’s pain breaks through our carefully managed lives and refuses to be ignored. The violence at Bondi has been one of those moments. It has shaken our sense of safety, unsettled our confidence in progress, and left many of us grieving—some personally, all of us communally.
In moments like these, Christians are not called to offer quick answers or spiritual platitudes. We are called to look again at who Jesus says he is and what He wants for our world.
The New Testament gives us titles for Jesus that are not sentimental or simplistic. They are weighty names, forged in the furnace of suffering and hope: Man of Sorrows. Prince of Peace. Lord of All. Together, they tell us not only who Jesus is, but why the world still longs for a Saviour.
As I have been marking the days of Advent this week, these names have felt especially close—names that speak directly into grief, fear, and longing.
The Man of Sorrows: God Who Enters Our Grief
When the New Testament presents Jesus as the Man of Sorrows (echoing Isaiah 53), it confronts our instinct to imagine God as distant from pain. Jesus is not a detached observer of human suffering. He is described as one “acquainted with grief.” He weeps at graves. He is moved with compassion by crowds. He experiences betrayal, injustice, abandonment, and a violent death.
This matters profoundly in the wake of tragedy. Christianity does not say, “God will make it all make sense one day—so don’t feel too much now.” Instead, it says that in Jesus, God has stepped into the very heart of human anguish. At the cross, God does not merely witness suffering; he bears it.
For those grieving after Bondi—for those whose sense of security has been torn open—this means we are not alone in our sorrow. Jesus does not rush us past lament. He meets us in it. The Man of Sorrows legitimises our tears, our confusion, and even our anger. He assures us that grief is not a failure of faith, but often its most honest expression.
The Prince of Peace: More Than the Absence of Violence
Yet Jesus is not only the Man of Sorrows. The New Testament also names him the Prince of Peace. And here we must be careful. Peace, in the biblical sense, is not simply the absence of conflict or violence. It is shalom—the restoration of what has been fractured, the healing of what has been broken, the reconciling of what has been torn apart.
In a world marked by cycles of violence and fear, we are tempted to look for peace through control, legislation, or withdrawal. Some of these responses may be necessary and wise. But the New Testament insists they are not sufficient. The deepest unrest of the world is not merely external; it is internal. It lives in disordered loves, fractured relationships, and hearts bent away from God.
Jesus, the Prince of Peace, addresses the root rather than the symptom. Through his life, death, and resurrection, he makes peace between God and humanity—and then begins the long, costly work of forming a people who live differently: who resist dehumanisation, who refuse vengeance, who practice forgiveness, and who grieve with hope.
This peace does not deny the horror of events like Bondi. It does not explain them away. But it does offer something the world cannot manufacture on its own: a peace that can coexist with sorrow, and a hope that remains even when the worst has happened.
The Lord of All: Hope That Does Not Collapse
Still, sorrow acknowledged and peace promised are not enough if evil has the final word. This is why the New Testament dares to call Jesus the Lord of all. Not merely a moral teacher. Not simply a compassionate companion. But the risen Lord who has defeated sin and death themselves.
In the resurrection, Christianity makes its boldest claim: that violence, chaos, and death are not ultimate realities. They are real—terribly real—but they are not final. Jesus’ lordship means that history is not spiralling toward meaninglessness. It is moving, however slowly and painfully, toward redemption.
This is where Christian hope differs from optimism. Optimism looks at the evidence and says, “Things will probably work out.” Christian hope looks at the cross and resurrection and says, “Because Jesus lives, things will ultimately be made right—even if I cannot yet see how.”
The New Testament ends not with an escape from the world, but with its renewal. A promise that one day the Lord of all will wipe away every tear from our eyes. That death will be no more. That mourning, crying, and pain will pass away—not because they were insignificant, but because they have been fully and finally healed.
Longing for a Saviour
In the aftermath of tragedy, the world’s longing becomes visible. We long for safety, yes—but more than that, we long for meaning, justice, and restoration. We long for someone strong enough to confront evil, gentle enough to hold our grief, and faithful enough to finish what he begins.
The New Testament dares to say that this longing is not misplaced. It points us to Jesus: the Man of Sorrows who enters our pain, the Prince of Peace who heals our fractures, and the Lord of all who promises a future where tears are not denied, but finally dried.
In days like these, faith does not offer easy answers. It offers a person. And sometimes, that is exactly what we need.
Reflection for Advent
Whether you consider yourself a Christian or not, Advent invites us to pause and reflect—not to rush past pain, but to sit honestly with our longings.
You might like to reflect on these questions:
When tragedy strikes, what do I instinctively turn to for comfort, meaning, or control?
Which image of Jesus resonates most with me right now: the Man of Sorrows, the Prince of Peace, or the Lord of All—and why?
Do I allow myself space to grieve honestly, or do I feel pressure to move on too quickly?
What would it look like for peace to be more than the absence of fear in my life—to be a deeper healing or restoration?
If Jesus truly is Lord of all, what fears or burdens might I be invited to place in his hands this Advent?
Advent does not deny the darkness. It dares to believe that light has entered it—and that it has not, and will not, have the final word.
