April 2, 2017 | The Rez
Good morning everyone, and welcome.
Over the last number of weeks, we’ve been journeying through the season Lent together. We’ve had a theme: “Broken is the beginning.” And we’ve been exploring that theme in John’s gospel. I’ve loved going back to the familiar stories. We began with Nicodemus and the Samaritan woman in the opening chapters of the gospel. We then turned to Jesus’ healing of the man born blind. Today, we’re looking at the story of Lazarus.
As we’ve journeyed together, there’s one thing that’s stood out for me. It’s not all that interesting or profound. In fact it’ll likely seem trivial.
Have you noticed that these stories are really long?
It’s true, right? I usually realize it half way through the reading while we’re standing for the gospel. My mind drifts a little and I snap back. “My gosh, this is long.” And then I’m scrambling to figure out where we are. Yes, even pastors do this.
So here’s a question: Why do you think this is? Why are these stories so long?
Consider our reading today. The raising of Lazarus. The miracle seems to be the most important thing in the story. But we have all this extra detail about the news of Lazarus’ sickness, about waiting two extra days for Lazarus to die, about the decision to return to Bethany, about Jesus’ interaction with Mary and Martha, about the length of time that Lazarus has been in the tomb, about Jesus’ emotional state when he arrives to the tomb, etc.
Is all of this necessary? Couldn’t the story be told in half the length? What’s John up to?
Now some would say this is about getting the facts right. It’s just the way it happened.
Well, sure. We’d want to affirm that.
But John is selective in is story-telling. He expands on some things while downplaying others. And he takes his time, unfolding the story in a dramatic way.
Notice too how the disciples are represented. Let’s look at that together: John 11, beginning around vs. 7.
What do you notice? How are the disciples represented?
Yeah, the disciples aren’t exactly playing heroic, leading roles … like they get what’s going on and everyone else is catching up.
This is kind of amazing if you think about it. Jesus’ closest followers were firsthand witnesses to these events. They were the ones who passed down the stories from one generation to another before the gospels were written. Why would they let themselves be represented like this? Often questioning Jesus or even resisting him—precisely in moments when they seemed most certain.
That’s really interesting.
By the time that John wrote his gospel at the end of the first century, the disciples would have long known why Jesus was willing to turn back towards Jerusalem even though it was risky.
And why he was intent on going to Bethany even though Lazarus had already died.
But John doesn’t write it from that vantage point—from a point of resolution. Instead, he dramatizes the in between time when things were unclear and questions remained.
Somehow the disciples thought it was important for listeners and readers like us to have the experience of coming to faith in the way they did.
Slowly waking up to who Jesus is and what he had come to do.
Wonder, perplexity, desire, suspicion, concern, disappointment.
These all matter in coming to faith. And in continuing to come to faith.
Thomas Browne, a writer from the 17th century, once confessed that he was thankful for not living in Jesus’ time. Mostly because he thought that all the important stuff would have been lost on him.
The Gospel doesn’t tell us what we all would have experienced had we been there. It meets us where we are, at our best and worst—much like the disciples—and guides us little by little to what we could have easily missed.
As I’ve been reflecting on our gospel reading this past week, there’s one part that’s stayed with me. A phrase that I found difficult to get around because it keeps coming back. Relentlessly.
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
Did you notice this too?
Martha’s the first one to speak these words at verse 21. She’s the eldest in the family, the responsible one. Hearing that Jesus is on the edge of town, she goes out to him, alone. She had hoped that Jesus would come to heal her brother. But he’s come late and her brother’s past helping now. In a sense, they all are. Lazarus is gone, lost to grave.
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
There’s so much going on in these words. Martha’s trusting Jesus. She’s likely seen him work miracles of healing, and her faith is strong.
Jesus is the Lord, the Messiah, the Son of God, come into the world to set things right. She affirms all of these things.
But there’s also dissonance. What could all that mean when the saving comes late? Talk of some end-of-the-world resurrection is cold comfort in a moment like this. “If you had only been here.” But you weren’t. We sent word, but you didn’t come.
If only she’d known that Jesus waited two extra days …
—
Mary encounters Jesus on the edge of town too.
Mary the younger, the free spirit with so much love to give. Hearing that Jesus is near, she rushes out to see him. Others follow behind. Mary comes to Jesus and throws herself down at his feet.
Look with me at verse 32.
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
The exact same words. The sisters must have been talking. Maybe in the lonely hours of the night.
If only Jesus comes to us in time, Lazarus will be ok. If he comes soon, everything will turn out right.
Just like the royal official’s son in Capernaum. Just like the paralytic at Bethesda. Just like the man born blind at the pool of Siloam.
They had likely spent time on the edge of town, waiting for his arrival. Scanning the horizon. But he doesn’t come and Lazarus dies. And there’s nothing more to do. He’s been in the grave for four days. And there’s no reversing that.
Martha had spoken in a practical way. Mary’s words are like a prayer.
We love you. We trust you with our lives. You are the only Lord we have. But you weren’t here to prevent the worst. The one you love has died. His body is broken.
And now what?
—
Maybe you can relate. I’m sure we all can on some level. Down deep we hope for things to go right in our lives. When we’re young, we carry that hope as a basic assumption. But it gets harder as we grow older. Things don’t always go right. In fact, they can go very wrong. Plans break down. Relationships falter. Friends get sick. A loved one suffers and dies. Too soon. This happens. It’s happened for some of us here.
But that’s not all.
We look around and see it repeated the world over. Especially in communities where people are most vulnerable. People who’ve carried heavy burdens. Who’ve struggled from the very start. Lord, if you’d been here, this wouldn’t have happened.
In one respect this is the age old problem of theodicy. If God is good, how could he allow for evil and suffering? But that’s a little too abstract. Life isn’t a philosophical problem to solve. We carry that question with us through all our days, deep down.
And Christian faith doesn’t necessarily make it easier.
In fact, it can heighten the disappointment, just as it does with Mary and Martha. More than others, we can find ourselves praying on the edge of town.
Lord, we’ve seen the good that you can do. We trust you. But why the delay? Where are you now when we need you the most?
There’s a risk to prayers like these. People of faith know this—the dis-ease that comes of dwelling on the questions too long. We see it in our story. Notice how the comforters turn the words of Martha and Mary into a cynical question:
“Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”
These are the same words, but now in the form of a subtle accusation. The comforters see Jesus weeping and assume it comes from regret. He’s missed his chance to help, and now all is lost. And they turn on him with their disappointment.
You could have saved the day, Jesus. Maybe next time, I guess.
—
I’m grateful that the Gospel gives us room to wrestle like this. And to hear the good news without pressure to resolve everything.
And there is good news here. But it may not be what we expect.
Jesus goes on to raise Lazarus from the dead. Which is a stunning thing. It certainly would have been for everyone there. But it isn’t some ultimate solution. In fact, after the shock wore off and life returned to some kind of normal, it would have led to many more questions. Like what now? Will Lazarus live only to die again? It seems so. I wonder how he would have felt about that.
So what is the good news here?
I think Jesus gives it to us straight and in his interaction with Martha:
“I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die.”
This wouldn’t have been easy to hear in the moment. In fact, it could’ve seemed really insensitive. Lazarus has died, and Martha is regretting it terribly because she knows things could have gone otherwise.
Jesus seems oblivious to all that. Can’t he see it’s not the time for teaching?
But we need to slow down here. Jesus is speaking to what everyone in this story is in danger of missing. The disciples, the sisters, the crowd of comforters. Listeners and readers like us too.
I am the Resurrection.
I am the Life.
Everyone’s been assuming that death has won out, and that Jesus is too late. That life is slipping away. But there’s far more going on. Not all is lost. There are signs of life in the midst of suffering and death.
The one who believes in me will live even though they die.
—
Notice how Jesus responds when he sees Mary and the others weeping.
He weeps too.
The text says he was “deeply moved in spirit and troubled.”
Jesus was not coolly detached. He took part in their sorrow, making it his own.
But that’s not all.
The Greek word here is “em•brim•a•omai.” In most contexts, this would convey a sense of outrage, fury or anger rather than mere sorrow. It seems that Jesus was angry in this moment. Really angry. Why would he be so outraged?
We can see it’s not Martha, Mary, or the others. He’s standing with them in their grief. It’s not that.
We don’t know for sure—John doesn’t drop down with a helpful note to the reader.
I’m guessing he was simply overcome by the sheer futility of the scene, with death taking center stage.
Jesus moves against all that in strength.
He carries his outrage to the tomb, calling for Lazarus in a loud voice: “Lazarus, come out!” And he came out, like a dead man walking.
This is truly incredible. Not to mention unsettling. We can only imagine the effect it had on everyone there.
But let’s not miss the point. It’d be so easy to do in a moment like this.
The miracle isn’t an end in itself. It’s a pointer, a sign to the one we could easily overlook or misconstrue in moments of deep disappointment.
JESUS.
The Lord.
Israel’s Messiah.
God’s only Son.
The one who calls himself, here, Resurrection and Life.
He was with them then, all the way through.
And he is with us now.
He is with us and for us.
Not only in moments of blessing, when everything turns right, through some amazing miracle.
But also in suffering and loss and all that seems beyond redeeming.
He is right where we least expect him—in the godforsaken places—gathering us in and leading us out.
This is the good news.
—
We’ve come here today from many different experiences in life.
And some of us are grieving and struggling with regret—for ourselves, for loved ones, for those left behind.
There needs to be room for lament. And freedom to share our struggles plainly, without fear or shame.
But today, as we hear the good news, may we have courage to trace the signs back to Jesus.
He is here, present to us by the Spirit, opening us to life right where death would seem to carry the day.
Hear him speaking from the depths: “I am resurrection. I am life. Come to me and live.”
Amen.