Jesus Raises Lazarus (Lent 1)

John 11:1–44 NRSV

Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” But when Jesus heard it, he said, “This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was. Then after this he said to the disciples, “Let us go to Judea again.” The disciples said to him, “Rabbi, the Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?” Jesus answered, “Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble, because they see the light of this world. But those who walk at night stumble, because the light is not in them.” After saying this, he told them, “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to awaken him.” The disciples said to him, “Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will be all right.” Jesus, however, had been speaking about his death, but they thought that he was referring merely to sleep. Then Jesus told them plainly, “Lazarus is dead. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.” Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow disciples, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.” When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary, and told her privately, “The Teacher is here and is calling for you.” And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. Now Jesus had not yet come to the village, but was still at the place where Martha had met him. The Jews who were with her in the house, consoling her, saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

After hearing the word, Jesus stays two more days where he is.

My favorite verses in the whole passage — The exchange between Jesus and Thomas. Jesus waffles a bit, first saying Lazarus is asleep, but then in vs. 14-15 he clarifies: Lazarus IS dead. And you know what, for that matter, I’m glad I wasn’t there. For your sake. You see, I am going to use this to help you all believe.

I love Thomas’ throwaway line: “Let’s also go, that we may die with him.” Yeah Jesus, sounds good. Maybe we’ll die too.

I am the resurrection and the life.

IN a world filled with death and heartbreak, Jesus promises resurrection

How do we sit with this? Are we like Thomas and the other disciples, who feel the urgency more than Jesus, at least on the surface.

Are we like the sisters, Mary and Martha, who send word and implore Jesus to come help his beloved friend.

Jesus’ actions put healing and resurrection into the grander perspective of what God is doing. We want healing. Like the father who comes to ask Jesus to heal his son or Peter hoping that his mother would get better with Jesus’ presence, so Mary and Martha want Lazarus to be healed.

I had a conversation with a friend this week who lost his spouse to cancer a few years ago. Not an easy conversation to have, but a blessed one nonetheless. We talked about prayer, hope, miracles, and reality. We talked about longing and doctors and medicine and savoring the time we have. Of course, he and I and all of us what the people we love to be healed, to be whole again. For the widows and widowers in our midst, I know you long to see your loved ones again, to hold them and hear their voices.

In our conversation, we found ourselves discussing God’s plan. God’s plan for our lives. The path we walk, laid out by God. Ordained. And in the context of praying for miracles, there was also this real sense of honesty — healing or miracles or not, this IS the path God has us walking. This is God’s plan. What will come of it and how our days will live out remain to be seen. But I felt and feel this deep conviction that, as Jesus cryptically says to his friends, we are walking in the light of God and it is by that light we see. We don’t always like what we see. We can’t always accept it. Lazarus didn’t need to die, did he?

Will I walk in the light, even when I don’t know where that light will lead? Will I walk in the light, even back into danger, death, and heartache? Is the light worth following?

There’s another interesting angle to this text that comes to mind. There is a story from the ministry of Saint Oscar Romero of El Salvador. In the early parts of his career, Romero was considered bookish and soft. He was friends with rich folks, had an academic disposition, and was liked by many of the powerful in the church.

The story goes that a wealthy family who knew Romero well requested that he baptize their new child. The family requested a date and time and Romero invited them to come participate in the community baptisms on an upcoming Sunday. The parent’s apparently bristled at this notion that their child would be baptized alongside all the other people in the congregation and instead requested a private baptism. You see, at the large cathedral in San Salvador, many people from all walks of life would come to receive the eucharist and to participate in worship. Rich and poor, well-dressed, or humble peasants. The cathedral worship is for all. And, theologically and ecclesiologically speaking, baptism is a public rite of the church, like communion. This means it is meant to be a part of public worship, with all people invited to witness. Baptisms are not to be done in private. Much the same way that private weddings with no witnesses are not the norm.

Romero resisted their request for a private baptism and angered this family. For him, it was a moment of clarifying, as he realized his mission to serve the church meant he would need to confront embedded issues of wealth and power. All people are God’s children, all belong at the font and table.

I tell that story because of how it echoes of the Lazarus narrative. Come on, Jesus, you’re our pal. Remember, I washed your feet with that really expensive perfume? Remember, we housed you and your friends on one of your most recent trips. Remember, we donated all that food for the big banquet you just held. Couldn’t you take some time out of your busy schedule to come heal our friend now? Quid pro quo?

But that’s not how Jesus works. Yes, he deeply loves Lazarus and Mary and Martha. They’re his dear friends. But Jesus is doing something with this moment, leaning into an opportunity to teach.

What else is Jesus teaching us about death? What is he teaching about resurrection?

Ash Wednesday, the service which begins Lent for us each year, directly asks us to contemplate our death. To remember we will die. Memento Mori.

I wonder if this moment is an opportunity to challenge the disciples and his followers about their conceptions of death. Up to this point in John’s gospel, Jesus has already foretold his own death. He has warned his followers, told them it will happen. And now, they are confronted with death in close proximity.

Does Jesus seize this opportunity for a teaching moment? Maybe.

Does Jesus teach us that he has power over life and death here? Seems like it.

This text leaves me with more questions than answers.

Wouldn’t you and I be like Mary and Martha? Wouldn’t we want Jesus’ help?

Wouldn’t I want Jesus to run quickly to help my loved ones?

Wouldn’t I expect that my friendship with him mattered? Maybe not to a degree of preferential treatment, but aren’t I at least a priority?

And what about this business of sleeping vs. death?

He’s dead, y’all. The text makes it very clear that there was a stench. Lazarus is dead.

Jesus uses dead and asleep interchangeably, it seems. So which is it?

Lazarus is dead.

If you had been here, he wouldn’t have died. Thanks, Jesus. I thought we were a priority.

Jesus weeps.

And this is where I find a key into this teaching. It is in the weeping.

Vs. 33 — “When Jesus saw her, Mary, weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved.”

Death and loss can be really disembodied concepts (no pun intended). They can feel abstract, kind of in the category of you know it when you experience it, but also hard to pin down. Sometimes death can lead us to celebrate — a relief from pain, a life well lived. But there are also these moments when death will rock us to our core. Death seems indiscriminant of our wants, needs, desires. Death plays no favorites.

Even Jesus, who can see deeper into the workings of God and has the faith that God will use this to God’s glory, even Jesus feels this.

I don’t get the sense that Jesus has a change of heart here. He was always on his way to help raise Lazarus. But it is the weeping of the family, the pain of his loved ones, that Jesus displays us to help us see his own pain. You could feel like Thomas, expecting Jesus to show them all how they would die (don’t you feel like Thomas might be a little bit of a downer, like he’s just embracing the absurdity of this moment — “well, I guess we’re heading to die too.” )

It is in the weeping, first of Mary, then her friends, and then Jesus, that we see the truth here. The truth is that Lazarus did matter to Jesus, he did feel pain at the loss, and he is moved to do something. Moved to fulfill what he is meant to fulfill.

I am the resurrection and the life, he says.

Do you believe this, he asks?

I believe all I could do in that moment, if I were Mary or Martha, or Jesus, for that matter, is to stand and weep. Jesus, you’ve been all over the countryside, helping people, talking about liberation and sight to the blind. But now, I weep outside the grave of my beloved because you were not here.

It is in the weeping, the breaking down, the dying, that we find life. It is in the pain, the suffering, and the uncertainty that we can embrace faith. It is staring death squarely in the face and weeping tears of loss that we can find our comfort.

Lazarus, come out, he says. Unbind him, he says.

May our tears, our grief, and our persistent hope unbind us from the ways of death. May these tears wash us and make us free, no longer bound to the longing for preference or healing or resurrection — no longer bound by fear of death or loss. Free. Free to feel our pain. Free to know our anguish. Free to contemplate our own death. And free, unbound, liberated, to know the one who would call us even out of our darkest death to show the power of his light and life.

I don’t have an easy answer for this text. I’ve looked at it many times in my life and still wonder what the point it. But, in the absence of certainty or resolution, I feel the invitation to weep, to mourn, and to hope.

Amen.