March 22, 2020

The 5th and final Sunday in Lent 

The Third Sunday in the American Season of Coronavirus
  Ezekiel 37:1-14

John 11:1-57

"Jesus began to weep...unbind him."

         The scriptures this week are rather “on-the-nose,” with the Prophet Ezekiel’s message being one of hope and restoration to Israelites in exile in Babylon; their community is cut off from their place of worship, they have been taken captive against their will, their people    scattered and afraid, coming to terms with how their lives are irrevocably changed.  The    people are reminded that even dead, utterly dry bones can be made to live—not by muscles and sinew and skin being added, but by the very breath of God.  God’s Spirit is what brings life, and it is what God promises, even and especially to a people in peril.

     But then we have the much longer and much more complex story from John 11, when Lazarus has fallen ill and Jesus waits elsewhere until he is dead, and the plaintive mourning of his sisters who hold in their hearts the painful tension of belief in Jesus and their cry, “Lord, if you had been here, our brother would not have died.”

     It’s a difficult story.  It raises almost as many questions as it answers.  It’s important to know that this is the sign in the Gospel of John that causes the Jewish religious leaders to plot for Jesus’ death; whereas the other gospels name Jesus’ act of cleansing the temple of the moneychangers as the issue that incites the anger of the religious leaders, the gospel of John is much more explicit to say that the real issue was the raising of Lazarus.  Verse 47 makes the concern of the Pharisees plain, “What are we to do?  This man is performing many signs.  If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, and the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation.” 

     But this complex, long story was written with a particular frame of reference in mind—the author and the reader are expected to know the end of this story—that Jesus was killed, was resurrected, the church began to spread and finally the Romans did come to destroy the temple in 70 A.D.  The fears of the Pharisees are justified. 

     I would argue that this story is all about who has the power over life and death.

  The act of raising Lazarus shows Jesus as so much more than a healer, but one who has the power of the Creator God, to re-create life where there is only death and chaos. But the act opens up many avenues for deeply troubling questions—why did Jesus wait to come if he could have healed Laz before hand?  Both sisters voice this question, as does the crowd, who wonder aloud in verse 37, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind have kept this man from dying?”  And many who read these verses will be reminded of their own mourning over the death of a loved one, and the wondering, “where was God?  Where was my miracle?”

      Sometimes grief gives way to anger.  Often, actually.  Anger is a stage of grief, but it doesn’t come neatly in order.  Anger can surge boldly or simmer quietly under the surface for years.  Anger can fuel doubt and rash actions, but anger can also propel fierce prayers and deeply faithful and trusting acts of hope and defiance in the face of despair. 

     Often I’ll hear people, amid their own grief, try to tell others, “You can’t be angry at God, this was God’s will.”  I would argue faithfully that you can be angry with God, be     frustrated, sad, confused and still desire to trust God and to hope for a different outcome.     Anger can be hard and destructive if you let it, but it can also be faithful.

     When I was much younger, in my salad-days of questioning the reality of God and the gospel story, I struggled mightily with the idea of a God who would cause suffering, of “sinners” but also of children and the ill and the old, especially confused that God would cause the suffering of God’s own Son.  At the time it seemed cruel, even arrogant.  Frankly, it made me angry, indignant at the thought of innocents suffering needlessly under the thumb of a fickle God demanding praise and worship and offering surprisingly few miracles to whisk it all away.  This anger pushed me into conversations—arguments, really—drove me to study (in order to refute and dismiss, I admit); anger pushed me to examine my discomfort with Christ’s work and anger made me sassy and verbose.

    And then I encountered the idea that Jesus might have been troubled by all of that too, that Jesus struggled with his work and his role.  I found that idea first in Jesus’ prayer in the garden of Gethsemane, “Let this cup pass from me, but not my will be done, but yours.” And I see it again here in the story of Lazarus, and how Jesus is “greatly disturbed” and weeps.  

    Jesus is greatly disturbed twice in the space of five verses (v33 and v38), and it turns out there is more going on in the Greek word for “greatly disturbed” than compassion and  sorrow.  The word is tarassō and is also translated “greatly troubled” and “greatly distressed,” but it also comes with connotations of fear, dread and anger; but who is Jesus fearful of or   angry at?  It does not appear that he is fearful or angry at his disciples or Mary and Martha; there are no words of chastisement or rebuke.  It is unclear if he is upset with their level of faith either, and I think translations have been correct in understanding that Jesus’ distress is   directly related to the grief he is witnessing...the sorrow that he is a part of...the suffering that he can directly address...and dread of the suffering that he will soon experience.

     And so “Jesus wept.”  It’s the shortest and most profound verse in scripture. Strictly speaking, it’s better translated, “Jesus began to weep,” which only intensifies the emotional response of Jesus to the whole situation, and the action that began; scripture doesn’t say when Jesus dried his eyes and wiped his tears away.  It only states—rather clearly—when he began to weep.  If ever I struggled to understand a God who could permit suffering, I am much more moved by a God who weeps.  And a God who suffers alongside God’s people.

   I am led to wonder if Jesus is distressed and greatly troubled not only by the power of death to cause such suffering among those he loves, but also the power death will soon have over himself.  If yet another reason Jesus weeps is for all the struggle that is yet to come, weeps for the inevitability of death, and weeps for his own suffering that will occur as a direct result of his act to raise Lazarus from the dead.  Because Jesus will die, and suffer painfully first.

This is where today’s story gets a little “on the nose.” 

     None of the characters besides Jesus expected healing and resurrection for Lazarus.  Mary and Martha’s grief was encapsulated in the finality of his death, and in the disappointment that the healer did not come in time.  But then Jesus came and did the impossible—he did the one thing that could topple nations, suddenly depriving Rome and authorities of the final power to undo life—he undid death.  The religious leaders would understand this power as one that would invite the strong arm of Rome to fall upon them, would understand that this life-giving hope would destroy business as usual and their grasp on power specifically. 

     The people were shocked at the raising of Lazarus because it was so unexpected—but we certainly hope for it now, and the difficulty we are experiencing is the long distance between our suffering now and future when it will be undone. 

Because right now, death is inevitable for us all.

     That’s the unspoken truth of pandemic and plague, the reminder that lurks on “normal” days that we cannot possibly ignore now—that we will still experience suffering, pain and death  even though Christ has defeated the final power of death.  Someday, sooner or later, we will die. Funerals remind us of this, serious illness reminds us of this, and right now everything reminds us of this: from “social distancing” to getting our groceries and   washing our hands.  Part of our grief is that we can’t even avoid the idea.

But here is the good news:   Death is not the final word anymore.  

Death isn’t the final word ever again.

     Instead, we can trust that the Spirit of God who created the world is also the power to re-create the world as often as needed; to breathe life into dead bones, to restore communities after exile and separation, to take the stink of 4 days dead, the dry and brittle valley shadowed by death and fill them all with God’s Spirit and with Life. 

The only thing that gives life is God, and God will give it. 

      And as for the fear of suffering and death, take to heart the words of Jesus about Lazarus, “Unbind him, and let him go.” 

Let go of your fear.   Let go of your worry.   Be unbound.  Breathe, and live.    Amen.