Isaiah 25:6-9 John 11:32-44
Not long ago in our Tuesday Bible Study we discussed a text from the book of Ezra in which the people of Israel are gathering at the site of the new temple. The young ones cheer for joy and the old ones cry. And the cheers were loud and the weeping was loud, and you couldn’t make out the crying from the shouting because it was all mixed up together. Sort of like a school playground during kindergarten recess.
And we mused about why the old ones were crying. Possibly because they felt a fresh wave of grief over the loss of the old temple, and all the loss that had gone with it. But it’s also possible their tears were expressions of joy and gratitude, because they were given a chance to begin again. Tears can have many meanings. Quite likely, these tears were a mixture of grief and gratitude.
It may be sort of a mash-up in the Ezra story, but most of the time tears are mentioned in the scriptures they are understood to be expression of real grief, of pain. A little or a lot of sadness leaking out of the body. Whether it’s the expression of longing for a day to come when God shall wipe away every tear, and the pain and sadness – and disgrace – of the people will be gone; or it’s the wailing of a people who are in the throes of grief, like Mary and the others who attended the burial of Lazarus; tears are an accompaniment to the losses experienced in life.
Around death, you will almost certainly encounter some tears. Even Jesus weeps. Some of you might recall a time when John 11:35 was every child’s favorite Bible memory verse – “Jesus wept,” as it is rendered in the King James. Back then it meant nothing more than that it was short and easy to remember. As we grow older, however, the notion of Jesus weeping resonates more deeply.
It is the only time we ever see such a deep expression of feeling from him. Throughout his ministry in which he is chased and threatened and provoked; through all his travels in which he encounters so many people who suffer deeply, so much sickness and persecution and loss. Through it all Jesus never shows this kind of sorrow. It’s fair to wonder, why now? And we can come up with all kinds of explanations, I’m sure. But, of course, we know that tears always come unbidden. Tears don’t reveal everything that is behind them.
Even Jesus might have been caught by surprise when the tears began to flow. Perhaps he didn’t know why he was crying at the time. Yes, he loved Lazarus. But was that all that was going on? Doubtful. There was so much going on.
This story is part of a much longer narrative that comes at a pivotal moment in the gospel. It begins when Jesus receives word from Mary, Lazarus’ sister, that he is quite ill and they want Jesus to come to Bethany. But Jesus, strangely, does nothing. He deliberately stays away. In response to the message, he says, “This is not the kind of illness that leads to death.” He says, “This is really all for God’s glory,” and probably no one understood what he meant by that, but in any case, they did not go. Bethany was in Judea, near Jerusalem, and Jesus has recently had some trouble in Jerusalem, where a crowd of people tried to stone him and he barely escaped with his life. So, quite likely, his disciples agreed that it was best for Jesus not to go anywhere near there, and Mary and Martha and Lazarus would have to get along without him.
But then two days later, out of the blue, Jesus announces, “We’re going to Judea; Lazarus has fallen asleep and I am going to wake him.” And the disciples wonder if he’s lost his mind. Nonetheless, they go.
By the time they arrive, they learn that Lazarus is dead, and has been in the tomb for four days. Four days. We are to know that he is really and truly and completely dead. There is no chance that he has just fallen asleep. He is dead.
And then Jesus encounters an angry Mary.
She is angry at Jesus. She gave him word of Lazarus’ condition. She asked him to come. She knew that Jesus could have done something – he could have saved Lazarus from death, but for some reason she couldn’t begin to fathom, Jesus had not come. Until now, and now was too late.
She was angry at him, and she let him know: “He did not have to die.” It’s as simple as that. Jesus could have prevented it – Mary knew it, everyone knew it – but he didn’t.
Mary wept, and I believe her tears were sadness, grief, and anger all mixed together. Like when you can’t tell if you feel mad or sad because you’re zigzagging in between the two things.
I remember standing at the bedside of a woman in the hospital, who died with her son and daughter beside her. and when they realized she had taken her last breath, they stood up and cried and raged, saying, “The hospital killed our mother!” So powerless were they in their grief, so badly they wanted to blame somebody for their loss.
We don’t accept loss easily.
Mary’s tears, and the tears of all the others who have accompanied her in her grieving, come together in a chorus, and then Jesus joins them in their weeping.
Weeping for his friend Lazarus. Weeping for the devotion of Mary and Martha. Weeping for the accumulating weight of his own suffering, suffering that will reach its apex soon in Jerusalem. Sad and mad at the suffering he will be made to endure, suffering that all humankind undergoes, sad and mad at the power of death in our lives.
They take Jesus to the tomb where Lazarus’ body lies behind the stone. Roll the stone away, Jesus calls out. Martha, the practical sister, knows the stench will be overpowering, and cautions Jesus. Again, the King James says it best: “But Lord, he stinketh.” Why open it now? It is too late now to do anything, but Jesus demands it. Lazarus, Come out. And the dead man walks.
There is no way to explain this mystery. We imagine things we have seen in horror films – The Mummy; Lazarus’ halting steps, strips of grave cloth hanging from his body. Or zombies; Lazarus’ lifeless face, distant eyes unable to comprehend what he sees. For me, it is hard to see him as fully alive at this point. Because he has been dead.
But great as this mystery is, it is the gospel hope. He, who was dead, is now alive. We, who were once dead, are given new life. In Jesus Christ we receive the gift of life.
Thomas, the disciple who later acquired a reputation as a doubter, said something to Jesus when he announced that they were going to Bethany to wake Lazarus – words that could be called prophetic. He said, Let us go with you, that we might die with him. It probably didn’t make sense to anyone at the time, but Thomas was giving voice to a glimpse of the good news: that we, too will die and rise with Jesus. This is our belief. This is our hope. That, although we die, we will live.
And this is the strange hope we center our worship around on All Saint’s Day. We who belong to Christ suffer in this life. He did not take that from us. In this life, though we love Jesus we experience loss, even death. Including, we know, our own death some day. As the Apostle Paul wrote: as we live, we live to the Lord; as we die, we die to the Lord, so whether we live or die we belong to the Lord who gives us life everlasting.
The strange Lazarus narrative shows us that as much as we really do live, we will really truly die. We will someday be as dead as Lazarus was dead. But Christ has power greater than death. The death and resurrection of Jesus Christ conquered death once and for all. While we mourn the loss of our loved ones, the saints who have gone before us, we know that they live in Christ, with him in God’s kingdom. And that we will someday be reunited with them in glory.
Today we remember the ones who have gone before. In a mixture of gratitude for their lives and all they gave us, and grief for the fact that they have left us. But today we also look to a day when we will sit at table again with them – as Isaiah says, with well-aged wine and rich food – a day when God will wipe away the tears from all faces. Let us be glad and rejoice.
All thanks and glory be to God.
