Lent 5
The Gospel of John 11:1-45
Preached at Zion Lutheran Church (Milaca, MN)
March 26, 2023
–
Traditionally, we honor the Gospel reading by standing as it’s being read in worship. Today, our passage from John is quite long, so I would invite you to take a posture of worship that feels right for your body – that might mean standing through the whole passage, it might mean sitting down now, it might mean sitting down partway through the passage. Please honor these divine words by listening to the divine wisdom of your body.
– – –
Grace and peace to you from God the Creator, Christ the Liberator, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
+
It is a joy to be back with you at Zion Lutheran this week, as we continue our Lenten journey, drawing ever closer to Holy Week.
We began this Lenten season in the wilderness, reminded that God’s love reverberates through Creation, through our very breath. Reminded that God is ever-present, with us in our daily lives, in our prayers, and our dreams. God has torn apart the heavens to be with us, to be with God’s Creation, in the wilderness and beyond.
The following week, we met Nicodemus for the first time, a character that comes to Jesus in the dark of night – a time for moving unseen, yes, but also a time of deep questions and wonderings under the light of the stars.
Then we entered into conversation with Jesus and the unnamed woman at the well, an extended theological conversation where Jesus speaks aloud, “I am he”, and where we are invited into the work of God in the world, which began long before us.
Last week, Jesus restored sight to a man who was born blind, and we were challenged to reflect on the agency we acknowledge, or don’t, of people with disabilities – as over and over in the passage, the man who received sight asserts himself as the teller of his own story, of his own witness of Jesus as healer, and prophet.
And today, a week before Palm Sunday, the start of Holy Week, where we will continue our journey with Christ all the way to the Cross and through the grief of Holy Saturday, to the miracle of the Resurrection, we read the story of Lazarus, who was raised from the dead by Jesus. And much like the previous three weeks, the length of this passage allows us to dwell in the narrative and fit ourselves in among the characters.
The story of Lazarus is a story of grief. It is a story of faith. And it is a story of how grief and faith intermingle with each other.
This passage of John opens by establishing the relationship between the characters. Martha and her sister Mary, who we learn is the same Mary who anointed Jesus’ feet with oil, have a brother named Lazarus, who is gravely ill. Jesus knows these siblings, and cares deeply for them – he loves them. This is one of the few times that we hear about an ongoing friendship of Jesus’ – the siblings are not following Jesus physically as disciples, but are meaningfully connected.
Jesus receives word that his beloved friend Lazarus is gravely ill. And Jesus stays where he is – he does not go immediately to Lazarus’ side. We only get a glimpse of Jesus’ reason behind this, interpreted through writing and time. It’s not a very satisfying reason – Jesus states that this illness doesn’t lead to death, but to the glory of God. And I wonder, since a theme of this passage is exploring Jesus’ humanity, I wonder if at the beginning Jesus didn’t know how sick Lazarus was. That he thought he had more time to get there. It’s a very human response – too often we think we’ll have more time than we do – time to send that text in a few days, plan a visit a few months from now – it’s no wonder that people who recently lived through a loss implore those of us who haven’t to not take time for granted.
But a few sentences later, we learn that Jesus is indeed speaking of Lazarus’ death. Jesus and his disciples travel back to Judea, a journey that is not without risk as Jesus has been riling up various religious and political authorities. Still, seeing his friends, being with them in their grief, is worth that risk. When he arrives, he learns that Lazarus has been dead for four days.
Martha’s first words to her friend, her teacher, are full of anguish, and sorrow – Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.
And still, in the midst of her anguish and sorrow, Martha affirms her faith in Jesus, and in God. She makes a clear statement of faith following Jesus’ naming of himself, and question to her. Jesus says: “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 replies, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”
Her faith is not erased by her grief, nor is her faith contingent on anything other than the presence and testimony of Jesus and his ministry – he has not yet worked any miracles here, and yet she still believes. He was not there when she needed him, and yet she still believes. Grief and faith intermingled.
Martha gets her sister, Mary, who was at home. Mary knew Jesus was on his way, and she stayed home. I wonder if she stayed because she didn’t trust her anguish and sorrow. That she didn’t want to see Jesus in that moment, because of the depth of her loss and pain, and because he wasn’t there.
Her first words to her friend, her teacher, echo and repeat the anguish and sorrow of her sister – Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. I imagine her words also have an edge of anger to them.
And I can imagine the tangle and storm of feelings Martha and Mary were likely experiencing. I wonder if they felt betrayed by Jesus – he is a healer, and he was not there. He is their friend, and he wasn’t there. I hear in their words the searching question – why weren’t you here? Why didn’t you come sooner? We wanted you to be here, and you weren’t.
Jesus doesn’t have an answer. After hearing this same thing from two of his close friends at the loss of their brother, another beloved friend, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died”, Jesus weeps. Jesus grieves with them. He does not rush to resurrection. He dwells with them in sorrow. He allows space for grief, amidst faith. In this moment, Jesus is human, weeping – tears running down his blotchy face, nose clogging up, breath hitching in his throat. And Jesus is divine, weeping. This is a pivotal moment – much of the Gospel of John highlights Jesus’ divine nature. Here, Jesus is utterly human amidst his divinity.
Jesus weeps. And that means God weeps.
God wants to be with us, and God weeps when we don’t feel the presence of God. God mourns with us, and for us. I wonder if some of Jesus’ grieving is for his beloved friend, yes, but also for those who remain, who felt abandoned. Who did not feel God with them. It is after this passage that Jesus assures his disciples that even once he has died, they will not be left alone – an advocate, a comforter – the Holy Spirit – will be sent to be with them, always.
Jesus, human and divine, is deeply moved. And it is after this space of grief and mourning, and anguish, that he moves to mend destruction. He doesn’t prevent the grief and sorrow of Lazarus’ death, but he undoes it. He unbinds him. We don’t hear from Lazarus. We don’t know how he feels about being raised from the dead into life again. But I imagine each of us knows what it is like to be unbound. To be revived. It is miraculous. Even if it’s just for a moment – noticing the first flower opening after a long winter, reminding us that what seems dead might not be dead. Experiencing a moment of reconnection after estrangement. Getting a new job, or moving to a different apartment, that lets us shed what we have been carrying. What has been binding us.
This text is paired with the dry bones of Ezekiel. In both readings, it is the word of the LORD that revives. That breathes new life. It is not because someone believed enough, or correctly. It is not based on barter, or purchase. It is the breath of God swirling over Creation, reviving what we thought could not be revived.
Today, you might be in the midst of mourning, after a loss, or an unexpected change, or a grief anniversary – may you feel God’s presence as God mourns with you, and holds you in love, trusting that grief and faith can be entwined.
Today, you might be bound into systems of harm, or past versions of yourself, bound so tightly you feel stuck – may you feel God’s liberation, unbinding and freeing you to love Creation and your neighbor.
Today, as we go from this place, into the world, journeying collectively and individually through seasons of change – may you hear the words of God, and go forth with grace and love.
Reed Fowler 