John 11:1-44
Psalm 104:27-30
Lent 1
The story we hear today is a
complicated one. Jesus’ life has been
threatened so his disciples are not excited about going back to Judea, and so
close to Jerusalem. We hear that it was
“less then two miles” from Jerusalem to where Martha, Mary and Lazarus were. But Jesus heard that Lazarus was very ill, so
after waiting a couple days, he decided he needed to go back to see him, he had
to go, despite the threats against him. The
disciples were anxious, but Jesus needed to do this. He loved Lazarus, he loved Martha and Mary
and he needed to return to them to help.
On the way back he heard that
Lazarus had died. And Martha and Mary were
both upset with Jesus, “If you had been here, my brother would not have
died!” Martha said. Later Mary said the same thing, “If you had
been here, my brother would not have died!”
We understand this. We understand
this pain, this anger, this frustration.
They are grieving the loss of their brother! And at some level they feel it is Jesus’
fault. “If only!” They say.
If only! If only Jesus had been
there, Lazarus would not have died! And
while in their anger it sounds like they are being disrespectful, the truth is
that these statements on their parts are strong statements of faith, of
trust. Jesus is able to see past their
accusations and to understand that these angry comments are both statements of
love for their brother and statements of trust in him! They trusted that he would have been able to
prevent Lazarus’ death. They also
trusted that he could still do something about it.
Oh, that we were able to see the
same in those who get angry with us! But
it’s not that easy for us, is it? It
just isn’t really that simple when we are faced with an “If only” most of the
time!
A couple months ago now my parents
both were sick with COVID. Because they
had been vaccinated, they did not get it severely. They both thought they just had colds. But the truth was that they both had it and
that my father had been to my house the first day that his symptoms showed
up. By the time we found out that it
was, in fact, COVID, both David and I had symptoms similar to theirs. And while I was not worried about myself, I
was worried, very worried, about other people in my life. I was worried about the congregation. I was worried about my kids being
exposed. And I was deeply worried about
David. David has some fairly serious
respiratory issues. The major diagnosis
for him is that he has asthma about being sick.
To say it differently, he gets an asthmatic reaction every time he is
ill. That means that once he gets sick, his
allergy system kicks in and he has a hard time breathing, he coughs terribly
and constantly, and it doesn’t go away. As
a result of this and other respiratory issues, he actually had to have a
tracheotomy when he was only 5 years of age because he couldn’t breathe. He has the scar from that to this day and it
is a daily reminder to me that for David, being sick, especially with a
respiratory illness, is not a simple or uncomplicated thing. For David, being sick is very serious. So, when I heard that my parents did in fact
have COVID, and when I realized they had been at my house the first day that it
really presented itself, I was upset.
Like Martha and Mary, I confronted my dad, “If you had not come that
day, David would not be sick!” Different
words, but equally a response of grief and fear that manifested in being upset. And, like Mary and Martha, I wasn’t calling
him to just complain. They went to Jesus
seeking help. They needed to express
their grief. They needed someone to hear
their pain. But also, they were both still
hoping, still trusting that he could make it better. I called my dad to complain just because I
needed someone to hear how scared and sad I was that David was sick and that I
was afraid it, too, would be COVID. But
we also know that a huge part of grieving is bargaining, or negotiating. At some level I think it felt that if I could
just say “if only you hadn’t come!” it would fix it, it would turn the hands of
time back and mean he hadn’t exposed David, and that we were okay.
In
fact, it turned out neither of us did contract COVID. But in that moment of pain, those feelings of
“If Only” were the feelings that overwhelmed me.
“If only!” If only Jesus had been there. If only my parents hadn’t come over that
day. If only Brent hadn’t gone to that
party where COVID went crazy through the group.
If only Suzie hadn’t sold their house at the bottom of the market. If only, if only, if only. These are familiar sentiments to all of us,
far too often.
And Jesus’ response? The shortest but most packed verse in the
entire Bible, “Jesus wept.” Even though
in the story he could still do something about Lazarus’ death, even though he
could still bring Lazarus back, even though the story did not end here, we
still have this amazing and profound verse, “Jesus wept.”
I remember reading a sermon once in
which the pastor said that we are to be people of the resurrection, people of
joy, people always trusting and delighting in the hope of tomorrow. We are to trust that God truly can and does
bring new life out of every death, and new beginnings out of every ending. And yes, there is truth in that. As I mentioned in my sermon on the wedding in
Cana back in January, we should celebrate much more than we do. There is so much hope, promise and joy in the
resurrection story! There is so much
life and grace and abundance in what Jesus brought and shows us of who God is,
that we have no excuse not to party and celebrate and live this life in great
fullness! I stand by that. I believe it to be true.
But these two words in this one
verse give us a very different gift.
They also give us permission to grieve.
Jesus wept before moving on and bringing new life to Lazarus. Jesus wept before even looking towards hope
and new possibilities for life for Lazarus.
Jesus wept. He didn’t just cry a
few tears. He didn’t just say “aw,
that’s too bad!” He WEPT. And he wept for a long time: all the way to
the cave where Lazarus was buried. And
in doing so, he invites us to do the same.
We are given permission to cry and to grieve and to lament the changes,
the losses and the struggles that we, too, have experienced.
I have talked before about the
importance of reframing our tragedies.
And of seeing God in them, through them, and in the resurrection
aftermath of them. But we cannot jump
there too quickly. It is immensely
important for us to live through the feelings of loss, and of grief.
I’m reminded of a movie I saw (Joan
of Arcadia episode) in which one of the main characters had been in a car
accident and had become a paraplegic as a result. The person who caused the accident was the
driver of the car who had been drunk when he drove. While Kevin had finally come to terms with
the loss of his legs, the loss of the life he had envisioned for himself, the
family of the one who had driven the car sued him because he had allowed his
drunk friend to drive. Kevin’s parents
tried to shield him from that. They said
to him, “Kevin, you should not have to go through this again!” But his response, his profound, wise, deep
response was, “But I have to. Don’t take
this away from me.” Don’t take this away
from me. Jesus got that. He got that there is a need to go through
grief, through the pain, in order to truly heal, and, I would say, in order to
see the new life on the other side.
When the kids were little, we had,
for a while, two pets: a cat, Sabbath, and a Beta fish named Jeriah. At night when I would tuck them into bed, I
usually sang to the kids and my song would include a part where I would list
everyone in our family: “With Mama and Daddy and Jasmyn and Jonah and Aislynn
and Grandma and Grandpa and Nana and ….” Etc.
I would name everyone who was part of my kids’ closest circle in the
song each night. Grandparents, aunts and
uncles, friends, and, yes, the pets. I
would end each one with “And Sabbath and Jeriah” Well, as you know, fish don’t
live long. One day when we came out we
found Jeriah at the top of the fish tank, floating on his side. It was sad but we made it important: did a
little service before flushing the fish down the toilet, sending him to his
watery grave. No one cried at that
point. I think everyone, even the
littlest of the kids, understood that death was a part of life and that fish
just don’t live very long. That night
when I sang our goodnight song, though, Jonah was adamant, even before I
started singing, “Don’t forget Jeriah!
You still need to include Jeriah!”
And it was at that point, when I was singing our goodnight song and
naming the fish, that the tears came.
There is a wonderful Washington
Irving poem that I would like to share with you:
There
is a sacredness in tears.
They
are not the mark of weakness, but of power.
They
speak more eloquently than 10,000 tongues.
They
are the messengers of overwhelming grief,
of
deep contrition and of unspeakable love.
We are in a time when there is much
to weep about. Our world is not what we
would want it to be. We are frightened
and scared about the violence happening in the Ukraine, about the decision to
deal with things through violence at all, with the greed and the claiming of
power that this represents. We feel
helpless in the face of such wrong behavior.
And on top of that we continue to struggle with COVID. We see people almost always through masks, we
distance from people we would like to be spending time with, we all have lost
people and lost a sense of “normalcy”.
And this has been going on now a LONG time. Next week we will have been under the tyranny
of the pandemic for two years. Two long
years. Do we see a light at the end of
this tunnel? We think we do and then
that light moves to being farther off.
And the reality is we will never return to what was. Times have changed. We have changed. There is sadness to be felt, there is grief
to go through. This is our truth. This is the reality of the times. And while we trust and look to a God of
resurrection, a God of new life, a God of hope and joy, we aren’t there yet.
This is the first week in lent: and
in this first week of lent, we are walking towards the cross, not yet towards
the resurrection. And we are called to
look, to see, to be honest about where we are and how we are and where we are
going. And we are called, finally, to do
what Jesus did. To grieve, to struggle,
to acknowledge the pain, to go through the pain. To weep.
We know that God knows what this is, that God understands what this
feels like. And we know that tears are a
deep gift: the ability to weep, to release our pain, to express our pain: this
is a gift from God. Often, it is only
once we have allowed ourselves to grieve, to feel, that we can see what actions
we can take to change things, to make the world better. We are invited into the grief so that we can
move through the grief to a new place, a place of hope, of resurrection, of new
life. It will come: that is the
promise. But we must go through the
death, through the grief first. Thanks
be to God. Amen.
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