Views from the Valley

What a tender story we have here of a family of people who clearly loved, and were greatly loved, by Jesus. People who were close to the man, and as family among themselves, were also family to Jesus. We see Jesus moved and disturbed, crying real tears, in ways we have never seen before. Before this, Jesus taught and touched and healed many, but we see little emotion coming from him, save for the earnestness and conviction in which he was preaching and living.

        We have a story of two sisters and a brother, living in the same home, caring for one another. Martha, who just following this event in the next chapter of the gospel of John would serve Jesus at a dinner she and her sister Mary would hold. Mary, who was already referred to in our passage as the one who anointed Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair. This, too, would be reported just following the text we’ve read today. And we have Lazarus, their beloved brother.

        These were people who got close to Jesus when he was in their area. People who missed him, though they knew, along with the disciples, that due to his teaching, he was no longer welcome in Bethany, where they lived. How heartbreaking it would be to draw close to someone, to long for their nearness, their wisdom, and their challenging words, knowing that everywhere their beloved Teacher went, people hated him!

        People, really, like you and me, who have friends. Who love wise people and listen to them as much as we can. Who would really be fascinated with a person who had such wisdom and did such wonderful things as Jesus. A person who really cared about us; who showed us special attention. Whose presence we could feel even after they left our home. Someone who had more to say than the average person, and who had a power that took us to places we never dreamed we’d go in our lives.

        We’d want that person around. And how amazing to think, and know, that that person really loved us!

        Lazarus was ill. Very ill, to the point where things just didn’t look good for him. Mary and Martha had already seen and heard of the things their blessed Teacher and friend did, and perhaps though they knew he wouldn’t be safe back in their town, they had to let Jesus know about their beloved brother, a man they knew Jesus treasured in a special way.

        And so they sent a messenger to Jesus. And they waited.

        I wonder how long they had to wait. Days? It was the plodding nature of time in those days – no instant messaging, no phone. Send word and wait. The message got delivered. “Lazarus, the man you love so much, is very ill.”

        And what did Jesus do? Oh, it would seem like such a huge betrayal! Instead of rushing off to check in on his beloved friend, he seemed to shrug and say, “No worries.” Something about glorifying God and the Son of Man. That was Jesus, being symbolic, being cryptic. Everything had a purpose for Jesus. One more lesson to teach for the Son of God; one more lesson to learn for humankind.

        And so they waited, and Lazarus, beloved friend of Jesus, beloved brother of Mary and Martha, deteriorated. Perhaps they thought he had days, or hours, or minutes, and they wrung their hands and wept and hoped. The messenger returned. “I told him, but he didn’t seem in any hurry.” How disappointing. How could it be? How could he be so calloused?

        The disciples, too, were aware of this. Poor Mary, poor Martha, poor, poor Lazarus. But oh, so much was going on, so many healings, so many upset people, so many miracles, so much conflict! Two days passed, and some of them, perhaps those not so close to Mary, Martha and Lazarus, forgot all about the folks from Bethany.

        Then Jesus declared, “OK, it’s time to head to Judea. Back to Bethany. Again.”

        And the disciples’ chins dropped. “You have got to be kidding! You just escaped a bunch of angry Jews there, ready to throw stones, and you want to go back?” Oh my. This Jesus. Such a puzzling fellow, full of vigor and certainty, and all manner of strange ideas. In reply, he taught, using imagery about light. Something for them to hear, and to wonder about. To consider later on and say, “Oh! He was talking about himself: the message and understanding he brought – about action when the lights are on, about striking when the iron is hot – about courage and conviction and the fact that there is something greater out there than we timid mortals generally realize. Something that gives us a sense of urgency and bravery, because what we’re all about, what we’re learning, and what is being poured into us, is greater than rocks and stones and screaming religious leaders.”

        And so, breaking from the flowery, cryptic speech, he spoke of a sleeping Lazarus and a trip to wake him up. What? A jaunt to Bethany to dodge stones and shake a guy awake? Jesus knew what they were thinking. “Time for some plain truth, friends. Lazarus is dead.”

        Shock, with heads shaking. Someone wanted to say, “We should have gone back then,” but knew better. No one else wanted to go back into the lion’s den. But Thomas, bold, questioning, enthusiastic, unique Thomas, said, “Well, then, we may as well be prepared to die.” Thomas, a man of the worthy cause. And apparently, the disciples agreed, for they headed back to Bethany.

        As they approached, here came beautiful Martha. Some likely peered at her as her form grew ever clearer and her pace quickened as she saw the traveling crew. Word got around about people’s travels, for she aimed to meet them before they could make it all the way to where she was. And they likely scanned her demeanor for tears of anger and rage. She could have spat out her words, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died!” Blame. You are too late, Lord! You waited! Why, oh why? And yet the words were more pleading than angry, and she continued, looking at the man with love. “But even now, I know God will answer your prayer.” Even now, Martha believed, even after what appeared to be a huge betrayal. She loved Jesus, and he loved her, and there was something in that love that was soaked in trust, in something greater than the reality of the immediate moment in front of them.

        At Jesus’ declaration that Lazarus would rise again, Martha professed her belief in a resurrection to a life beyond death. A beautiful hope. One to which we all cling. We’ll see our loved ones again someday on that beautiful shore. It’s in our hearts. We believe there is more to life beyond that veil, because we just do. This life just can’t be all.

        And to this, instead of saying “You’re right, Martha,” he launched into metaphorical, metaphysical, spiritual teaching mode again, and in it, he pointed to himself. “I am the resurrection and the life. Everyone! Believe in me, and you will live!”

        But Jesus did NOT say that he would one day, someday, in some blue beyond, bring resurrection life to people like Lazarus and Mary and Martha and the disciples and those who believed him. He said, “I AM the resurrection and the life.” I AM. The resurrection and the life is IN ME. It IS ME. Not “was,” and not “will be”. He said, I AM. Now.

        And then he encouraged them to believe. In him. In whatever ways Jesus was, and lived, resurrection. In whatever ways Jesus was, and lived, life. Believe. What does it mean to believe?

        Martha showed it, and is known to be, in John’s gospel, the first person to utter a declaration of faith. Little credit do we give to the women of the gospels, whose statements of faith hold so much power and understanding in only a few words. How often do we hear, when we speak of the “faith of our fathers,” that what we rest on as a foundation is the “faith of our mothers,” too – not just of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Peter, John, and Paul, but the faith of Martha and the Marys: the women who were present in utterly crucial moments of the life of Jesus and the early church. The women’s appearances in the stories may seem sporadic and few, but each time they occur they hold within them a punch of great power. A lot is said about the nature of life and faith and God when spoken to, and through, women. Martha’s statement of faith, one that many repeated and still believe, was this: “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

        What an amazing thing to say. She didn’t say, “Yes, I believe you are a special man who has healing powers.” She recognized Jesus. She loved him, and he loved her and her sister and brother very much. It wasn’t just because Jesus did nice things for people. There was a relationship there, where she knew him from her heart, and she knew that he knew her, too. And it was in that, and beyond that, that she believed. Martha, our mother in faith.

        She took off to get her sister. Jesus was here, and it was time to experience, if nothing else, his presence, his love, his wisdom, and his comfort. If this was all there was to receive from him, it was enough.

        And yet also came Mary, full of regret at the missing presence of the healer who surely would have touched their brother and made him whole. She bowed before him, moistening his feet with her tears as she would very soon moisten his feet with oil. She did not reach out and slap Jesus or grab him by the shoulders. “If you’d been here! Oh, if only you’d been here!” An open sorrow, an open grief, in the presence of her friend. Somehow, even if there was anger, there was still so much love.

        And in that love, Jesus was moved.

        Jesus, a compassionate man, healing, touching, teaching. But rarely moved to tears. Jesus, a man with deep molten well of love within. Jesus, while enlightened on his path, wisdom coming from the deep river of God’s power, surely seeing the greater picture, knowing the glorious end and BEING the resurrection, BEING the life, could have felt perhaps a sympathetic neutrality in light of what he knew to be the ultimate truth. But he felt deeply. Like the depth of pain and suffering that led to Lazarus’ untimely death, and the depth of pain and suffering of Lazarus’ sisters and friends. About this we can be comforted, knowing that God, in Jesus, knows just as well what that is like, at the moment of our deepest losses. He sees the bigger picture, yes, but he also weeps with us because he feels it with us, as we lay in our tombs of trouble, consternation and despair. He does not trivialize our trials.

        And thus, Jesus went to see where Lazarus was. The women invited him. No bitterness. Not saying, “Why bother, Lord? It’s too late now. He’s been dead too long; it won’t be pleasant.” They knew it wouldn’t be pleasant, and they warned him. But they took him. Because they loved him and he loved them.

        And then it was that he showed them the purpose of the darkness through which they had gone: the darkness of Lazarus’ illness, his failing health, the hope that Jesus would come, the deterioration, the sending of the summons, and the death. He prayed, calling attention to the people and to God, that all of it, every moment, had a greater purpose, and that purpose was for them to see that in Jesus there was a greater power. A greater love. One that overpowered death and brought a man back to life, even after seemingly impossible circumstances.

        And because of this, many believed. Many believed, and because of this, they – Lazarus, Mary, and Martha, knew, and celebrated, and shared this presence of God among them through the man Jesus. Perhaps Martha’s statement of faith would have stood strong, even had Lazarus not been raised from the dead.

        But in this instance, in this moment, Jesus’ loving miracle foreshadowed his own death and resurrection, and proclaimed that the darkest tomb, under the nastiest of circumstances, was not dark or nasty enough to prevent new life. Resurrection. A resurrection of Jesus, in that moment, not in some future by and by, some future last day.

        That day.

        What does that story say to us?

        First, we must know that Jesus loves us. Oh, how he loves us! We must pray to have the faithful trust of Martha and Mary who loved and declared their faith in spite of the tragedy that befell them. Martha declared that faith before Jesus raised Lazarus, not after. She was the mother of our faith, miracles or no miracles.

        We also must know that we have our own moments in tombs. In tombs of discouragement and frustration, where we feel minutes stretch to hours and hours to days and days to weeks with no light in sight. Where we feel we may never be restored or refreshed. And yet Jesus comes. God comes, and takes that experience, those moments, and calls us out into the light of day, even if strips of burial cloth still cling to us.

        And in all of these things, God is made known. Resurrection is now, you see. Not someday, but now. In every Lazarus moment, as you trust like Martha and Mary, know that you will walk out of that tomb, unbound and free, in the light of the day. Resurrection is NOW, and God is here now, and you are made well and whole now, and you can follow Jesus and be guided by him NOW. Just as you are, even if the stench surrounds you.

        Hearing the voice of Jesus, let us trust, and let us come out of our tombs, and live in the resurrection and the life right now, knowing that in all our moments in the tomb, God is alive in us and we shine in the brightness of God’s glory, now and always. Amen.