"Grieving and Living"

First Presbyterian Church
Peter S. Buehler
March 9, 2008
John 11:1-45

Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.

Generally speaking, do you like to be on time -- for work, for appointments, for social events, for movies, for meetings -- or are you comfortable being late?

Some of us don't like being late for anything, even by five minutes; it makes us uptight. Others of us try to fit in many different activities and commitments in a short amount of time, so we inevitably run late -- starting early in the day. Others of us, for some reason, don't like being on time; being early makes us uptight, so we find creative ways to stall in order to be late. Then there are those of us who go by our own personal clock and just don't get anxious about anything. Quarter of, quarter after, it's all the same thing. Daylight Savings Time, what's that. I secretly admire these people. There must be some with my German ancestry in this category, but I've not met any.

There are at least some of us then who are baffled by Jesus and his decision to wait two full days before going to be with Lazarus. Yes, we know the reason -- we know he will raise Lazarus from the grave, we know that it will be a sign of his life-giving power -- but still, it troubles us to think of an intentional delay like this.
It doesn't fit with what we know about Jesus. Going to be with someone we loved who was dying -- we'd drop everything and go the next day. So we can relate to Martha and to Mary, Lazarus's sisters.

Both women, using the exact same words, let loose at Jesus with their hurt and their grief. They would not wait until Jesus got to their home -- both sisters, first one and then the other, go out to the road to meet him -- what they had to say would not wait another hour, another minute: Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.

We hear those words and they sting -- they feel like a slap to the face. The sisters' words are a cry of pain and anger, of bitterness and confusion: Lord Jesus, our brother's death is your fault! Why did you wait?! What in the world kept you from us? You loved Lazarus! We want him back, we want him alive -- and you had the power!

It's an astonishing statement: Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.

We flinch, and we understand. Because there is no pain like human grief, no pain like losing someone you love, nothing that shakes us so deeply, nothing that creates such a vacuum in our souls, as if suddenly there is nothing in us anymore.

That Martha and Mary are angry with Jesus is this Gospel being honest. Because when death intrudes, it doesn't seem to make sense; our anger, even our anger at God, is one of the few things that makes any sense.

Nineteenth century French playwright and novelist, Alexandre Dumas, recalls in his memoirs how he reacted when he learned of his father's death. He heard the news from his uncle when he was four years old. 'My father is dead?' I said. 'What does that mean?' 'That means you won't see him again.'
'But how? I won't see Father again?' 'No.' 'And why shan't I see him again?'
'Because God has taken him back from you.' 'Forever?' 'Forever.' 'And you say I shan't see him again?' 'Never again.' 'Never again, never?' 'Never!' 'And where does God live?' 'He lives in the sky.'

Dumas continues. I remained thoughtful for a while. Though such a child, and unable to reason, I understood nevertheless that something final had happened in my life. Then, seizing the first moment when nobody was paying attention to me, I escaped from my uncle's house and ran straight to my mother's. All the doors were open, all the faces showed distress. Death could be sensed there.
I entered without being noticed. I reached a small room where arms were kept; I took down a single-barreled gun which belonged to my father, and which had often been promised me when I grew up. Then, armed with the gun, I went upstairs. On the first-floor landing I met my mother. She was coming out of the death-chamber…she was in tears. 'Where are you going?' she asked, astonished to see me there when she thought I was with my uncle. 'I'm going to the sky!' I answered. 'What? You're going to the sky?' 'Yes, don't stop me.' 'And what are you going to do in the sky, my poor child?' 'I'm going to kill God, who killed Father.' My mother clutched me in her arms, squeezing enough to suffocate me.
'Oh, don't say such things, my child,' she cried. 'We're quite unhappy enough already!'

Like Alexandre Dumas remembering his childhood and his grief, John the evangelist remembers Martha and Mary's grief. He doesn't edit, he doesn't sugar-coat. In their words to Jesus, their stinging rebuke, we hear the depth of their sorrow.

Then we notice Jesus, and the fact that he does not take offense. Both sisters unload on him, even blame him for their brother's death -- Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died -- and Jesus does not flinch. It is as though he invites them to come, to cry out to him.

Maybe we've done that when we've received bad news. We've gone for a ride in the car, rolled up the windows and yelled. We've gone for a long walk and asked God in no uncertain terms, Why?

But as we read on what's even more surprising is seeing Jesus himself shaken and weeping! Lazarus dies and Jesus grieves. And it's not mere empathy or sadness -- it's deeper; Jesus is profoundly disturbed. Our Bible translates two Greek words, both of which involve body and soul -- anger and indignation, deep bodily emotion -- Jesus is shaken.

We don't see him like this, so profoundly disturbed -- on the cross, in the Garden of Gethsemane, yes, but here at Lazarus's tomb? We know, and he knows, that God will hear his prayer and bring his friend, Martha and Mary's brother, back to life, so why is the Lord weeping? What's happening here in this scripture?

I don't know as I have an answer. The complexity of this scene in the Gospel, the depth and emotion of these verses -- make me just want to sit with them, like sitting with someone in the hospital. I will say that this picture of Jesus so visibly shaken challenges my understanding of him, my image of him, and therefore my image of what a disciple of his should be like. I used to think that the more one advanced in Christian faith, the more untroubled and tranquil he or she would become -- the more calm, the more peaceful, the more beatific. The saints of the church are even-tempered, they don't cry -- that was my mental image. I used to think that praying Thy will be done meant not only Pay no heed to your emotions -- as in, God apparently wants something different for you than what you want, so deal with it -- not only that, but also the notion that God himself pays no heed to human emotions. That God is above it all -- God is in the sky -- God is unmoved by human tears.

Yet John chapter 11 flies in the face of any thought that our heavenly Father doesn't care. Because we see God in the face of Jesus, we know that God, in the mystery of God's being, grieves.

One of the reasons the church is so important in my life is that I have the privilege of being with grown men and women who cry as well as laugh. I have come to learn that people who advance in this precious faith of ours open up way more than they close down. I've learned this from so many of you.

What I find startling is that the more we let ourselves grieve and cry, when grieving and crying are what we need to do when we experience such a loss -- a loss that doesn't seem to make sense -- the more permission we give ourselves to journey through the dry desert land of grief, the greater will be our capacity for joy, our confidence in God's salvation. In the words of the Psalm, Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning (30:5).

This is a paradox and a mystery, but it is here before us in our scripture. Jesus himself does not stand apart, he does not remove himself from the sorrow of his friend's death. He feels it. And in that moment Jesus bears in his spirit the weight of all suffering, he bears in his soul the groaning and sighing of the very universe, the labor and pain it takes to bring in the kingdom of heaven, to move people to trust in God and truly care about the world, their neighbors, the poor, the weak, those who suffer.

But in Christ, where there is grief there is the promise of life. So he shouts with a loud voice, Lazarus, come out! We're not used to Jesus raising his voice! Why does he shout? Raymond Brown, the great New Testament scholar, points out that the Greek word for shout occurs only eight times in the whole Bible, six of which are in John's Gospel, four of which are in the scene where the crowd shouts repeatedly to have Jesus crucified. While the crowd's shouts bring death to Jesus, Jesus' shout brings life to Lazarus. And out he comes, bound and wrapped in burial cloths. Jesus tells the people standing by, Unbind him, and let him go.

Isn't that exactly what Jesus does with us, with everyone who hears him calling their name? Isn't he always calling us back to life, back to him, away from the things that threaten our living, our believing, our loving?

How do we know that the Lord Jesus is the resurrection and the life? It's when, facing what seems like the inevitability of death, we are startled by his shout to Come out, to be unbound and set free.

In Jesus Christ we have new life. For we are convinced that nothing -- nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable -- absolutely nothing can get between us and God's love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us (Romans 8:38-39 in Peterson, The Message).