Lent 5(A) – John 11:1-45
“Lazarus is dead,” Jesus says. Thomas tells us to “go too, so we may die with him.” And we do. Lazarus’ death is a chance to talk about ours.
There are many parts of ourselves that are dead, or at least dying. Those things about ourselves that make us different from others, or that make us feel ashamed. My friend Angie – not the Angela that many of you know – Angie who is a pastor in Ohio, talks about meeting a man who happens to be blind. “We have the same last name,” she said. He laughed. “How so,” he asked. “Well, you’re Eric-He’s-Blind, and I’m Angie-She’s-Black.”
Angie’s courage has always impressed me. When we worked together in ministry in the city of Omaha, I knew that every morning, a few blocks away, Angie would leave the safety of her home and step out into a world full of racism and reviling, fear and hatred for her. People would look at her and at first glance, they wouldn’t see the beautiful woman that I’d come to know; the family she loves, husband and three children; the incredible giftedness proven in her award-winning preaching. They’d see Angie-She’s-Black, and wonder what that black woman was up to in their neighborhood, why she was pulling on the door of that Lutheran church. There have to be times in her life when it would have been nice—or at least, more comfortable—if she could have buried her skin color, to hide it in the darkness, to pretend it didn’t exist, to put it to death. She doesn’t have that luxury, so she has to find courage and strength instead, burying other parts of herself, the love, the compassion, the beauty, sometimes, just to survive.
Most of us, though, do have that luxury. We take the vulnerable parts of ourselves and bind them up, burying them where they can’t be seen, where we think they can’t do any harm. Because most of our vulerable parts aren’t the things that God made us to be (though some are), but are things that have happened to us. Think for a minute about yourself – what’s your last name? Is it something you cover up with false strength? Do you allow yourself to be vulnerable? Or do you hide it from everyone you can? Are you Mary-She’s-An-Alcoholic? Or John-He’s-Got-Cancer? Rita-She’s-Grieving-Her-Husband’s-Death? Ryan-His-Marriage-Is-Falling-Apart? Matt-He’s-Estranged-From-His-Gay-Daughter? Beth-She’s-Taking-Anti-Depressants? Kristin-She’s-Aging-And-Can’t-Remember-Things-Anymore?
What is it that you’ve buried? What part of yourself keeps you bound up? Can you turn that over to Jesus? After all, he has experience with death. He died, himself. And he wept at the tomb of his friend, Lazarus.
What may be startling about today’s Gospel story is that we never get to see the miracle take place. We don’t! We don’t get to actually witness Lazarus coming back to life. The miracle takes place behind the scenes, inside the cave, when we aren’t looking. Jesus simply calls into the cave, “Come out, Lazarus!” And he does. The living brother of Martha and Mary comes stumbling out. He is already alive!
Wouldn’t it have been more effective if we had gotten to see it? I mean, Jesus himself says that the purpose of all this is reveal the glory of God. Maybe it would have been a little better if it had been, I don’t know, more glorious? Imagine, Jesus mutters something about the glory of God, and then he reaches out his hands, and the air seems to crackle with power. The hairs on the backs of Peter, James, and John’s necks stand up. Then Jesus calls down lightning, and fire, and a whirlwind from heaven. And when the wind dies down, the people gathered hear a knocking coming from inside the tomb. “Roll away the stone,” Jesus says. But hot to the touch, it takes seven strong men to move it away. Mary bravely dashes in to the cave as soon as the opening is wide enough, only to emerge moments later with her living brother, tearing at the bandages wrapped across his face as the crowd cheers…
No? Well, you have to admit, it’s a more exciting story that way. But John doesn’t give us any details about the resurrection. We don’t get to see it. Why?
Because instead we get to experience the resurrection ourselves. This story isn’t really about Lazarus. It’s about our own resurrection, the resurrection of our hearts. If we saw Lazarus’ resurrection, we might not notice our own.
Jesus is deeply moved at the death of his friend, we’re told. At the sorrow of those gathered, at their failure to believe in the resurrection. But Lazarus is not Jesus’ only friend witnessing this event. Jesus is just as moved by our suffering, by our death, by our sorrow and lack of faith. And so Jesus calls us, too, out of the tomb and into the light.
Mary-She’s-An-Alcoholic, come out, unbind her, and let her go! John-He’s-Got-Cancer, come out, unbind him, and let him go! Grieving your spouse’s death? Marriage falling apart? Estranged or depressed or forgetful or whatever, whoever you are, Oh child of God, come out of the tomb, be unbound, and be let go to stand shining in the light!
Except – at first, that may not sound like such great news. We buried those parts of ourselves at first so we could get out of the light. Why would we want now to stand in it, raw and vulnerable, for the world to see?
We hid in the first place to protect ourselves. But now we can stand in the light – not because of who we are, but because of who the light is. For this light is Christ. He has been dead too. And now in Him there is life. The raw, vulnerable parts of ourselves are not just dragged, bleeding and dying into the light. They are brought back to life.
Angie is a truly beautiful woman. Her courage and faith is an inspiration to me. In her humanness, in her blackness, the richness of her cultural traditions, of the battle she’s had to wage against a hurtful world, of the person God made her to be, all this makes her beautiful. Standing in the Light of Christ, that’s who she is. It’s her name, the name poured over her in Baptism. Angie-She’s-Beautiful. Blackness and all.
And you too. You are beautiful. Your tallness or shortness, oldness or youngness, gayness or straightness, maleness or femaleness, healthiness or illness, joyness or sadness, you are beautiful. (Name)-He’s-Beautiful. (Name)-She’s Beautiful. Beautiful in Christ.
That’s not quite to say that our illnesses become beautiful. Addiction, illness, estrangement – unlike race or gender or age, these are not traits we want to have. But Christ can bring new life to these, too. Jesus can take the parts of ourselves that we find ugly and bring beauty out of them, out of our struggle with them, out of others’ love for us. In Jesus, everything is beautiful.
“Lazarus is alive,” Jesus says, “to the glory of God.” Let us go, too, that we might live with him. Amen.