Lent 5 A, 2017
St. John’s Lutheran, Phoenixville
April 2, 2017
John 11: 1-44
So the sisters sent a message to Jesus…. John 11: 3
Another death. This one could have been prevented. All Jesus needed to do was show up on time. There was tragedy in it for Lazarus was a young man, probably in his mid-thirties, stuck down in the prime of his life. This was not like the death of Ken Wickstrom whose memorial service was held here on Friday. His was a long life, well-lived and our worship reflected that – there was sadness, sure, but mostly thanksgiving for everything God gave the world and especially us through Ken. We sang the hymns Ken loved, all joyful ones. We told stories and shared memories, even laughed. Our hearts were full of thanksgiving for the knowing of this man. That was not happening in Bethany. The only songs were the shrill shrieks of sorrow. The only story was of lost and forsakenness. The memories were clouded and dimmed by the numbness of grief. His sisters were heartbroken.
No wonder when Jesus finally shows up, the first words out of both of their mouths were “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died.” They’d sent word to him in plenty of time – telling him that his best friend, the one he loved, was ill and in need of Jesus the healer to come and pray and heal him as he had so many others. Others who were strangers, not friends. I have to admire Martha. She kept herself busy in the kitchen when Jesus’ visited their home, while Mary sat at his feet to learn, but she obviously overhead enough to know that Jesus was deeply connected to God and that her brother would rise on the last day. She’s half-way there in understanding and so when he declares, “I am the resurrection and the life,” she believes and makes a declaration herself, “You are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.” Meanwhile Mary falls at his feet, weeping.
I have to confess that I am a tad frustrated with Jesus at this point. Word was sent. He’s too late to do anything. His friends are bereft. And he doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t comfort them and wipe away their tears. He doesn’t even hand them a tissue so they can blow their noses. I just want to shake him or at least send him back to seminary for continuing education. Yet over the years, whenever I find myself getting snarky with Jesus, you know telling him how I think he ought to be conducting his ministry, I’ve learned that something deeper and more profound is at work. So what is it?
It took a business management book called Good to Great by Jim Collins to help me understand. In it he tells story of Admiral Jim Stockdale who was the highest-ranking US military office in the “Hanoi Hilton” prisoner-of-war camp during the height of the Vietnam War. Tortured over twenty times during his eight-year imprisonment, Stockdale lived out the war without any prisoner’s rights, no set release date and no certainty that he would survive to see his family again. Yet he did everything he could to create conditions that would increase the number of prisoners who would survive. He foiled attempts to use the prisoners for propaganda, set up rules to deal with torture and instituted an elaborate internal communication system among them. When Collins asked how he survived, Stockdale told him, “I never lost faith in the end of the story.” Then he questioned, “Who didn’t make it out?” Stockdale relied, “The optimists.” “I don’t understand,” Collins responded. “The optimists. They were the ones who said, ‘We’re going to be out by Christmas.” And Christmas would come and Christmas would go. Then they’d say, ‘We’re going to be out by Easter.’ And Easter would come and Easter would go. And then by Thanksgiving, and then it would be Christmas again. And they died of a broken heart.” The Admiral paused and concluded, “This is a very important lesson. You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end – which you can never afford to lose – with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they may be.”[i]
The most brutal fact of Jesus’ current reality went beyond grief for Lazarus, which he keenly felt, for he wept at the tomb of his best friend. But the brutal fact which Jesus faces is more than that – it is death itself. Death, not only of Lazarus, but of everyone including his own death on the cross. So instead of comforting the grieving, Jesus confronts death in all its ghastly and smelly reality. He will not be deterred, not even by Martha’s protests that there will be a stench, but persists, calling out in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” And then when the dead man exits the tomb, he instructs the mourners, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
Strangely, while many of those who were there grieving now believed, when the religious leaders hear of it, they decide to put Jesus to death. And they do. A meeting of the council is called and rather than believing in this life-giving Messiah, they become lost in fear. They worry that a man performing such signs will cause the Roman occupiers to destroy temple and nation. They plot for his arrest, trial and crucifixion and in doing so put God to death.
Oh, we have too. Faced with miracles, we explain them away. Even this one about Lazarus. Sure, he’s resuscitated, but he’s going to die again. What difference does it make if it’s now or later? Bound by the chains of our limited world view, we restrict our notions of who is in charge and what is going on in the world. Sure, Lazarus is alive, but that was a long time ago in a place far away. No wonder Jesus shouts, “Lazarus come out.” It’s a shout that echoes down into the streets of Jerusalem, over to a hill far away where an old rugged cross stands. Through the ages, we hear it too, we who are caught in our own tombs of fear so often refusing the face the brutal reality that lays before us — that on our own, we are dead and smelly, that by ourselves, we have no hope at all.
“Come out,” Jesus shouts at us. He resuscitates us. That’s why we’re here to sing the hymns, to hear the Word, to share peace, to keep strong in a world that is forever trying to lock us up in tombs. But more than that, he offers us faith that in the end, the ultimate end, he prevails. Baptized into his death and resurrection, so do we. This is more than optimistic, wishful thing, it’s life in all its fullness, life now and forevermore.
It can be frightening to be so alive, so free. A friend of mine who was given new life by God through AA, once told me that becoming sober was just the first step. Yes, it was an important, significant step, without which there was no life, only addiction. But for him it wasn’t the most difficult one. He said, “What to do with the new life, that’s the problem. When you’re drinking, you don’t have to think about what to do. The bottle tells you every move to make. When you get sober, get your life back, well, that can be frightening.” I asked, “Do you ever long for your old life?” “Hell no,” he said, “I’m free.”
We’re free! Our Lord Jesus doesn’t want anyone to be locked up in a tomb, even in ones we have learned to accept and call home. He weeps because he thinks it’s a shame that anyone dies before he or she really lives. And so, he shouts with a voice loud enough to wake the dead, “Come out! Unbind him! Let her go!” So that by God’s grace, we may prevail and live free! Amen.
Pastor Cynthia Krommes
[i] Jim Collins, Good to Great, Harper Business, 2001, 83-85.