It was my brother, Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the dead.

          Jesus had been to our home in Bethany many times.

                   He was a good friend to all three of us –

                             Lazarus, our sister Mary, and myself.

                   We knew him as a kind and gentle friend who had great power

                             for healing:  healing bodies, spirits, relationships.

 

So of course when Lazarus became so ill, Mary and I sent word to Jesus.

          We knew that his life had been threatened in Jerusalem,

                   and we were only two miles from Jerusalem,

                             so it could be dangerous for him to come to us.

          But Mary and I never questioned that he would come;

                   Jesus would find some way to help Lazarus!

 

But we had just sent that message when Lazarus died.

          Jesus could have prevented our brother’s death, if he’d been there.

                   But we still felt if only he could come,

                             everything would somehow be set right.

 

Mary spent most of her time in those long days “sitting Shiva” –

          our Jewish term for mourning – for Lazarus.

                   That meant she sat in the house on a low, three-legged stool,

                             and our friends and neighbors came and sat with her;

                                      they brought food with them, as is our custom,

                                                so I didn’t really have much to do.

 

I’ve always had trouble sitting still,

          so many times each day I’d leave the house

                   and walk down the road which Jesus would have to take.

          I’d pace up and down in front of the house,

                   fretting that the message hadn’t reached him

                             or that something had happened to him on the way,

                                      and then I’d walk a ways down the road,

                                                straining my eyes for a glimpse of Jesus.

 

Mary, though she was always much better than I at sitting still,

          would several times a day leave the house and walk to Lazarus’ tomb.

                   She felt closer to him there, and she’d weep.

And then, on the fourth day after Lazarus’ death,

          as I walked along the road, finally I saw him:

                   Jesus was coming!

 

I wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him how glad I was to see him,

          and perhaps give in to the tears I hadn’t yet been able to shed.

But instead the words that came out sounded like a reproach:

          “Lord, if you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died!”

                   I didn’t mean it the way it sounded … I just had so much faith

                             in Jesus’ ability to do something.

 

So I added, “And even now I know that whatever you ask from God,

          God will give you.”

                   I was remembering God’s raising of Israel

                             when it appeared they were beyond help…

 

Jesus’ first words to me that day were the usual words of consolation:

          “Your brother will rise again.”

                   This was such a common thing to say that in our dialect

                             the word “consolation” also had the meaning “resurrection.”

 

I replied with the common answer of those who believed with the Pharisees

          that the dead would rise on the last day.

                   But then Jesus said “I am the resurrection and the life”!

 

In that moment I saw him not just as our friend Jesus,

          the wise teacher, but as the Christ.

                   I said, “I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God,

                             he who is coming into the world.”

                                      Suddenly I knew that because he was here,

                                                the new age had already begun!

 

Now, you’ve read John’s account of what happened that day:

          that even though Lazarus had already been dead and buried for four days

                   and his body should have begun decomposing in the Palestinian heat,

                             and the rabbis agreed that a person’s sould hung around

                                      only three days hoping to be reunited with the body,

                                                and should have departed forever.

 

Jesus had them roll away the stone, and he called, “Lazarus!  Come out!”

          as if he were saying “Lazarus!  THIS WAY OUT!”

                   and – my brother came out of the tomb!

 

Never had anyone ever come out of the grave alive.

          Surely this was the power of God!

                   But as wondrous as that was, I wondered as much at this:

                             Not only was Jesus full of the power of God,

                                      he was also full of himself,

                                                full of his own humanity.

 

When he spoke with me, his emotions were under control, as mine were.

          But when he saw Mary, and when Mary wept,

                   Jesus burst into tears!

 

This wasn’t the loud, keenig wail of the professional mourner,

          but a quiet cloudburst of weeping

                   that comes only from the depths of the soul.

                             He was moved by Mary’s grief.

                             He may also have been thinking of calling Lazarus back

                                      from the glories of the kin-dom of heaven

                                                to the sorrows of human life. 

                             He may have been thinking of the sin

                                      that had caused death to be a part of life;

                             and maybe he was thinking of his own death,

                                      which he knew was near.

 

Three times he was greatly moved:

          when he first saw Mary, and she wept,

                   our friends and neighbors weeping with her;

          when they said to him “Lord, come and see” – and

          when he came to the tomb.

 

When they said “Lord, come and see”

          I don’t know whether they realized they were echoing his own words,

                   his call to discipleship:  “Come and see.”

 

For me, that day showed me Jesus as the Christ,

          as Son of God and as divine himself,         

                   in all the power of God over death.

                             But that day also showed me Jesus

                                      as deeply and wonderfully human,

                                                weeping for us and with us.

 

Jesus had told us so many times that he had come

          to show us how God is …

 

To think that whenever a woman is in travail with her child groaning to be born,

          God doesn’t look on her and see human weakness causing her pain,

                   but God actually feels the pain with her –

                             that’s close to what I knew in my heart that day.

 

To think that whenever a man must stand by

          and watch his beloved wife dying by inches,

                   and him unable to do anything to help beyond holding her hand

                             and crooning his love to her,

          God doesn’t look on him with scorn at the human condition,

                   but God feels the frustration and the helplessness

                             and the vulnerability that the man feels.

                                      And God feels, also, the pain of the dying one.

 

I don’t think I could bear a God who is unmoved

          by the events that shake my world.

                   I never could understand those people who could rejoice

                             at a God who couldn’t cry.

 

When I remember the great emptiness I felt inside when Lawarus died,

          when I remember those great, aching, seemingly endless tears of Mary’s,

                   it comforts me to remember that Jesus wept –

                             for Lazarus, for Mary, for me –

                                      for all of us.

 

                                                Even for you.                   Amen.