Jesus and Weep

John 11:1-45
Fifth Sunday of Lent

One of the things I’m missing today is, other than not speaking this to a congregation, is not having a liturgist to share the worship experience with.  If you’ve ever played music with someone else (join the choir when we’re done with this stuff), working with a liturgist is a low-key version of that.  There’s improvising and adapting with someone else’s style; there’s a fun kind of danger to it… well, fun for me anyway. 

If I had a liturgist this morning, this scripture reading would be a workout.  Every liturgist has their own unique style and I’m wondering today how he/she would handle it.  We have recommendations and suggestions for how to do things, but there is a theological point to be made by also leaving certain things open to the interpretation of the individual: namely, we are all unique creations of God; each with our own uniquely God-given voice; and as different voices share the leading of worship, it reminds us that we all have a voice in the worship of God.  

So it’s perfectly natural and expected that each person does it a little bit differently; in fact, it’s hard to do it “wrong”.  Some bring a casual or even a comical style to it; but some are quite a bit more serious.  Some might add a liturgical phrase to begin and end a Scripture reading; but some might not say anything at all; and still some seem to throw in an entire commentary with it.  

I had a friend who liked to almost give a Bible study before the reading; it was more than usual, but appropriately her style.  She’d set a context for the reading that gave us a depth for what we were about to hear.  But one day—and I don’t know what got into her—her commentary was nothing more than about how long the reading was; like she was somehow put-out that the pastor had asked her to read all these words.  Now, I may have been the only one who saw the humor in it, but commenting on how long the reading is, may not be pertinent to the reading itself.  I mean, except for today; today it would have been totally acceptable and to the point; today, had our liturgist introduced the reading by saying, “Buckle in, kids; we’ve got a long ride,” that would have been an entirely-acceptable way to start.  Because today it matters: today it reinforces the fact that, among these words—and there are many—two stand out as more important than the rest.  Of all these words, the two that should matter most to us are “Jesus” and “weep”.  The rest of the words are “just” about Jesus raising someone from the dead.  

Lately, we’ve heard several longer stories from the Gospel of John.  First from John 3, where Nicodemus strains to understand who Jesus is; only to find that Jesus doesn’t desire understanding, so much as he desires a relationship.  Then in chapter four we found Jesus speaking to some strange woman by a well; we found Jesus breaking all the rules of decorum and even holiness just by talking to her; but in so doing, we found Jesus embodying the love of God that reaches out for us even before we understand or deserve it.  (We took a detour last week and looked to the calling of David, because I love that story.) And today we hear a story about Jesus raising someone from the dead, and it turns out, raising-someone-from-the-dead isn’t the central point of the story.  

Click the link and read the story again.  Did you notice that all of this could have easily been avoided?  John makes this point abundantly clear: between the waiting he does after hearing Lazarus is sick, and the time it takes him to get to Bethany, Jesus is profoundly late; Lazarus will already have been in the tomb for four days by the time Jesus gets there.  And John is very clear: Jesus is not distracted or being irresponsible; he does all this on purpose.  Yep, you heard right: he lets his friend die on purpose. 

We’re coming up on “April Fool’s Day.”  Given social distancing, I suppose pranks on others is out of the question, so maybe we can just play them on ourselves.  My favorite is the one where my brain sends me into a room and then won’t tell me why I’m there.  At any rate, our story today reminds us that some practical jokes are cute and funny, and some are not; some pranks are cruel and mean.  Although, in the end, we see the point Jesus is making—that he is indeed the Resurrection and the Life—what he does to Mary and Martha (and to Lazarus, I suppose), falls solidly in that second, cruel category.  He deliberately makes a point through their grief.  That’s not nice.  If you’re going to pull a prank like that, the punch-line had better be resurrection.  

There’s a question we ask of God sometimes.  We hear it asked when Martha points out that, had Jesus come sooner, her brother would not have died.  The implied question is obvious: why did you let my brother die?  We all ask questions like that sometimes; hopefully, not very often, but we all do.  It is natural, as people of faith, in times of grief and loss, to ask of God, “Why?”  I was counseling someone recently who was in one of those times, and she had a helpful insight: she said that, as she looked back on life, God’s plan was so clear, but not always in the moment.  I would also point out that sometimes the answer is not ever very clear.  Sometimes, even in hindsight, we ask God “why” and we get no answer because there is no answer.  

But as I said, all of this could have easily been avoided: all Jesus had to do was show up on time; Lazarus would have been healed; we would still see the power of God revealed through Jesus, but without all of the tears.  And perhaps, in hindsight, there is a sub-lesson to be learned here about our tears: that in this life at least, we will still have them; even after the Resurrection, even after the promise that Jesus is the Resurrection and the Life, we will still grieve.  Grief is, at least, normal; even for those who can see past it.  

But then the strangest thing happens: “Jesus began to weep.”  Now, I know that sounds like four words, but really, it depends on your translation: many English Bibles just say, “Jesus wept.”  Although, in the Greek, if you include the definite article, it’s three words; but still, the two words that are important here are “Jesus” and “weep.”  This will always strike me as the most remarkable part of this story; even more remarkable, I’m afraid, than Jesus raising someone from the dead.  Jesus knows what he’s about to do: we’ve already seen how all of this is premeditated and orchestrated.  Why, then, is he sad?  If ever there was a time for someone to give a platitude like, “Don’t worry,” or “Everything will be okay,” or “God’s got a plan,” this is it; this is the only time that a phrase like that would be an appropriate response to someone’s grief.  But instead of jumping right to the miracle, Jesus stops and weeps with them.  

This season (and remember it’s still Lent), we remember and in stories like this, we find a glimpse both of who Jesus truly is and what he wants from us.  We already know the presence of God that is in Jesus: we know there’s a miracle coming, right?  We’ve seen it before.  As the embodiment of God among us, even death is not going to be beyond the power of Jesus.  It’s “lesson one” of what we learn at this table: that by the power of his life, given for us, we now have eternal life.  But ironically, what may not be as immediately clear to us is his humanity.  That is, until he weeps.  Here we see not only – in the raising of Lazarus – the power of God in Jesus, but also that he was one of us as he weeps with us as well.  

Again, the obvious question we might ask is, “Why did God let this happen?”  But the answer, through his tears, that Jesus gives answers a more-important question: “Where is God in this?”  The answer is, in Jesus, God is with us.  Our tears are his tears.  Our grief is his grief.  Our pain is his pain, just as his resurrection and life is our resurrection and life.  But even in the moments before calling Lazarus back to life, the thing that is more important to Jesus – even more important than the miracle – is the relationships.  And here we are reminded of the second lesson of this table: that we are called together to be his Body.  Bound together and sent by his Spirit, we are called here to be his abiding presence to one another and to the world around us.  We are indeed called to proclaim the life that we now have in him, but we also testify to his presence as we stop sometimes to weep with those who weep.  

May we continue to embody and proclaim our Risen Savior in all we do and say.