Grieved

Grieved

A man named Lazarus was sick. He lived in Bethany with his sisters, Mary and Martha. This is the Mary who later poured the expensive perfume on the Lord’s feet and wiped them with her hair. Her brother, Lazarus, was sick. So the two sisters sent a message to Jesus telling him, “Lord, your dear friend is very sick.” But when Jesus heard about it he said, “Lazarus’s sickness will not end in death. No, it happened for the glory of God so that the Son of God will receive glory from this.” So although Jesus loved Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, he stayed where he was for the next two days. Finally, he said to his disciples, “Let’s go back to Judea….”

When Jesus arrived at Bethany, he was told that Lazarus had already been in his grave for four days. Bethany was only a few miles down the road from Jerusalem, and many of the people had come to console Martha and Mary in their loss. When Martha got word that Jesus was coming, she went to meet him. But Mary stayed in the house. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask.” Jesus told her, “Your brother will rise again.” “Yes,” Martha said, “he will rise when everyone else rises, at the last day.” Jesus told her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying. (John 11:1-7; 17-25)

We never know what to say at funerals, and this one was no exception. The chapel is library quiet. People acknowledge each other with soft smiles and sympathetic nods. You say nothing because, well, what can you say? There's a dead body in the room. Just last month you took the guy out for lunch and laughed over cheesy nachos. And aside from a cough, you thought he was pretty healthy. But within a week you learned of the diagnosis – the doctor gave him sixty days. He didn't even make it that long. Now you're both at his funeral. He’s in the casket, and you’re in the pew. Death has silenced you both.

The church is full, so you stand at the back. Stained glass prisms the afternoon sun, streaking faces with shafts of purple and gold. You recognize many of the attendees because Bethany’s a small town. The two women on the front pew you know very well. Martha and Mary are Lazarus’ sisters. Quiet, pensive Mary. Bustling, busy Martha who, even now, can't seem to sit still. She keeps looking over her shoulder. “Who for?” you wonder. But in a matter of moments the answer enters. And when he does, Martha rushes up the aisle to meet him. Had you not known his name, the many whispers would have informed you. "It's Jesus." Every head turns.

He's wearing a tie, though you get the impression he rarely does. His collar seems a little tight, and his jacket a bit outdated. A dozen or so men follow him – some stand in the aisle, others in the foyer. They have that well-traveled, wrinkled look to them – as if they’d ridden all night. Jesus embraces Martha and she weeps. And as she weeps, you wonder. You wonder what Jesus is going to do. You wonder what Jesus is going to say. He spoke to the winds and the demons. But death? Does he have anything to say about death?

Your thoughts are then interrupted by Martha's accusation, "Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died." (John 11:21) And you can't fault her frustration because aren’t they friends? When Jesus and his followers had nowhere else to go, "Martha welcomed them into her home." (Luke 10:38) Mary and Martha know Jesus very well, and they know Jesus loved Lazarus. "Lord," they told the courier to tell him, "your dear friend is very sick." (John 11:3)

This is no Facebook friend request. This is a friend needing help. Desperately. Interestingly, the Greek language has two principle words to express sickness: one describes the presence of a disease, the other its effects. Martha uses the latter. So a fair translation of her appeal could well read, "Lord, your dear friend is sinking fast." In other words, friends send Jesus an urgent appeal in a humble fashion, and what does he do? "He stayed where he was for the next two days." (v. 6) Wow. Some kind of friend.

By the time he finally arrives, Martha is so broken up she hardly knows what to say. With one breath she criticizes, "Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died," (v. 21) and with the next she concludes, "But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask." (v. 22) The truth is that every funeral has its Martha’s. Sprinkled among the bereaved are the bewildered. "Help me understand this one, Jesus. Please?"

Grief fogs the heart in like Cape Disappointment, Washington – foggy three and a half months out of the year. The mourner hears the waves but can’t see the water. The griever detects voices but no faces. The life of the brokenhearted becomes like a foot-watcher, walking through shopping malls or the grocery store staring at feet; methodically moving – one foot, then the other – through a misty world. Martha sat in a damp and misty world; fog-shrouded and tearful. And Jesus sat in it with her.

"I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying.” (v. 25) Hear those words in a Superman tone, if you will – like Clark Kent descending from nowhere, ripping his shirt open to reveal the “S” underneath. It’s certainly not a Savior with Terminator tenderness, bypassing the tears of Martha and Mary and, in doing so, essentially telling them and all the gathered grievers to simply get over it and trust. I just don't see the Terminator here. I don't see it that way because of what Jesus does next. He weeps. He sits on the pew between Mary and Martha, puts an arm around each of them, and sobs. Among the three, a tsunami of sorrow is stirred; a monsoon of tears is released. Tears that reduce to streaks the chalky conceptions of a cavalier Christ.

Jesus weeps. He weeps with them. He weeps for them. He weeps with you. He weeps for you. He weeps so we will know that mourning is not disbelieving. Flooded eyes don't denote a faithless heart, because a person can enter a cemetery absolutely Jesus-certain of life after death, and still have a Twin Tower crater in the heart. Christ did. He wept, and he did so despite knowing that within ten minutes he’d see a living, breathing, walking Lazarus. And Jesus’ tears give you permission to shed your own.

Grief doesn’t mean you don't trust; it simply means you can't stand the thought of another day without the Lazarus of your life. And if Jesus gave the love, then he certainly understands the tears when your love is gone. So we can grieve, but don't grieve like those who don't know the rest of this story. Jesus touches Martha's cheek, gives Mary a hug, stands, and turns to face the corpse. The casket lid is closed. He tells Martha to have it opened. She shakes her head and starts to refuse, but then pauses.

Eventually, she turns to the funeral home director. "Oh, alright. Open it," Martha says. And since you’re standing, you can see the face of Lazarus. It's waxy and white. You think Jesus is going to weep again, and you certainly didn’t expect him to speak to his friend. But he does. A few feet from the casket Jesus shouts, "Lazarus, come out!" (v. 43)

Curious. Preachers always address the living. But the dead? One thing is for sure, though. There better be a rumble in that casket, otherwise this crazy preacher yelling at the casket is going to need a straight-jacket, or some serious therapy at a minimum. But you and everyone else hear it. There’s a rumble. There’s movement in the coffin, "and the dead man came out." (v. 44)

But dead men don't do that, do they? Dead men don't come out. Dead men don't wake up. Dead hearts don't beat. Dried blood doesn't rush. Empty lungs don't inhale. No, dead men don't come out – unless they hear the voice of the Lord of life. The ears of the dead may be deaf to your voice and to mine, but not to his. Christ is "Lord of both the dead and the living." (Rom. 14:9) When Christ speaks to the dead, the dead listen. In fact, had Jesus not addressed Lazarus by name, the tenant of every tomb on the planet would have likely jumped out of their graves. So, Lazarus jolts up in the coffin, blinks his eyes, and looks around the room like someone had carted him there during a nap. A woman screams. Another faints. Everyone shouts. And you?

I don’t know, but maybe you’ve learned something from the experience. Maybe you’ve learned what to say at funerals. Maybe we’ve all learned that there’s a time to say . . . nothing. Because your words can't dispel a fog, but your presence can warm it. And your words can't give a Lazarus back to his sisters. But God's can. And it's just a matter of time before he speaks. "The Lord himself will come down from heaven with a commanding shout. . . . and all the Christians who have died will rise from their graves." (1 Thess. 4:16)

Till then, we grieve. But not like those who have no hope. And we listen. We listen for his voice. Because we know who has the final say about death. And for those who call him both Savior and Lord, the voice calls us home – forever.

Grace,

Randy