John 11:32-44
When Mary came to Jesus and saw him she said to him, “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping and the other Jews with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said to them, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not the one who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”
Then Jesus came to the tomb. It was a cave with a stone lying against it. Jesus said to them, “Take away the stone.” But Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone.
And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I know that you always hear me, but I’ve said this for the sake of those standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” When he had said this, he cried out with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
Death and dying have been hanging heavy on my mind lately – and I know that’s true for many of you, too. We had Steve Ellenberger’s celebration of life last Saturday. I had another funeral last Sunday afternoon, for the father of a college friend, down in Southport. We’re getting ready to do the same for Dick Bowen this weekend. On Monday night, our Stephen Ministers did some “continuing education” about what it means to pre-plan your funeral – a session we scheduled months ago. And Wednesday, a group of us wrapped up a seven-week conversation about what it means to die well – to approach, and even embrace, the gravity of getting old … and the nearness and certainty of our own demise.
All of these things, each in their own way, were pointing me toward what we’re up to on this high, holy, festival we call “All Saints Sunday” in the Church. We’ve already read our names and tolled our bells toward that end. We’ve been reminded about the power of baptism and we will receive the power and blessing of Holy Communion, in light of it all, too – as we should.
But the catch to all of this, of course… the thing that sometimes gets lost in the mix, or glossed over, or denied by the rose-colored glasses of Sunday morning worship; by the bright lights and the white paraments; by the pretty flowers and the rousing music of it all… is that in order to be the kind of saint we’re commemorating and celebrating… in order to become the kind of saints we’re remembering and honoring this morning… a person first has to be dead.
And Jesus reminds us this morning, with the help of Mary and Martha and their brother Lazarus, that death and mortality are sad, scary, messy, and mystifying parts of life in this world. But part of life, nonetheless.
Even Jesus weeps in this bit of John’s Gospel as he makes his way to his friend’s tomb, and when we find him there this morning, he’s still “greatly disturbed,” even though, presumably, he knew what he was going to try to do for Lazarus. And Martha and her sister Mary are so distraught over their brother’s dying, that they have the nerve to blame Jesus for not coming to the rescue sooner.
But Jesus does come. And he’s not afraid of what awaits him there: the mourning of the sisters; the sadness of the crowds; his own deep grief; the improbability of the task before him; the grave clothes; the large stone; the stench of a four-day-old corpse in the Judean heat.
So, I feel like I’m being invited, again this morning – in the light of recent events and on this All Saints Sunday – to get up close and personal with death and mortality – mine, yours, ours – in another new, holy kind of way.
And I think we honor those who’ve gone before us – whose deaths we commemorate, whose lives we celebrate, and whose love we remember – when we open ourselves to connecting the dots between their living and dying and our own more deliberately.
That seven-week class that just ended – the one about the grace and gravity of getting old – was based on a book by Parker Palmer, called On the Brink of Everything. (Some in our group thought that the title was the best thing about the book, so take my recommendation with a grain of salt!)
But, “On the Brink of Everything?” I am captivated and encouraged and inspired by that hopeful perspective about dying and by what it means to inch closer and closer to death and to whatever waits for us on the other side of this life – and to do it deliberately, intentionally, and with your heart and mind and life wide open to God’s possibilities.
And what Jesus does this morning, in a way I thought about differently this time because of it, is he shows us how thin the veil is between this life and the next when he’s part of the mix – and I don’t just mean the “veil” of that stinky cloth that was wrapped around Lazarus head when we stepped out of his tomb.
No, what speaks now to me about all of this is what it means to live with one foot firmly and faithfully planted in life as we know it, on this side of Heaven, and another foot poised and ready to land safely, securely, and fearlessly on the other side of Heaven, whenever that time comes.
And Jesus’ little stunt with Lazarus gives me hope to remember that there are saints on both sides of it all. And it challenges me to remember that I’m called to be one of them – here and now, whenever and wherever and however I can muster it – just as surely as I hope to join saints like Steve Ellenberger and Dick Bowen and all the rest, on the other side of God’s eternity, too.
For some reason, I’ve found myself recounting for a couple of people lately, something my dad’s heart surgeon told me, my brother, and my mom, while my dad was still in the ICU following his second open-heart surgery, more than 20 years ago. After recounting all of the ways my dad was going to have to continue changing or maintaining his lifestyle as a heart patient – eating this, not eating that, exercising, monitoring his stress, and so on – the doctor said, “BUT, it’s also important to remember that the point of living is not NOT to die.”
“The point of living is not NOT to die.”
And that’s great, practical advice when it comes to having a steak or a drink or a cigar every once in a blue moon. But it’s also great, practical, solid spiritual advice, too, if you ask me. “The point of living is not NOT to die.”
I believe when we live our lives pretending or denying or keeping our distance from death – as we are so often inclined to do – it is that much harder to face, or digest, or journey through it in healthy, faithful ways when death comes – for us, for someone we love, or when it shows up in the world around us.
And I believe keeping our distance from death keeps us from living as fully and as faithfully as we should, could, would, or want to be living, if we truly considered what it means to be “on the brink of everything” – on the verge of God’s heavenly, holy ground, more often.
So, I wonder, what if we saw ourselves and others – more readily – as saints already, on this side of heaven, not just the next?
What if we saw all that we experience in this life – the beautiful and the bland, the joy and the sadness, the hopeful and the despairing – as holy stepping stones on a pathway to the brink of God’s great eternity?
What if we lived more acutely aware and accepting of the notion that a sacred, holy communion of saints surrounds us – right where we live, as we make our way through life in this world?
What if we stopped pretending that death was this untouchable thing to be avoided at all costs – that we could or should live forever and always, even though we know that’s not possible and was never the plan?
What if we lived like God’s Kingdom was closer, nearby, within and around – not only in the communion of saints who’ve gone on to glory – but close, nearby, within and around those of us who are called to be saints here and now, just the same?
I think it would impact how we give, how we serve, how we forgive, how we live, and how we die, too.
Because Jesus shows up – if we’re paying attention, and reminds us – like he proved to Lazarus, and like he reminded Martha – that if we believe … if we keep our eyes open … if we invite the presence of God’s grace to live among us – we will see the glory of God in this life, in ways that fill us with hope – now, and for whatever’s yet to come.
Amen
