Blue Christmas - Grief, Love, Andy and Nina - John 11:1-6, 17-44

John 11:1-6, 17-44

Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, ‘Lord, he whom you love is ill.’ But when Jesus heard it, he said, ‘This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.’ Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.

When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’ Martha said to him, ‘I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.’ Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?’ She said to him, ‘Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.’

When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary, and told her privately, ‘The Teacher is here and is calling for you.’ And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. Now Jesus had not yet come to the village, but was still at the place where Martha had met him. The Jews who were with her in the house, consoling her, saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.’ When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, ‘Where have you laid him?’ They said to him, ‘Lord, come and see.’ Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, ‘See how he loved him!’ But some of them said, ‘Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?’

Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’ Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, ‘Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead for 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 upwards and said, ‘Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.’ When he had said this, he cried 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.’

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Kate Braestrup is a law enforcement chaplain in Maine, a widow, and an author of some books I’ve just added to my pile of things “TO READ.” Her website calls her a “community minister,” too, though I’m not sure what that means exactly.

Anyway, she tells the story of Nina, a 5 year-old little girl, who wants to go visit her cousin Andy, which is only noteworthy because her cousin Andy – who is 4 years old – is dead. Andy was killed instantly when an all-terrain vehicle, driven by a neighbor, rolled over on him.

And Nina wanted to visit him … dead … at the funeral home.

Of course, Nina’s parents wanted to protect her. But Nina was sure and she was certain and she was determined. So Kate Braestrup, the wise, experienced chaplain, suggested that it might just be okay…that she didn’t think it would hurt Nina more to see him. And she was right.

On the day of this last goodbye, Nina’s mother said they drove their daughter to the funeral home where Nina jumped out of the car and marched inside like a little girl on a mission. Mom and dad rushed to keep up with her and stopped to prepare her before she entered the cold room where Andy’s body lay. They reminded Nina that Andy wouldn’t be talking. They explained that Andy wouldn’t be moving or getting up. Nina understood.

And when she got into the room, she walked right up to the dais where Andy lay, covered by a quilt his mother had made, and she walked around his body, putting her hands on him, like she was checking to see that he was all there. Then she put her head on his chest and talked to him. After 10 minutes or so, of what must have been a beautiful kind of agony for her parents, they asked Nina if she was ready to go. “No,” she told them. “I’ll tell you when I am.” And then she sang Andy a song. And then she placed a plastic, Fisher Price telescope into his hand, so that he could see anyone he wanted to see from heaven. 

And when she was ready to leave, Nina explained that, since he wasn’t going to be getting up, she needed to tuck him in. So she did. She walked all the way around the table again and tucked the quilt beneath him as she went. Finally, she put her hands on him and she said, “I love you Andy Dandy. Goodbye.”
 
The chaplain tells Nina’s story – with her family’s blessing and permission – so people will know that we can trust human beings with grief. As she puts it, we should “…walk fearlessly into the house of mourning, for grief is just love squaring up to its oldest enemy. And after all these mortal human years, love is up to the challenge.”

I haven’t heard a more beautiful, hope-filled thing in quite some time. “Walk fearlessly in the house of mourning, for grief is just love squaring up to its oldest enemy. And after all these mortal years, love is up to the challenge.”

Now, remember with me that Gospel story we heard a moment ago… For a long time now, I have read and heard and preached about Jesus back in Bethany, with Mary and Martha, confronting the death of Lazarus, as just a way to show the power of God in the face of death. I think that’s something like what Jesus meant when he told people “This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory.” And I’m sure I’ve even acknowledged, too, the power and humanity of Jesus’ grief at the death of his friend. The Jews who saw Jesus were impressed by his tears and weeping and at how “greatly disturbed” he was to have lost his friend.

But when I heard Nina’s story – and with Christmas on the way – I wonder if Jesus’ mission that day in Bethany, wasn’t something like the mission of that little girl, whether she knew what she was doing or not. I wonder if the glory of God that was revealed through Lazarus’ death and in Jesus’ visit to him was as much about his grief as it was about his power to raise him from the dead. Together, the message is the same as Nina’s. And it is the message and comfort and hope of Christmas, too.

Grief is just love, squaring up to its oldest enemy …

and after all these mortal years, love is up to the challenge.

“… Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is not arrogant or boastful or rude. Love believes all things, bears all things, endures all things, hopes all things….”

I never know what brings each of us here on a night like tonight. Maybe it’s the grief of death and dying. Maybe it’s the loss of a job. Maybe it’s the frustration of addiction, a broken relationship, a recent diagnosis, a financial crisis, a struggling faith, an uncertain future. I hope some of you are here simply to stand beside and pray with and love others who need some help squaring up against their own grief.

Whatever the case, the invitation of Christmas is that each of us can walk fearlessly – or with less fear and anxiety perhaps, on our good days – into our mourning and sadness and fear when it comes. And I think our odds of doing that are better if we remember that grief (and whatever comes with it) is the depth of our love squaring up against its oldest enemy.

Grief is 5 year-old Nina walking into the funeral home to let her love for her cousin sing more beautifully than the power of his death.

Grief is Jesus making his way to Bethany, to let his love for Lazarus speak more loudly than his dying.

And it is God, born in the flesh – it is heaven come to earth – it is love come down – to square up against its oldest enemy: death and whatever fear and sadness and grief it brings.

And the Good News of Christmas – our hope in these days – is to remember that love wins … that “after all these mortal years” the love of God in Jesus, when it squares up against whatever grieves or scares or unsettles us most, is always… always… always up to the challenge.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

Jane and John the Baptist – Mark 1:1-8

Mark 1:1-8

"The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.

As it is written in the prophet Isaiah,

“See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you,
    who will prepare your way;
the voice of one crying out in the wilderness:
    ‘Prepare the way of the Lord,
    make his paths straight,’”

John the baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him, and were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. Now John was clothed with camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist, and he ate locusts and wild honey. He proclaimed, “The one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to stoop down and untie the thong of his sandals. I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.'”

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I had some time to kill last Sunday night, between a cancelled meeting and an 8th grade basketball game, so I was working on some things at the Panera up in Castleton. I was scouring YouTube, actually, trying to find the movie clip from Home Alone for last Wednesday night’s midweek worship service. So I had my headphones on and was staring at my computer when I sensed a commotion somewhere behind me. It was one of those things I felt, in a strange way, before I noticeable saw or heard anything. There was a strange kind of emotion and awkward tension in the room.

And then I saw that the handful of people at the tables in front of me were all looking in the same direction, so I did too. But it was awkward and uncomfortable, because there was an obviously upset, unsettled woman in disheveled clothing with some belongings in a few plastic grocery bags. She was talking loudly enough that now I could hear her, even through my headphones. She was complaining – out-loud to herself and to whoever would listen – about something unfair that had happened at the counter, and apparently at a local Starbuck’s and Dairy Queen, too.

It doesn’t matter what she was complaining about. She was obviously mentally ill. And I felt bad for the restaurant manager who had to ask her to please be quiet, and then when she wouldn’t – or couldn’t, I would say, calm down – felt compelled to ask her to leave, which I also understand, I think. And the woman left, yammering on as she gathered her things and walked out the door.

But as she went, other customers laughed – to themselves and at her. They rolled their eyes and they shook their heads. The woman… who I’ll call Jane… stopped to say hello to some strangers at one table where another woman told her she was being obnoxious and that she should just leave.

None of it sat well with me. And it made me think about John the Baptist, in some ways that might need some explanation.

See, when I think about John the Baptist – this guy, crying out in the wilderness, eating locusts and wild honey, dressed in camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist – I kind of think he might not be all that welcome at the Panera on 82nd Street. I’m not suggesting that this woman at Panera was a prophet or that John was mentally ill – there’s no reason to suggest that. But do I think his personality and his prophesies were enough to drive him out into the wilderness – to the outskirts of town – under the bridge, maybe – to the other side of the tracks, perhaps – away from the powers-that-be, if you will – beyond the presence of polite company.

And so what’s surprising and impressive, to me, about John’s story is that all those people were drawn to him, anyway. “People from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem,” the gospel tells us, were driven out into the wilderness to be baptized by some guy named John… in the river… repenting and seeking the forgiveness he promised. Can you imagine?

In order to imagine it, it helps to know a little more about what he was promising and proclaiming in the first place. See, John the Baptist was preaching the words of the prophet Isaiah, which so many Jews in his day would have recognized as the ancient promises of God for their ancestors way back in the days of their exile in Babylon. They were a lost people, then. Refugees. Strangers in a strange land. They had been taken from their homeland. They had been separated from their families and their friends. Their identity as a people – their identity as God’s chosen people – had been threatened, if not stolen from them, in many ways.

And this would have resonated with the people in the days of John the Baptist. They weren’t in exile any longer, in the same way at least. But they were under a different sort of occupation, at the hands of the Roman Empire. And, more importantly, perhaps, they were as spiritually lost as any of God’s children have been … before or since. So John the Baptist’s words spoke to them about the deep and abiding need we all have as people on the planet for something new and better for our lives that we can’t accomplish on our own.

John was promising comfort and restoration. He was calling for repentance and letting them know how to find forgiveness. He was hoping and anticipating – just like the prophet Isaiah had – that something new, someONE new was on the way who could change everything. He was speaking to a hunger that people were open and honest and humble and in need enough to recognize in themselves.

And this is why John the Baptist reminded me of what happened – or didn’t happen – with Jane, at Panera last Sunday night.

People sat and watched, from a distance. People stared and laughed. People shook their heads and wagged their proverbial fingers. People, in their comfort and privilege; in their clean clothes and with their full bellies; in their self-righteousness and in their blindness couldn’t see or find compassion enough to acknowledge that this woman was simply ill. I don’t mean to psychoanalyze a bunch of strangers I’ve never talked with, but it seemed clear to me that everyone in that restaurant was missing something: this woman was as needy as the rest of us, just in a different, more obvious sort of way.

And I think we forget or deny just how in need we are of God’s good grace and abiding love in our lives. And I think we forget or deny that that need simply shows up for each of us in different ways. And I believe, for most of us here a lot of the time – and for those of us at Panera last Sunday – our abundance and comfort; our safety and stability lull us into a complacency, at the very least, or into a spirit of self-righteous judgment and neglect at the other end of the spectrum. And when this happens, we can’t see – or we forget to look for – the need that surrounds us out there in the world and the need we all have for God to come among us; to come for us; and to come through us, for the sake of the world.

As I sat in Panera Sunday night and watched that poor, sad, lonely woman get the boot, all eyes in the place unapologetically watched her make her long walk of shame on the other side of the plate glass windows that run from one end of the restaurant to the other. It was a long walk, indeed. At least one table of adults – grown-up people! – snickered and pointed and shook their heads one last time, as her scarf slipped off her shoulder and landed on the sidewalk, behind her. She was too busy still talking to herself, whispering into the wind, and wrestling with her grocery bags to notice. For a moment, I felt like she just might have been the loneliest woman in the world.

It took me a few minutes – and longer than it should have, I’m embarrassed to say – but I believe what made me pull out my headphones, pack up my computer, and pick up that ratty, tattered, dirty and stinky scarf and return it to that lady up the road a ways was the same thing that drove all those people out into the wilderness to listen to and to believe in and to be changed by the wild rantings of John the Baptist.

The realization for me – and John’s invitation for all of us, I believe – is that we are all lost and in need. We are all refugees, in some way: lost to our sinfulness... in need of repentance and forgiveness… starving for salvation and redemption, even if we can’t feel the hunger pangs.

And it’s why we need John the Baptist to call us out of ourselves and into the wilderness. It’s why we need someone like Jane, at Panera, to remind us – if we’ll pay attention – about the need that surrounds us in the world. It’s why we wait for Jesus to fill that need in our own lives – whatever it is – and why we work to muster the faith to let God, in Jesus, do something to transform it – for us and for the sake of the world.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.