Not for death, but for the glory of God—thoughts on the Gospel for 5th Sunday of Lent

 

“This Illness is not to end in death, but is for the glory of God,

that the Son of God might be glorified through it.” –John 11:4

 

This Sunday’s Gospel is a lengthy section John 11, telling the story of the raising of Lazarus from the dead. There are so many elements in this story worth our contemplation.  The resurrection of Lazarus, coming out of the tomb still bound in burial cloths. What a striking image. Mary and Martha, the sisters of Lazarus are models of faith and prayer, service and contemplation. The fact that Jesus waits 2 days before he responds to their plea is certainly something worth our attention.  What does that mean? Why would He do that? And there is, of course, Martha’s own confusion about the behavior of Jesus: 

 

“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died…”  (cf. John 11:21)

 

How many times have we all felt that way? Asked almost that very same question: Where were you God, when my father died? Why weren’t you there to protect my husband, my wife, my child,  from cancer? From that car accident? From depression? From temptation? From all harm??

 

This chapter is so rich, in fact the readings for these past three Sundays have been so very rich; such fruitful food for prayer.  But, for me there was that strange and wonderful word from Jesus that comes early in the chapter:

 

“This illness is not to end in death, but is for the glory of God…”

 

And yet, Lazarus is sick, and Lazarus does die. His sisters and friends begin the process of mourning and burial for him.  They are not spared that suffering.  They must still endure it.  His death is real. Their grieving is real.  The suffering is real—and yet… there is something more: the glorification of Jesus that arrives somehow within the suffering, the grieving.

 

There are two things I am pondering about this reading today;

 

First, there is the reality of that suffering; the sorrow and mourning of Martha, Mary and their friends, as well as the actual suffering of Lazarus (unto death).  The fact that we have faith, or that we might offer up our suffering, does not in any sense diminish the pain.  It still hurts, still makes us question, challenges our faith and our heart and our soul—and may even cripple our bodies.  Being a “Christian” doesn’t spare you any of that human suffering; though it may give you comfort, it won’t take away the sting.

 

Second, that idea of Lazarus’s death being for the glory of God, and the glorification of Jesus.  That—I think—is what I am trying to get at when I talk of the value of need.  In this story Lazarus is facing the ultimate question, the ultimate insufficiency: death.  Lazarus cannot control death, he can’t work his way around it. Can’t, pull up his bootstraps and defeat it with gumption and positive thinking.  Like every single one of us, he is insufficient to that task.  And hence, his sisters calling out to Jesus for help.  They need help.  They cannot do this on their own. Their vulnerability overwhelms them.  And what does this vulnerability, this need do to their community?  It draws people to them. Friends, family, neighbors, come to offer comfort, to offer consolation, to share the burden of this suffering with Mary and Martha. They come to give of themselves, they leave the comfort and security of their own homes and lives and travel to be with Martha and Mary in their time of need.  And—in some small way—this self-giving, this coming together as community, this sharing of a burden, this entering into another person’s need, is a reflection of (or participation in) God’s love, God’s mercy, God’s compassion—God’s glory.  

 

And then, on a whole other level, there is Jesus coming to them, entering into their suffering, their need, and calling out of it life itself.  When Jesus calls Lazarus from the tomb, restores him back to life, He reveals something new about Himself to the people watching, even to His apostles standing nearby. He reveals to them His glory—the glory that shines from the very source of life itself: the Father.  But to us, today, who have heard this gospel reading all our lives, who have become overly familiar with the names and the events and just want mass to end so we can go get our coffee and doughnuts, what is Jesus revealing to us? 

 

I think it is Irenaeus who said: The glory of God is a person fully alive…

 

Jesus is glorified by restoring Lazarus to life, but He does this by entering into the sorrow and suffering of Mary and Martha and the mourners; by going to them, toward their need.  And He reveals the fullness of His glory by walking toward the cross, into his own suffering and passion and death—in order to meet us in our sorrow, our suffering, our need for salvation.

 

Walking away from church this morning, I was humbled by the power and mystery of this story, and by the question: How do I follow in His footsteps, unless I am willing to turn my face toward Calvary and walk always toward the cross?

 

Last, let me also say: finding a spiritual value in our insufficiency does not mean that we simply give in to any weakness or that we celebrate a weakness.  An addict or alcoholic may need their drug in order to avoid the pain of withdrawal; but real as that need may be, it does not mean that the best way to help them is to buy them a bottle of gin. A husband may say he needs his wife, but that doesn’t mean she must submit to him.  Helping others, entering into their vulnerability and need, does not mean becoming a doormat or enduring physical abuse.  It does not mean that we feed the addiction or sin of another. But it might look like sitting in silence with someone in their time of crisis, holding their hand, and wishing we could do more but knowing this is all we have to give.  There is a blessed humility in that as well. And God’s glory is revealed there, too.

 

Humbling ourselves, and truly entering into the suffering of another will often be uncomfortable, it will stretch our patience, our love, our faith even.  Like giving birth, it could even be painful at times, but it should always call us to come forth out of the tomb and into the light, where we can reflect the glory of God by becoming vulnerable and fully alive.

 

Meditation for Holy Saturday 2019 (the empty sanctuary and the empty tomb)

“Until I went into the sanctuaries of the gods

and understood what was to become of them.”

--Psalm 73:17

Where are the sanctuaries of my gods?  In this psalm, one of the themes the psalmist sings of is the fate of false gods and those who follow them. And it isn’t until he ventures into the sanctuaries of these “gods,” that he realizes what becomes of them.  It isn’t until we look into the sanctuaries of our gods that we realize what will be come of them, what will become of us.

What are the sanctuaries of my gods? The little sacred places that I have made for my own personal gods: sex and pleasure, fame and honor, praise and success.  My “gods” are held high in sanctuaries of loneliness, emptiness and desire; gilded sanctuaries of longing and self-pity; but what will become of them?  What will become of my gods?

In this Easter time, I must realize that they –even my sanctuaries—will be shattered, broken in two, their sacred veils torn from top to bottom, the very rock of their foundation will crumble and disappear like dust.  And there is nothing to be done about it. From dust they came, and to dust they will return. There is nothing to be done but go to the tomb (the real sanctuary of all such gods) and find it empty –and be glad. Our personal gods are empty vessels. The tomb is where such emptiness belongs.

Put away your childish things, your personal gods, your brokenness, your emptiness, and turn away from the tomb; the true sanctuary of all such gods.  Turn away the tomb and see the true God standing there waiting for you.

Be not afraid.

He has risen.  He has risen indeed.

An Easter meditation on funerals and empty tombs

“…weakness is sown, strength rises up…”

1 Corinthians 15:43b

 

I went to a funeral Saturday.  Often when I tell someone I am going to a funeral they will say how sorry they are.  But –I have to say—I’m never sorry to be going.  Though I am often sad for the loss of a friend or for the family who mourns a loved one, I am almost always touched by a kind of lightness of spirit when I am dressing for a funeral. Something about it, lifts me up –oddly enough. 

This funeral was for a friend: Norma.  A widow in her 80s, she was a woman filled with life.  She had been married and had several children, yes, but more than that, Norma was a life-bearer. She brought life with her wherever she went; into whatever room, or situation she entered there walked a breath of life, an exuberance that felt contagious.

I did not know Norma particularly well, but I truly considered her a friend. We first met when I brought Holy Communion to her homebound husband.  Her husband (Ernesto) had suffered a stroke and needed almost constant care at that point.  Their home was one of the first houses I visited when I began working in that ministry.  I remember going to the door and feeling nervous about entering someone’s home, their privacy, and about what I would do or say,,, But I needn’t have worried. Norma welcomed me in and treated me like I was a dear friend.  She wanted to know about my family and when she found out I had three daughters, she was eager for me to bring them to visit her some time.  It was close to Christmas and she had decorated her house with her collection of Santas and wanted me to bring the girls to see them.  I left her home touched by her kindness, her warmth, her generosity of spirit and feeling like we were friends. 

After her husband died, I didn’t visit the house any longer, but I would see Norma at church or occasionally at a local concert (we apparently had a shared interest in baroque music). Wherever we would run into each other, she would make a point of giving me a hug and asking me again about the girls.  When my wife was with me, Norma’s joy and exuberance would overflow to her as well. (And though she may have treated everyone this way, she made each of us feel special.)  At some point Norma even began calling my wife on her birthday every year.  And I have to say, the first time it happened was pretty strange.  I (of course) assumed Norma was calling me, because she was my friend...  Last year (I think) she was on vacation in Colorado with her family, but still called with birthday wishes.  For me, that is Norma: oddly, delightfully, joyfully generous and caring.  And so, to go to her funeral was not a duty or an obligation–but a pleasure. There was nowhere else on earth I would have rather been that morning. 

When I learned of her death, I prayed the Office of the Dead and as I was reading it, I stumbled upon those words from Paul:

“…weakness is sown, strength rises up…”

And I thought for a moment not of Norma but of her husband.  Wondering what his stroke had done to their marriage, to the life they had planned, and wondering about the life that unexpected and life altering change had forced upon them… What had it done to Norma?

Had she always been so kind? So generous? So full of life? I don’t know.  But I do know this: clearly it had not driven the life out of her. It had not embittered her, or devastated her in the way that we see depicted so often in books and movies. 

            During the homily, I was struck by the aptness of Norma’s death coming in the Easter season.  Looking around at the people near me, I could see that some were very uncomfortable; uncertain what to do, where to look, when to stand or kneel, and also uncomfortable with the fact of death –I imagine. The looks on their faces made it clear they would rather have been somewhere else. But, that’s the point. We come, despite what we would rather be doing. We come to stand (or sit, or kneel) and gaze into the great tomb that we all face –death. And part of what makes a funeral so uncomfortable is the not knowing. We all sit there, praying, hoping, trusting even –but often (maybe most of the time) not really certain… Is that it? A coffin and some incense and a few prayers… And then what? Coffee and sandwiches in the church reception center?

           

“What is sown is perishable, but what is raised is imperishable;

what is sown is contemptable but what is raised is glorious…” (cf.15:42-43)

We sow our weakness, our imperfection, our brokenness; we plant it in the earth that is our life, in the day to day of living, and from this broken, imperfect, weakness, God raises up something imperishable, glorious, strong.  But in our weakness and fear and anxiety and imperfection we wonder: does is really work that way? Or is it just some words on a page?  Is it just magical thinking, as some people say? 

Maybe we can’t know for certain, we can’t find concrete proof, but we have an example.  Our Lord was quite literally sown in weakness at conception.  He became flesh, submitting Himself to the care of a human mother, to the frailty of a human body, the need for food, for warmth, for attention and care, diapers and tears, to hunger and sickness, bruises and scrapes, splinters and stubbed toes; vulnerability, insecurity.

            And submitted to it willingly: Not mine, but thy will be done (cf. Luke 22:42).  In that submission we have the example of Jesus dying to His power and authority, letting go of His glory; in other words –dying to self. And we are told that Jesus lived not in fear, anxiety, and insecurity, but in faith, in hope and in charity. God became flesh, submitted himself to the care and authority of His creation --even to the point of being put to death on a cross--- yet it is through that “weakness” that He revealed His glory and His strength.  

            And I wonder if Norma didn’t reveal her true glory as she let go of her dreams and plans and tenderly cared for her husband after his stroke.  Certainly, that was not the life she signed up for when she married Ernesto, but she submitted to it, accepted it and from all accounts I heard –only grew stronger and more joyful through it.  She was sown in weakness, but raised up in strength.

As the mass ended and they took Norma’s body from the church, it occurred to me: it is the finality of the tomb is what we fear. The finality of death. The fear that we will be trapped forever in that cramped tomb (or urn) stuffed full of our unfulfilled dreams, unachieved goals, unspoken words; trapped forever in that box with all our regrets and remorse and sins and fears and memories of what we did and what we wished we had done….

We’re afraid of the tomb of our mortality; but we don’t have to be afraid.  As the disciples learned on that first Easter morning— thanks to Jesus, the tomb is empty.  We have nothing there to fear.  

Isn’t it appropriate when Mary first sees the risen Jesus, she thinks He is the gardener.  Why that odd detail? Maybe because it’s true.  And maybe the tomb is empty, not just for Jesus, but for all of us --because the harvest has begun. How beautiful this Easter season has become thanks to a friend’s funeral.