There’s a whole lotta weepin’ goin’ on in the Lazarus story. Nowhere else in the Gospels is Jesus shown being this emotionally expressive. His response to the grief of Lazarus’ sisters, Mary and Martha, is not surprising, given his closeness to that family. But it stands in marked contrast to the coolness with which he talked to his disciples about delaying going to Lazarus after being summoned to help (here's the first part of the story). Now, we’re told, Jesus is “greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved.”
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.
Whatever the reason for Jesus’ open weeping – and I suspect the reasons were multiple and complex –this scene reminds us that before we get to the Good News and life everlasting, we need to acknowledge our need to weep. Even Jesus. Our Episcopal funeral liturgy is so Easter-focused, and I am often in such a hurry to proclaim the life beyond death, the life we can experience even in the midst of death – “Even at the grave we make our song, Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!” – that I wonder if I give people the freedom to rest in grief awhile.
This story we tell this week, and the Feast of All Saints in general, are very much about the Life that lies beyond death. Yet we need to take our time getting to that life. This Friday, on All Souls Day, I am having a eucharist and lunch at my church, intended particularly to make space for those who are carrying deep burdens of grief. It’s a reminder that when we need to, we can pause with Jesus, and weep.
In fact, when we weep, we might invite Jesus to pause with us, knowing he is no stranger to strong emotions. After all, he came into this life with a heart like ours, and he died and rose again that we might have a heart like his.
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