How could anyone watch a man four days buried walk out of a sealed tomb, and not believe in the power of God? After all, Jesus says that's why he was doing this great work of power, "So that they may believe."
So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward 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.
How could anyone see this and not believe? Yet soon after this, Jesus himself is executed by people who observed this miracle and did not believe (or perhaps believed to the point of terror...). And a short while after that, Jesus stands among his disciples, himself risen from the dead, and even some of them do not believe. Thomas, whom the writer of John's gospel places with Jesus during the Lazarus story (he even has dialogue); Thomas, who watched Jesus bring Lazarus back from the dead, is unable to believe that Jesus is risen on the testimony of others. He has to see for himself. And in that story, in this same gospel, Jesus says, "Blessed are they who have not seen and yet believe."
Is faith that is ignited by signs and wonders less worthy? I hope not - for Jesus went about doing many signs which brought people to faith, and the book of Acts is full of such wonders. Witnessing the power of God is the beginning of faith for many. I confess that sometimes when I pray for healing for someone, I like to remind God of the benefit his reputation might enjoy from a positive outcome. (Yeah, God has not actually hired me to be his agent...)
Jesus did invite people to believe based on the signs and wonders he performed, but not to rest there. We go astray when we focus on the signs themselves instead of who they are pointing to. Mature faith endures during times when it is harder to see God's hand in the world about us. That doesn't mean God is less active. It's an invitation to pray for keener faith vision to see how God is all over our lives.
Evidence of God's power can be like the romantic phase of a relationship; it invites us to go deeper into knowing the Other, and allowing ourselves to be known. Finding ourselves known and yet loved can be the most transforming miracle of all, bringing back to life parts of us that have died.
10-28-15 - The Dead Smell
Many things in this world smell bad, but I’m told there is no stench like that of a decomposing corpse. Mercifully I have no first-hand experience. One reason we put our dead into graves and tombs is to insulate us from the smell of decay. So I can only imagine the shock to those gathered outside Lazarus’ tomb when Jesus said, “Take away the stone.”
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 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.
Martha, ever the housekeeper, so much more earth-bound than her spiritual sister Mary, has no trouble speaking what everyone was no doubt thinking. “The stench, Lord; did you forget the dead smell?” I can hear the subtext: “Are you so lost in the clouds in your holiness and preaching, you don’t know what a dead person can smell like?”
Martha, bless her, is naming reality. The world needs more people like her, who will just say what needs to be said. And yet, that very gift, of stating the unpleasant facts in a given situation, can also keep one from believing in an outcome better than anyone can imagine. And Jesus was promising an outcome that no one could ever have imagined.
We have a notion that holiness smells good. There are psalms about our prayers rising before God as incense. This story reminds us that, on the way to seeing the glory of God, we often pass through some pretty revolting messes. We want to be protected from the messes, but as Good Friday, not to mention our own experience, teaches us, that’s not how God works. Our Good News says that God walks through the muck and mud with us, enduring the reek of things dead and decaying, and shows us in ways we cannot imagine how life can break forth, even there.
Think of the way a rose bush might grow through, even because of, the dung used to fertilize it, its fragrance the sweeter for the fetid ground in which it was born.
Jesus knew life was breaking forth. Martha trusted Jesus.
So they took away the stone.
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 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.
Martha, ever the housekeeper, so much more earth-bound than her spiritual sister Mary, has no trouble speaking what everyone was no doubt thinking. “The stench, Lord; did you forget the dead smell?” I can hear the subtext: “Are you so lost in the clouds in your holiness and preaching, you don’t know what a dead person can smell like?”
Martha, bless her, is naming reality. The world needs more people like her, who will just say what needs to be said. And yet, that very gift, of stating the unpleasant facts in a given situation, can also keep one from believing in an outcome better than anyone can imagine. And Jesus was promising an outcome that no one could ever have imagined.
We have a notion that holiness smells good. There are psalms about our prayers rising before God as incense. This story reminds us that, on the way to seeing the glory of God, we often pass through some pretty revolting messes. We want to be protected from the messes, but as Good Friday, not to mention our own experience, teaches us, that’s not how God works. Our Good News says that God walks through the muck and mud with us, enduring the reek of things dead and decaying, and shows us in ways we cannot imagine how life can break forth, even there.
Think of the way a rose bush might grow through, even because of, the dung used to fertilize it, its fragrance the sweeter for the fetid ground in which it was born.
Jesus knew life was breaking forth. Martha trusted Jesus.
So they took away the stone.
10-27-15 - Jesus Wept
There’s a whole lotta weepin’ goin’ on in the Lazarus story. Nowhere else in the Gospels is Jesus depicted as 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. 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 proclamation of 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 often find I am in such a hurry to proclaim the life beyond death, the life that we can experience even in the midst of death – “Even at the grave we make our song, Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!” – I wonder if people feel 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 sometimes we need to take awhile getting to that life, and 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 with a heart like ours, and he died and rose again that we might have a heart like his.
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 proclamation of 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 often find I am in such a hurry to proclaim the life beyond death, the life that we can experience even in the midst of death – “Even at the grave we make our song, Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!” – I wonder if people feel 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 sometimes we need to take awhile getting to that life, and 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 with a heart like ours, and he died and rose again that we might have a heart like his.
10-26-15 - If
Next Sunday is All Saints Day, and the Revised Common Lectionary is revised indeed. Gone are the Beatitudes which were always the appointed Gospel. I don’t miss them, but the readings set have a decidedly “All Souls” feel, more focused on death than on sainthood.
The Gospel reading is about Jesus’ raising of Lazarus, who was very dead, and three days buried. Before we get to that big moment, though, John brings us right into the very human emotions being experienced by those close to Lazarus – and by Jesus. We start with disappointment.
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.”
“If you had been here.” How often do we feel that when someone is hurt or dies? “Lord, where were you?” A theological answer, “Right here, standing with you in the pain and the mess,” doesn’t always satisfy. In the moment, we are with Martha and Mary: “You could have prevented this. Why didn’t you come when we called?”
Disappointment always accompanies death. Even when death brings relief, there is disappointment that the person we love had gotten to the point where that was the best outcome. I think disappointment comes because we always hope for a better outcome, even in the face of all evidence to the contrary. And that is faith, isn’t it? Mary and her sister knew that Jesus could have healed Lazarus from his illness if only he’d come sooner.
How can we better balance our faith in what God can do, and the greater faith in what God is doing beyond where we can see or imagine? It takes that kind of faith to come to an acceptance of death, which St. Paul called “the final enemy.” We get there, I think, by putting our focus onto life, the life around us, and the Life to come. Perhaps Life is the only antidote to all our dashed hopes, broken dreams, unfulfilled expectations.
I was reading an article about new approaches to breast cancer. One woman with some early indicators who has decided to take a “wait and see” approach rather than medical interventions said, “What I am doing is not foolproof, I know that. I also know life is finite and that death is unavoidable. For me it came down to the quality of life I want to live… And come what may, I think we really hurt ourselves by trying to just not be dead.”
Jesus came that we might have Life, in abundance. God has so much more for us than just not being dead. Accepting death's inevitability, and the Life with God beyond, might just make us more aware of God with us in the times of loss. No ifs, ands or buts.
The Gospel reading is about Jesus’ raising of Lazarus, who was very dead, and three days buried. Before we get to that big moment, though, John brings us right into the very human emotions being experienced by those close to Lazarus – and by Jesus. We start with disappointment.
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.”
“If you had been here.” How often do we feel that when someone is hurt or dies? “Lord, where were you?” A theological answer, “Right here, standing with you in the pain and the mess,” doesn’t always satisfy. In the moment, we are with Martha and Mary: “You could have prevented this. Why didn’t you come when we called?”
Disappointment always accompanies death. Even when death brings relief, there is disappointment that the person we love had gotten to the point where that was the best outcome. I think disappointment comes because we always hope for a better outcome, even in the face of all evidence to the contrary. And that is faith, isn’t it? Mary and her sister knew that Jesus could have healed Lazarus from his illness if only he’d come sooner.
How can we better balance our faith in what God can do, and the greater faith in what God is doing beyond where we can see or imagine? It takes that kind of faith to come to an acceptance of death, which St. Paul called “the final enemy.” We get there, I think, by putting our focus onto life, the life around us, and the Life to come. Perhaps Life is the only antidote to all our dashed hopes, broken dreams, unfulfilled expectations.
I was reading an article about new approaches to breast cancer. One woman with some early indicators who has decided to take a “wait and see” approach rather than medical interventions said, “What I am doing is not foolproof, I know that. I also know life is finite and that death is unavoidable. For me it came down to the quality of life I want to live… And come what may, I think we really hurt ourselves by trying to just not be dead.”
Jesus came that we might have Life, in abundance. God has so much more for us than just not being dead. Accepting death's inevitability, and the Life with God beyond, might just make us more aware of God with us in the times of loss. No ifs, ands or buts.
10-23-15 - The New, New Story
Stories function in interesting ways for many people. While we generally love a new story, something we haven’t encountered before, we are also very attached to the stories we already know. We don’t like people messing with our old stories – even their authors, if the brouhaha over the recent publication of Harper Lee’s “sequel” to To Kill a Mocking Bird is any indication. “I love to tell the story,” goes the old-timey gospel hymn, “The old, old story of Jesus and his love.”
And yet that “old, old story” is ever becoming new in our lives. In order to really accept healing and freedom and renewal, we need to be able to believe a different narrative than the one that has defined our lives so far, a different story than the one the world or our parents or our society has told us. We are often bound by what we have experienced as “normal.” Jesus’ gift is to show us the new normal, to show us what we can be.
Bartimaeus believed this story he had heard about, and it gave him power to walk out of his old story into the new.
The blind man said to him, ‘My teacher, let me see again.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Go; your faith has made you well.’ Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.
That meant giving up a certain kind of identity, a certain degree of security. Walking into our new stories always does. That’s why we often stay stuck in situations that are less than what God might have for us.
What old stories have defined you for too long? One way to get at that question is with this one:
What are you pretending not to know?
What new story is calling you? Maybe it’s a vocation stirring in you, to use your time and gifts in some way other than how you have been doing. Maybe it’s a different place, a new person to love, a rediscovery of yourself. What is trying to be born in you?
Bartimaeus left his roadside and followed Jesus – right into Jerusalem, where Jesus was first lauded, and soon after condemned to a brutal death. That new story might not have been at all what Bartimaeus hoped for – and maybe it was more. For he got to witness firsthand the greatest love story the world has ever known. And he got to be around when that perfect man who had poured himself out for us, even to death, rose from the grave to usher all of us into the New, New Story God is writing.
And that story, like God’s mercies, is new every morning, as we allow it to claim us.
And yet that “old, old story” is ever becoming new in our lives. In order to really accept healing and freedom and renewal, we need to be able to believe a different narrative than the one that has defined our lives so far, a different story than the one the world or our parents or our society has told us. We are often bound by what we have experienced as “normal.” Jesus’ gift is to show us the new normal, to show us what we can be.
Bartimaeus believed this story he had heard about, and it gave him power to walk out of his old story into the new.
The blind man said to him, ‘My teacher, let me see again.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Go; your faith has made you well.’ Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.
That meant giving up a certain kind of identity, a certain degree of security. Walking into our new stories always does. That’s why we often stay stuck in situations that are less than what God might have for us.
What old stories have defined you for too long? One way to get at that question is with this one:
What are you pretending not to know?
What new story is calling you? Maybe it’s a vocation stirring in you, to use your time and gifts in some way other than how you have been doing. Maybe it’s a different place, a new person to love, a rediscovery of yourself. What is trying to be born in you?
Bartimaeus left his roadside and followed Jesus – right into Jerusalem, where Jesus was first lauded, and soon after condemned to a brutal death. That new story might not have been at all what Bartimaeus hoped for – and maybe it was more. For he got to witness firsthand the greatest love story the world has ever known. And he got to be around when that perfect man who had poured himself out for us, even to death, rose from the grave to usher all of us into the New, New Story God is writing.
And that story, like God’s mercies, is new every morning, as we allow it to claim us.
10-22-15 - What Do You Want?
What a beautiful question: “What do you want me to do for you?”
How often does someone ask us that? Take a moment and think about it. What would you answer if someone stood before you now and said, “What do you want me to do for you?”
I can think of a billion things, mostly having to do with stress. Give me some time off. Bless my endeavors so I don’t have to strive so hard. Increase my metabolism.
What if the person standing before you asking that could do anything, move heaven and earth? That’s what Bartimaeus experienced in this week’s story.
And they called the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart; get up, he is calling you.’ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ The blind man said to him, ‘My teacher, let me see again.’
On one level, it seems ridiculous for Jesus to ask – isn’t it obvious a blind man wants to see? Jesus did Bartimaeus the honor of asking him to speak his desire. He didn’t assume, he didn’t impose. He asked, inviting relationship.
Jesus gives us the same honor, and the same freedom. Yes, God knows what we need, better than we do. And God wants us to ask, just as we want our children to ask for what they desire. Prayer is not about getting what we want; prayer is about drawing closer in relationship to the God who loves us. As we can ask in freedom, God responds in freedom.
It’s not like a genie granting three wishes; we don’t always understand the response. Just as we don’t give our children things that would harm them, we sometimes seem to experience a “no” from God. Presumably, had Bartimaeus said, “I want you to smite those who harass me,” Jesus would not have complied. We can be sure, though, that we worship a God who desires wholeness for us in body, mind and spirit.
I preached on this story in nursing homes last week, to people in wheelchairs. That tested my faith: “What do you want me to do for you?” Still I went about praying for God’s healing love to be released in each one as I shared communion. I don’t know why I didn't see quickened limbs and straightened spines; I believe Jesus’ power is undiminished and his presence real.
It's not always instant. Yet I will proclaim his goodness and love, and keep telling him what I would like him to do for me, and for this hurting, beautiful world.
How often does someone ask us that? Take a moment and think about it. What would you answer if someone stood before you now and said, “What do you want me to do for you?”
I can think of a billion things, mostly having to do with stress. Give me some time off. Bless my endeavors so I don’t have to strive so hard. Increase my metabolism.
What if the person standing before you asking that could do anything, move heaven and earth? That’s what Bartimaeus experienced in this week’s story.
And they called the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart; get up, he is calling you.’ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ The blind man said to him, ‘My teacher, let me see again.’
On one level, it seems ridiculous for Jesus to ask – isn’t it obvious a blind man wants to see? Jesus did Bartimaeus the honor of asking him to speak his desire. He didn’t assume, he didn’t impose. He asked, inviting relationship.
Jesus gives us the same honor, and the same freedom. Yes, God knows what we need, better than we do. And God wants us to ask, just as we want our children to ask for what they desire. Prayer is not about getting what we want; prayer is about drawing closer in relationship to the God who loves us. As we can ask in freedom, God responds in freedom.
It’s not like a genie granting three wishes; we don’t always understand the response. Just as we don’t give our children things that would harm them, we sometimes seem to experience a “no” from God. Presumably, had Bartimaeus said, “I want you to smite those who harass me,” Jesus would not have complied. We can be sure, though, that we worship a God who desires wholeness for us in body, mind and spirit.
I preached on this story in nursing homes last week, to people in wheelchairs. That tested my faith: “What do you want me to do for you?” Still I went about praying for God’s healing love to be released in each one as I shared communion. I don’t know why I didn't see quickened limbs and straightened spines; I believe Jesus’ power is undiminished and his presence real.
It's not always instant. Yet I will proclaim his goodness and love, and keep telling him what I would like him to do for me, and for this hurting, beautiful world.
10-21-15 - Throwng Off Our Cloaks
They tried to hush him, this blind man sitting by the side of a road shouting out for Jesus.
Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’
But it was too late – Jesus had heard the commotion and had stopped: Jesus stood still and said, ‘Call him here.’ And they called the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart; get up, he is calling you.’ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus.
What wonderful energy is conveyed in that sentence, in Bartimaeus’ actions. He throws off his cloak. He springs up. He comes to Jesus.
Wait a minute, springing up and going to Jesus I can understand. But why did he throw off his cloak? What did that cloak signify? Perhaps it represented his identity as a beggar. It may have been more than protection against the elements – it might have been his sleeping bag as well, if he lived by that road, which some beggars did. It may have been his most prized possession, as well as a symbol of his degradation.
Whatever that cloak represents, his throwing it away speaks volumes: Bartimaeus knew that he wasn’t going to need it anymore. Before he got to Jesus’ side, he was so sure about Jesus’ power to heal, that he cast it aside and came to Jesus exposed and vulnerable. Bartimaeus was ready to cast off the story that had defined him for a new story. Bartimaeus was ready for healing.
What “cloaks” do we cling to that may inhibit our faith? What cloaks define our status in this world? For some, the cloak might be signs of security, like safe homes and bank accounts. For some, patterns of addiction that are safe and familiar, no matter how deadly. For some, it’s carrying too much weight, or being busy all the time.
Do we continue to to benefit from habits and patterns and wounds that may tell a truth about our lives, but not the whole truth, not God’s truth? Bartimaeus had a certain safety in his life as a beggar; little was asked of him; he was cared for, more or less. But he was ready to toss that away and move into a new life.
Is there a time when you have tossed away your cloak in faith, confident that God was up to something in your life – or at least ready to stand before God vulnerable and expectant? Did you ever take it back again (it can be distressingly easy to find the cloaks we throw aside…).
Is there anything you cling to now, that may hold you back from putting your full trust in God? What if you talked with Jesus about it? What if, in imaginative prayer, you asked Bartimaeus what it felt like to throw away a garment that both protected and falsely defined him?
Bartimaeus was ready. He believed, and he sprang. Jesus is calling you and me to his side too. What need we throw away so we are free to spring up and go to him?
Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’
But it was too late – Jesus had heard the commotion and had stopped: Jesus stood still and said, ‘Call him here.’ And they called the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart; get up, he is calling you.’ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus.
What wonderful energy is conveyed in that sentence, in Bartimaeus’ actions. He throws off his cloak. He springs up. He comes to Jesus.
Wait a minute, springing up and going to Jesus I can understand. But why did he throw off his cloak? What did that cloak signify? Perhaps it represented his identity as a beggar. It may have been more than protection against the elements – it might have been his sleeping bag as well, if he lived by that road, which some beggars did. It may have been his most prized possession, as well as a symbol of his degradation.
Whatever that cloak represents, his throwing it away speaks volumes: Bartimaeus knew that he wasn’t going to need it anymore. Before he got to Jesus’ side, he was so sure about Jesus’ power to heal, that he cast it aside and came to Jesus exposed and vulnerable. Bartimaeus was ready to cast off the story that had defined him for a new story. Bartimaeus was ready for healing.
What “cloaks” do we cling to that may inhibit our faith? What cloaks define our status in this world? For some, the cloak might be signs of security, like safe homes and bank accounts. For some, patterns of addiction that are safe and familiar, no matter how deadly. For some, it’s carrying too much weight, or being busy all the time.
Do we continue to to benefit from habits and patterns and wounds that may tell a truth about our lives, but not the whole truth, not God’s truth? Bartimaeus had a certain safety in his life as a beggar; little was asked of him; he was cared for, more or less. But he was ready to toss that away and move into a new life.
Is there a time when you have tossed away your cloak in faith, confident that God was up to something in your life – or at least ready to stand before God vulnerable and expectant? Did you ever take it back again (it can be distressingly easy to find the cloaks we throw aside…).
Is there anything you cling to now, that may hold you back from putting your full trust in God? What if you talked with Jesus about it? What if, in imaginative prayer, you asked Bartimaeus what it felt like to throw away a garment that both protected and falsely defined him?
Bartimaeus was ready. He believed, and he sprang. Jesus is calling you and me to his side too. What need we throw away so we are free to spring up and go to him?
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