Lent 5A
March 29, 2020
John 11:1-45
INTRODUCTION
On this 5th Sunday in Lent, the last Sunday before Palm Sunday and the rest of Holy Week, we get a little sneak peek at what God is all about: namely, bringing life out of death. Ezekiel gives us the Valley of Dry Bones, in which the prophet speaks to a nation in exile, cut off from everything important to them (sounds a bit familiar…). To the dry, desolate bones, God sends life and breath, and brings life to what was utterly lifeless. The Gospel will echo this, with the raising of Lazarus. In John’s Gospel, this is the precipitating event that leads to Jesus’ ultimate arrest and crucifixion, so it’s especially appropriate for today, as we prepare for Holy Week next week. Both of these rich stories contain the central promise of our faith – that God will bring life out of death. Which sounds like pretty good news, right? Something to be happy about! And yet neither of these stories have a really happy feel about them. Neither even mention anything resembling joy! Turns out the move from death to life is not always seamless and joyful, at least not at first. So, as you listen to these stories, notice what emotions you DO see, or what emotions they bring up in you. Let’s listen.
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Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
I wonder how many people watching today have experienced, at some point in the past three weeks, a complete emotional meltdown – the kind that comes in the form of yelling, or deep sobs, or an anxiety attack. I know I have – for me, it was a little from each column, but mostly it was sobbing, the sort of gasping sobs that come from deep within. It felt great to release the emotion! I have heard this from other friends, too, things like, “I cried in the shower today where my daughter couldn’t see me,” or, “I watched a show that was definitely not cry-worthy… but I cried, and for a good long while.” It’s not unexpected – there is a LOT of emotion to be felt these days, about a LOT of different things.
Several of my friends shared a piece this week from the Harvard Business Review called, “The Discomfort You’re Feeling is Grief.” The article talks about all the different levels of grief that our whole world is feeling right now: the little griefs (like missed birthday parties, missed graduations, no in-person Easter worship), the larger griefs (like businesses going under, jobs lost, loved ones dying alone), and even anticipatory grief (like fears about economic recovery, wondering who will be next to get sick and how long this will last, and uncertainty about what storm is coming next). Much more than the loss of events or even human connection, we are, all of us, experiencing the loss of safety and security. As the author of this piece writes, “We are grieving on a micro and macro level.”
All this makes the story of the raising of Lazarus the perfect one to hear right now. Here is a story in which grief is palpable. The actual raising of Lazarus, the main event, doesn’t even happen until the very end. Everything before that tells of the immense grief that accompanies pain, loss, death – the grief that accompanies brokenness. It is Martha, begging Jesus to ask God to fix it. It is Mary, weeping at Jesus’ feet, even, accusing him of not coming sooner. (Don’t we always want to do that in the face of tragedy? Assign blame to someone or something, in an effort to make some sense of it?) It is even Jesus himself was “greatly disturbed” and weeping openly over the loss of his friend.
It is so important not to gloss over this grief. Maybe we’d like this story just to be about the raising of Lazarus, but it isn’t. We’d like for it to go like this: “Jesus learned that Lazarus, whom he loved, was sick. So he immediately traveled to his friend, but he was too late. Only a little too late, though – no sooner had Lazarus died, then Jesus raised him again! New life! And everyone was happy. The end.” That’s how we want our own stories of loss to go, too. Immediate return to normal. No time to dwell in sadness. No time to fight about it. No time to lament. Just move on, and pretend nothing happened, or, that if something did happen, at least we are better and stronger for it.
We as a society do not like to leave space for lament. And yet, the raising of Lazarus shows us that healing and new life must begin with lament: lament over the loss of something we loved, lament over the pain we and our loved ones feel, lament over things no longer as we wish they were. Only after we have done this, can we truly hear those words, “Unbind him and let him go!” as good news, and enter into the new life God has in store for us.
This focus on lament is one of the gifts of Lent. I sometimes hear grumbling about Lent, with its sad hymns and focus on sin. As for me, I love that about Lent. Life so often demands that we put on a happy face and pretend everything is fine, even when it really isn’t. But here, we have the chance to admit to God, “No, everything isn’t fine. I am sad and afraid. I need some Jesus. Lord, I need some Easter! I need the mercy and compassion of a loving God. I need healing, and freedom from my pain and fear. I need to be unbound.” Lent is a time when we can stand at the foot of the cross, lay down our burdens, rest in God for a while, and then ask God to call us out of the dark tombs we find ourselves in, and to remove from us all that binds us, all that keeps us from living as full and abundant a life as God wants for us. It’s a time when we can listen for God to demand the bindings that keep us from freedom be unbound. Don’t confuse lament with wallowing though – wallowing leads only to more wallowing. It is focused only on ourselves. But lament is shared – with God or with one another. It is the first step toward hope, for it eventually calls us out of the tomb, out of despair, and yes into hope and new life.
Today, I’d like to take a moment just to recognizing first of all that sometimes, we need to lament, and that’s okay. For goodness’ sake, Jesus wept, so don’t you think it is okay if we do, too, now and then? Human emotion is not a bad thing, it is a beautiful thing! Jesus experienced it in its fullness, so isn’t it remarkable that we can share that with Jesus? (We’re been watching a lot of Frozen II, and there is this scene in which Kristoff is struggling with some emotions, and Sven, his talking reindeer, says to him, “You feel what you feel and your feelings are real. Let down your guard!” Jesus let down his guard – so can, and should, we!
Secondly, I’d like us to think about what we need to lament, what we need freedom from, in hopes that once we can recognize it and name it, we can be called out from under it, just as Lazarus was called out from the tomb. I invited you, at the beginning of worship, to find a scarf or some strip of cloth. Imagine your cloth as reminiscent of Lazarus’ bindings, what kept him dead and in the tomb – the very thing about which Jesus said, “Get rid of that and let him go!” Today, let this cloth be symbolic of whatever it is that binds you, whatever keeps you in the tomb, whatever grief grips you right now. In a moment, I’ll lead us through a prayer, and as you pray, bind yourself in your cloth – wrap it around your arm, or your hand, and feel it constrict you. Then, let it loose, and feel what it is like for God to take and hold your lament, and then to unbind you from your fears, your anxieties, your griefs, to “unbind you and let you go,” so that you might live, even in this anxious and fearful time, with a sense of the promise of freedom and new life that lies ahead.
And now, I invite you to take your strip of cloth, and let us pray… Lord God, we are bound. We are bound by our sins, things done and left undone. We are bound by our fears, and anxieties, and griefs. We are bound by our insecurities. Today, we lament these things to you, and we pray that you would unbind us. Help us to see the life you desire for us, and then help us to pursue it. Unbind us, so that we could walk out of our tombs, and into the newness of life that you promise. Unbind us, so that we might have life, and have it abundantly. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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