You know how in a race, runners often get a second wind and sprint to the finish line? Well, that’s what we’re doing liturgically. Here we are, just about to the end of our Lenten season with Holy Week starting next Sunday and suddenly, it’s more Lenten than it’s ever been. Though we’ve got daffodils and crocuses blooming outside, spring is not in today’s readings—at least not at the beginning of them. They start with death.
In our first reading, we’ve got dry bones and not just one set of them—a whole valley of dry bones occupy Ezekiel’s vision. These bodies are so long dead that there’s no more rotting flesh, they’re just dusty bones. The people of the exile feel very much like these long-forgotten valley of bones. “Our hope is lost!” they cry out. “We are cut off completely!” Death and hopelessness.
Even today’s Psalm, 130, comes from a place of sadness. It is often read at funerals. “Out of the depths I cry to you, O LORD. Lord, hear my voice!”
And the gospel lesson centers around the death of Lazarus who has now been dead four days. A rotting corpse, he is buried in the tomb. Like the exiles, it seems clear that hope is gone for those who love him.
These themes of death and hopelessness are all too familiar to us. This has been a season of death with international news of natural disaster in Japan to war in Libya and increasing violence in Afghanistan. Death is always in the headlines. It’s touched and reshaped our lives too. We know all to well the pain of losing a loved one to death. Mortality is not just a theory—it is a harsh reality for us. Smelly corpses, dried up bones, prayers of anguish and desperation—these scriptures cry out the hardship of our own lives. They remind us or our own difficult Lenten journey.
So Jesus continues his Lenten journey by going to see his friend Lazarus. He’d gotten word that his old pal was sick, but for some unknown reason, he dilly dallies for two more days before making his way to their house—just a couple of miles outside of Jerusalem. It seems almost careless of him to be so tardy. Understandably, when Jesus finally does arrive, they seem a bit upset with him. Many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about the death of their brother. You cannot imagine this scene without the sound of weeping. Not only would the sisters be weeping—along with the friends who have come—but there would also be the presence of professional mourners. In Jesus’ day, the bereaved would hire people whose job it was to give dramatic expression to their grief. Their theatrical and ritualistic cries would bring everyone to emotional catharsis. Needless to say, Jesus is walking into a house of death and deep sadness.
Jesus taps into this emotional energy and takes it one himself. It says that he becomes “greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved” (John 11:33). In the original Greek language, this description is even more visceral. It says Jesus snorted like a horse. English translations can’t quite seem to capture the depth of Jesus’ pain. But as he makes his way through the crowd of mourners, Jesus is grieving openly and he seems shaken to the core.
It does seem odd that Jesus would react this way, especially since this story comes from the Gospel of John. In this book, Jesus is always in control. He knows ahead of time that Lazarus would be dead—it’s not like he’s surprised to find him entombed. And Jesus always knows the end of the story, so he has full knowledge that death only has a temporary hold on Lazarus and that he will very shortly call him out of the grave so there’ll be a “happily ever after,” fairy-tale-type ending. And as for all those weeping mourners—I’m sure Jesus knows they are for hire so they wouldn’t upset him. Why, then? Why is Jesus so upset?
As we have made our way through John’s Gospel this Lent, we’ve seen Jesus reveal himself to be many incredible things including God’s Word, bread, living water and light. In this story, we see that he is even more than these. He is himself the “the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25). As the resurrection, he has come to put an end to death. We come to realize in this story that Jesus doesn’t much like death. The two of them go together about as well as oil and water. Jesus detests death because he is the opposite of it. Just as we hate death, Jesus hates it. Here in the context of his dear friendship with Lazarus, Jesus’ passion is stirred. He snorts like a horse and he weeps openly. We can picture the tears streaming down his face as he faces down death. He can’t even stand the fact that it has temporary power over his friend. And so he demands the stone be rolled away and he calls Lazarus forth—as he calls us forth—from death to life.
The playwright Eugene O’Neill wrote a fictional account of what happened to Lazarus after this dramatic resurrection. I mean, the bible doesn’t tell us. But he must have been different after that. Four days in the tomb and then his death is reversed. O’Neill’s conclusion is that Lazarus laughed. He experienced death and found out—first-hand—that it has no sting. From then on, he is so free of fear that he constantly laughs. The chorus sings of him:
Lazarus laughs!
Our hearts grow happy!
Laughter like music!
The wind laughs!
The sea laughs!
Spring laughs from the earth!
Summer laughs in the air!
Lazarus laughs!
Lazarus himself declares to the confused on-lookers: “Laugh! Laugh with me! Death is dead! Fear is no more! There is only life! There is only laughter!”
This dramatic story in John’s gospel foreshadows, rather dramatically, Jesus’ own death, burial in a cave tomb, and subsequent resurrection. All of the scriptures for today point us to Easter. The psalmist finds hope in God, the the prophet Ezekiel’s vision ends with the resurrection of the whole valley of dry bones. The Spirit of God comes upon them and they grow flesh and are brought back to life—a vast army that stand up on their feet!
So yes, there’s no denying this Lenten journey is leading toward death. There are more weeping women to come, a body to bury, a stone to roll before the tomb. But death will not have the last word. On this Sunday when the scriptures stink of death, we still acknowledge the “little Easter” that each and every Sunday is. They point us to the great victory of the Resurrection. Soon another stone will be rolled away and, snorting at death, the one who is the resurrection and the life will himself be resurrected. And because he is our savior, his resurrection will be our own.
So let us laugh with Lazarus. Even as we sprint on into Holy Week—a somber time in which we must hear again the story of our Lord’s death. We know that death is dead. Jesus snubbed death and gave us victory over it. Death is dead! There is no more fear! There is only life! There is only laughter! Amen.
© Laura E. Gentry 2011
