A Sermon for All Saints Day
November 1, 2015
John 11:1-45
Today, on All Saint’s Day, we have lit candles in these luminaries to remember those loved ones who have gone before us. And while it is beautiful to have the sanctuary bathed in such soft light, it is also a sad reminder that they are gone from this world.
It’s hard to remember the dead—at least the ones closest to us—with dry eyes. My mom’s been gone over six years now and it’s still difficult for me to talk about her without crying (unless it is just a superficial reference). When I talk about what she means to me and how difficult life is without her, I weep.
The death of a loved one is too devastating to describe. Just because we’ve lit these candles doesn’t sentimentalize our grief. It doesn’t mean we’re okay with our losses. As Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: “Sorrow makes us all children again—destroys all differences of intellect. The wisest know nothing.”
So before we dive into the Gospel story of Lazarus and Mary and Martha, let’s just admit how much our grief is with us. There are very real voids in our lives.
I think this helps us understand where Mary and Martha are coming from. Their brother has died. Grief has swallowed them up just as we become swallowed up in our grief. Why didn’t Jesus come right away and save their dear brother from death? Now, he shows up after Lazarus is four days dead and doesn’t even apologize. Keep in mind this is no ordinary friend. They knew Jesus could have done something to prevent this death. But he didn’t. He didn’t.
At funerals and visitations, the bereaved are usually very polite. They say things like: “Thank you for coming. I appreciate your condolences. Please sign the guest book.”
Not Mary. No. She goes right for the juggler: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not be dead!”
Seriously? She says this to her Lord? Where does she get such audacity, especially in a patriarchal culture where women did not question men? But haven’t we cried out to God in our own pain? Haven’t we said basically the same thing? “God, we prayed so much, we are such faithful people, and yet you didn’t spare us from this loss! How you could have let my loved one die?” I’ve known many people who stop coming to church after the death of a family member. They allege that God has forsaken them. It certainly feels that way.
After receiving this harsh criticism from Mary, Jesus sees the grief of Mary and Martha and all those gathered for the funeral. There are tears and wails as they all grieve for their dear Lazarus.
In the NRSV translation of verse 33, it says: “Jesus was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved.” And while this communicates intense emotion, the original Greek verbs has even more intensity. The first verb is associated with anger. Jesus doesn’t just have a disturbed feeling, he’s angry. Passionately angry. And the second verb is about being stirred up on the inside. It is the same word used to describe stirring of water to disturb its stillness. So this word expresses the internal, emotional disturbance that stirs a person up, sometimes even causing physical sickness. This is an apt description of grief, is it not? Many people can’t even eat for a few days after a loved one dies.
Then in the shortest verse of the Bible, verse 35, Jesus weeps. Jesus has the very same reaction that the mourners do—he weeps real tears. He’s angry and he’s disturbed—so stirred up in his heart that he cries aloud.
This is curious, isn’t it? If Jesus is the Son of God, then he knows that his friend will be resurrected. It is like knowing the end of the movie. So what’s going on? Why is he moved to tears? Probably for the same reason we are when we grieve. Despite our ardent theological convictions that there is life after life, death still stings. When we love someone deeply and we lose them, it cuts deeply.
Of course the incarnate God felt pain upon the death of his friend Lazarus. This seems to demonstrate that death even grieves God. Because Jesus cannot stand this death one moment longer, he calls upon Lazarus. He shouts: “Come out!” And just like that death is dead for Lazarus. He comes back to life despite the fact that his sister objects because he’s been dead so long he stinks (or as it says in the King James Version: “He stinketh!”). Indeed, that smelly corpse became alive again.
The first visitation I ever went to was for Mrs. Zurcher, a family friend. I was probably six. I had never seen a body in a casket before and I remember studying her chest from my chair at the visitation. I was absolutely certain I could see it rise and fall like the chest of a living person. I concocted an elaborate fantasy that she was going suddenly sit up and ask us to dry our tears, assuring us that she wasn’t really dead. It sure would have been nice for Jesus to have shown up and told Mrs. Zurcher to “Come out!” But he didn’t. She stayed dead, as have all the other bodies I’ve seen in caskets since.
Yet despite the brutal stench of death, which we know all too well, Jesus comes to us through faith and proclaims to this day:
“I am the resurrection and the life.
Those who believe in me,
even though they die,
will live.”
This story from John’s Gospel is a more than a miracle. It is a sign that helps us see through our tears that Jesus is the Christ. He is the resurrection. And he comes to call us back to life—both now and at the time of our own deaths.
And this is why we must rejoice today, no matter how deep our grief may be. Death stinketh, yes, but these saints we remember are not really gone. We miss them and Jesus weeps with us in our pain. But we believe they will be resurrected. Like Mary, we believe it. And so we can look forward to the glorious day when we shall be reunited with all the saints before the throne of God, a resplendent place where, at last, our tears will be wiped away.
Let me close with a poem called We Remember Them from The Gates of Prayer, a Judaism prayer book.
In the rising of the sun and its going down,
we remember them.
In the blowing of the wind
and in the chill of winter,
we remember them.
In the opening buds and
in the warmth of summer,
we remember them.
In the rustling of leaves
and in the beauty of autumn,
we remember them.
In the beginning of the year and when it ends, we remember them.
When we are weary and in need of strength, we remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart,
we remember them.
When we have joys we yearn to share,
we remember them.
For as long as we live,
they too shall live
For they are now a part of us
as we remember them.
© 2015 Laura Gentry
