Jesus Weeps (MPLS)

John 11:1-36

Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, ‘Lord, he whom you love is ill.’ But when Jesus heard it, he said, ‘This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.’ Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.

Then after this he said to the disciples, ‘Let us go to Judea again.’ The disciples said to him, ‘Rabbi, the Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?’ Jesus answered, ‘Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble, because they see the light of this world. But those who walk at night stumble, because the light is not in them.’ After saying this, he told them, ‘Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to awaken him.’ The disciples said to him, ‘Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will be all right.’ Jesus, however, had been speaking about his death, but they thought that he was referring merely to sleep. Then Jesus told them plainly, ‘Lazarus is dead. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.’ Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow-disciples, ‘Let us also go, that we may die with him.’

When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’ Martha said to him, ‘I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.’ Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?’ She said to him, ‘Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.’

When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary, and told her privately, ‘The Teacher is here and is calling for you.’ And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. Now Jesus had not yet come to the village, but was still at the place where Martha had met him. The Jews who were with her in the house, consoling her, saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. 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.’ 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. So the Jews said, ‘See how he loved him!’

A nurse walked into the hospital room. “How did it go last night?” she asked. The young woman’s weary eyes answered the question. It had been long and hard. Bedside vigils usually are. But even more so when you’re with your own father. Finally, she told the nurse, “He didn’t wake up.”

The daughter sat by the bed and held the gentle hand that had so often held hers. If truth be told, a part of her was afraid to let go. She was afraid that doing so might allow the man she so dearly loved to slip away. And she wasn’t ready for that, not yet.

With a look of confusion on her face, she said to the nurse, “I know it has to happen.” Then she turned and glanced at her dad, “I just don’t know why.”

Death is the darkest mystery we will ever face. It’s a reality that comes to all of us, and yet it’s a topic we do our best to avoid. It’s not easy to talk about. It’s even harder to face. When death strikes close to home, it raises a number of questions: Why? Why this, why now? We try to make sense of it. Sometimes we even find ourselves wondering: What is death like, anyway?

People who’ve had a near-death experience often come back telling of a tunnel with a bright light on the other side. Sometimes they see Jesus. And sometimes they don’t. They usually describe the other side as a place of peace and tranquility. So is that the answer? Is death just a dark door into a brighter world?

My dad died in 1989. It didn’t feel like a brighter world to me, at least from the outside looking in. He’d had lymphoma for a couple of years. By the time it was diagnosed, however, there wasn’t much they could do. We had his funeral in the little country church he’d served on the South Dakota prairie. My dad was commonly referred to as Pastor Christopherson, but the pastor officiating his funeral referred to him as Pastor Halvorson at least a half dozen times. 

After the service, we carried the casket down the steps and out to the funeral coach. It was snowing outside. A biting November wind made the day feel raw. I had an overwhelming sense that my dad would get cold if he stayed outside in the hearse while we went inside the church and had lunch. It was an irrational thought, I know, but it was what I was feeling at the time. At that moment, death felt less like a warm, bright light to me and more like — in the words of Max Lucado — a canyon, a deep, dark canyon.

If you visit the canyon, you’ll find dry ground that is cracked and lifeless. Tears sting, as those who grieve stare into the ravine. All we really know is that the other side is unreachable. You can’t help but wonder what is hidden in the darkness. 

Have you been there? Have you stood at the thin line separating the living from the dead? Maybe you’ve lost a parent or a spouse or worse yet, a child. Maybe you’ve been diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. Maybe you’ve lingered at the cemetery long after the others have left. Or, maybe there are ashes stored in your bedroom closet and you’re not sure what to do with them. Grief can be a lonely place. You find ourselves thinking, “What’s next?”

Mary and Martha are asking that question. They’ve been to the edge of the canyon. They’ve lost their brother, Lazarus. When he’d taken a turn for the worse, they sent word for their friend, Jesus, to come. We’re not exactly sure what they were hoping for — maybe some company, maybe the possibility that Jesus could help, or even heal, him. But Jesus was delayed. When he finally showed up, it was too late. Or so it seems.

Martha goes out to meet him. Her words are filled with despair, and maybe a hint of blame: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” She stares into Jesus’ face with a look of confusion. She’s trying to be strong, but it hurts too much. Her brother is dead. And the one person who might have made a difference, didn’t. He didn’t even make it to the funeral. 

What is it about death that brings such disappointment? When our disappointment is strong, we might lash out at our friends. We might even accuse God of abandoning us. Why, God? Why this? Why now?

You see, if God is God anywhere, we need God to be God in the face of death. Personal coaches can help us organize our lives. Weight loss plans can help us shed some pounds. Therapists can help us deal with depression. But only God, it seems, can deal with our ultimate predicament: death. And only God’s Son has dared to stand at the canyon’s edge and offer an answer. Indeed, God has to be God there. What other choice do we have? 

Martha switches her tone from harshness to earnestness, “Even now, Jesus, God will give you whatever you ask.” Jesus makes a bold claim: “Your brother will rise again.” Martha misunderstands: “I know he’ll rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”

But that isn’t what Jesus means. He’s got bigger plans for Lazarus here and now. He’s about to go into the village and perform a “sign” so implausible that others will have to decide if they believe in him or not. Jesus speaks with bold confidence to Martha: “I am the resurrection and the life.” It’s another of Jesus’ I Am statements which hint of his divinity. His words are loud enough to echo off the canyon walls. He says: “Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

The Incarnation — God taking on human flesh and dwelling among us — is at the center of John’s Gospel. Right here, the Incarnation brings us to a turning point in history. Life is confronting death. A bridge is being built across the canyon. The religious leaders from Jerusalem overhear Jesus’ extravagant claim and they’re furious. They’ll soon be plotting Jesus’ own demise.

 But Jesus isn’t through with Martha yet. With eyes focused on hers, he asks a probing question: “Do you believe this, Martha?” There it is. The bottom line. The dimension that separates Jesus from a thousand charlatans who’ve come down the pike. The question that forces any listener to either take it or leave it. Do you believe this?

Let that question sink in for a minute. Do you believe that a young, itinerant rabbi is larger than death — a loved one’s death? Your own death? Do you believe that someone has actually gone to the other side of the canyon and now holds your future in his hands?

I don’t think Jesus intends for this question to be a polite discussion topic while sitting on padded pews. No, it’s a canyon question. It’s a question that hits closest to home for a daughter during an all-night vigil at the hospital, or for a son as he carries his dad’s casket to the hearse on a cold November day. As we sit in the darkness, we’re left to wonder if Jesus really is who he claims to be. Is he truly God in human flesh? Is he the resurrection and the life? Is he our ultimate hope?

As much out of desperation as anything, Martha says yes. Yes, Lord, I believe. As she studies the weathered face of this Galilean carpenter, something inside tells her that she’ll probably never be closer to the truth than she is right now. So, she gives him her hand and he leads her away from the edge of the canyon. They’re not avoiding the matter at hand, mind you. They’re going to the cemetery for a visit.

Along the way, Jesus bumps into Mary. She expresses the same disappointment as her sister: “Lord, if you have been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus sees her weeping, and all those who’ve come to the funeral also weeping, he’s deeply moved. What’s he feeling? Is he agitated? Angry? Sad? Whatever it is, it’s yet another glimpse of the Incarnation: God’s absolute commitment to know us and be with us. Suddenly Jesus begins to weep too. And the bystanders exclaim: “See how much he loved him.”

Jesus weeps. It’s a short, little phrase woven into a much larger story. But it’s profoundly moving, isn’t it? Jesus knows us and is with us. Mary and Martha lose a brother. Jesus weeps with them. Someone gets hurt in a bad accident. Jesus weeps with them. Ukrainians flee to the border. Jesus weeps with them. 

Whatever our canyon looks like, however dark we find it, we trust that Jesus has been there, and he is there now. He understands. And he’s ready to weep with us too. 

Friends, do you believe this? In the face of life’s greatest mystery, it’s our only hope. Amen.