“Right on Time?”

(John 11:1-44)

          It interests me, as I revisit this text, that in a story I’ve always heard referred to as ‘the raising of Lazarus’ neither Lazarus himself nor his grand exit from the grave get top billing from the narrator.  In fact, that particular scene actually occupies a very small part of this story. As it turns out, the real focus of the chapter is on the series of conversations Jesus has before he raises this man from the dead, and a whole lot of difficult waiting for Jesus in between. We would do well to take our cue from the narrator, and pause long enough to reflect on the words exchanged in that waiting room.  For, as one commentator puts it, “we ought not to arrive at Lazarus’ tomb any faster than Jesus does.”[1] 

          Let’s return to the text, then, to hear what sisters Mary and Martha have to say to Jesus and to watch how Jesus responds.

          First, the telegram from Bethany.  “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” And how does Jesus respond?  At first by doing nothing. He stays right where he is and just offers this cryptic speech about things not being as bad as they appear and this really all being about the glory of God. 

In other words, he intentionally chooses to be late!  Even before we look ahead in the story, we suspect he might be too late.  And if at this point in the story you find yourself feeling frustrated, confused, let down by Jesus, you are right on track.  Remember, we’re watching this all unfold through Mary and Martha’s eyes, and clearly that’s how they felt by the time Jesus finally came into town.

          Let’s turn, then, to the second major part of the conversation, initiated by the sisters’ words: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”  Not only are you late, Jesus, but your tardiness has cost our brother his life!  Each woman speaks from her own perspective, with her own particular concerns. 

          First Martha, marching out to meet Jesus while her sister stays home, dissolved in tears.  So it’s the take-charge, practical sister on whose lips we first hear the words:  “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” You could have done something about it, says Martha.  You should have done something about it.  And what’s more, I believe you still can do something about it.  Both complaint and confidence are evident in Martha’s words.  She “evokes a Jewish tradition of faithful prayer—lament, which dares to take God by the lapels, as it were, and speak honestly about the pain of human experience.  [At the same time] her complaint is intertwined with her faith in Jesus’ power, for she clearly believes that Jesus could have done something about their desperate need had he been there, and even now God will give him whatever he asks.”[2] 

Jesus responds to Martha with words of promise that are at first misunderstood: “Your brother will rise again.” She seems to me to receive this with about as much enthusiasm as she would have mustered for that line about God being glorified through her brother’s terminal illness. “Sure, I know about the resurrection on the last day,” she seems to say, “now help me to understand what that has to do with my family, today.”  But then Jesus is able to reach her on a deeper level: “It’s about me, Martha.  I am the resurrection and the life.  Can you believe that?” And Martha responds with this tremendous statement of faith: “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”  Notice – Jesus stands there and takes her anger, receives her lament, allows her legitimate theological questions, and then offers her words of promise and hope she can actually hear. 

          It’s at this point that sister Mary takes center stage, leaving the house too to meet Jesus, and addressing him in the same way:  “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”  But if they are the same words, Mary seems to speak them not so much out of anger or frustration as through her tears. And having met Martha where she was, with great theological truths and words of promise, he now meets Mary where she is.  Himself “greatly disturbed in spirit,” the text says, and “deeply moved,” all he says is “where have you laid him?” And then he weeps.

          In English translations of this passage, the temptation has sometimes been to smooth over Greek verbs that indicate Jesus’ anger, agitation, and indignation,[3] as well as his grief.  As if we don’t think the Son of God ought to be that upset. But the biblical God doesn’t sit removed from the world simply observing it from a distance.  God doesn’t move us around like so many little pawns on a chess board, saying in a detached tone, “Hmm.  Lost another one.  Isn’t that interesting.”  No!  Ours is a God who stands with us, grieves with us, suffers with us when we are in pain.  The biblical God weeps bitterly over the tragedies of our world. 

Finally, of course, the conversation does bring Jesus and the two sisters as far as the tomb.  And there, in those final seven verses, Jesus answers their concerns decisively by turning away from them to address others.  First the onlookers with a command: “Take away the stone.” And then the dead man himself with a shout: “Lazarus, come out!”

Never mind that the ever-pragmatic Martha, in spite of her great statement of faith back in v. 27, was still concerned about the way the corpse would smell after four days.  It’s the “dilemma of all believers,” isn’t it?  Can we really “let go of the limits [we place] on what is possible in order to embrace the limitless possibilities offered by Jesus?”[4]  

Still Jesus insists: “Lazarus, come out!” And he does!  It’s overwhelming.  It’s magnificent.  But I bet any of you who have shared this particular Bible story with young children have had to do a bit of fancy footwork about this point – “No, honey, I’m sorry, but that’s not exactly what’s going to happen to Aunt Agnes.” I’ve got to tell you, I’m right in there with the kids on this one.  How many of us have watched someone we love slip away?  Not one of those times did Jesus of Nazareth march onto the scene four days later and invite our dear ones to rise up and rejoin our families. . .

          But perhaps it’s the timing issue that’s precisely the point for each of us latter-day Mary’s and Martha’s.  For John 11 seems to be at least as much about foreshadowing as it is about a particular family in first century Bethany. 

First and foremost, of course, it points us ahead toward the final chapters of John’s gospel.  As Frances Gench reminds us, “another death and resurrection is on the near horizon, for which we are now prepared.  We have stood in the presence of a tomb, a stone, and grave clothes.  We have heard, weeping, the question ‘where have you laid him?’ a prayer, and a loud cry.”[5]  We’ll be hearing them again before we know it.  And three days after Jesus dies, the one who calls himself “the resurrection and the life” will make good on his promise in a way that far surpasses even the raising of Lazarus.  For while Mary and Martha’s brother presumably died again sometime after this miraculous intervention, Jesus would rise to eternal life.

And if the raising of Lazarus foretells our Lord’s death and resurrection, it also speaks powerfully of life beyond death for every child of God.  Jesus makes it clear in his words to Martha: “Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live.” It’s as if it’s all been telescoped here in John 11. Obviously there’s a substantial gap between the four days these sisters wept for their brother and the length of time most of us will have to grieve before we are reunited.  But that gap is filled with hope, because the final scene for each of us will essentially be the same.  The reason this story gives us the chills is that when Jesus says “Lazarus, come out!” we can hear off in the distance the names of our own loved ones being called.  We believe that one day God will say to those we’ve lost, and ultimately to every entombed one of us: “Rise up!  Come out!” Stones will be rolled away right and left.  For with Jesus, the impossible has become possible.  And the world will never be the same.

 And as for all that waiting, before the big moment?  What’s up with Jesus’ lateness here, when his dear friend was so ill?  Tom Long puts it this way: “Not only will Jesus not allow illness and death to set his agenda, neither will Jesus allow death to be the ruler of time.  In the world as we know it, death is in charge of time.  When the hospital’s intercom crackles with the message ‘Code Blue,’ a signal that a patient has suddenly gone into cardiac arrest, all normal time ceases.  Physicans and nurses abruptly interrupt their customary duties and rush with emergency equipment to the afflicted patient.  Routines are halted; all other activities must wait.  Death has sounded the alarm, and all must urgently obey.

“But not Jesus.  He gets the ‘Code Blue’ on Lazarus… but Jesus does not respond to death’s timetable.  Jesus takes his time because, after all, it is his time.  He is Lord of the Sabbath, and he is the Lord over Monday and Thursday and all the ticking minutes and desperate seasons of life. …

“Jesus arrived in Bethany on his schedule, not death’s. 

For “God so loved the world.” Long continues, “that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him can change their clocks… 

When Jesus at last came calling on the little village of Bethany, it was the common verdict that he was woefully late.  But when Lazarus danced away from the tomb, … the whole world could see that Jesus was right on time.”[6]

Amen.