Luke 24.13-35

I wonder if, like me, you have ever found yourself coming to a realisation about a situation or problem you cannot understand, but the solution to which, suddenly becomes so obvious? You know, times like when you are shouting at the vacuum cleaner because, despite the fact you’ve taken it apart, cleaned out the filter and emptied the bag, it just won’t work – and then, after half an hour of exasperation, you realise you haven’t turned on the power at the plug socket?

Duh!

Or how about, when you are trying to switch over for the six o’clock news and the TV remote just won’t do what it is supposed to – but then the person you are watching television with points out that you are trying to change the channel using the telephone handset?

Duh!

A great word that has fallen into common usage – Duh! And I am finding that I am saying it to and about myself more and more often!

“Duh” has become a word that indicates that we can’t believe that people (including ourselves) don’t get it!

But isn’t it heartening to find that even Jesus’ closest friends and didn’t always get it. After the Resurrection some of the disciples asked Jesus whether he was now going to revive the political state of Israel and drive the Romans out. Jesus had spent a good deal of time describing the sort of kingdom he wished to establish. He’d told them that the kingdom was not of this world. He’d said that it was “within you.” They didn’t get it! Duh!

We can imagine the disciples’ brows wrinkling as they tried to absorb words that didn’t seem to make an awful lot of sense. Like most of the rest of us, we have enough of a job trying to figure out the things we see, feel, and touch. Things “not of this world,” “kingdoms within us,” are beyond what most of us think we experience. It’s very easy for the “religious” part of religion to become a sort of story like Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings – comforting tales, but not anything we expect to actually experience.

Our readings today focus our attention on how the first Christians thought about and experienced Jesus. Remember, these accounts were written many years after the events described and almost inevitably, when people try to write down details about something that happened in the past, they include a good deal about what has happened since.

In the lesson from Acts, St. Luke, the non-Jewish historian, seeks to translate into the experiences of Gentile Christians things that happened when the infant church was completely Jewish. St. Peter tells the crowd that “this Jesus whom you crucified” is both “Lord and Messiah.” It’s very hard for us to get into our heads what “Lord and Messiah” means. In twenty first century Britain, the phrase Lord is often associated with some rich landowner or someone given a place at Westminster. And as for Messiahs – well, anyone claiming to be that would be gently guided back to their simply furnished room in a suitable institution.

To Gentiles the word “lord” meant the Emperor in Rome who claimed to be a god. By calling Jesus “lord” the church was telling the Emperor that Jesus was their emperor, their supreme ruler. “Jesus is Lord” was both truth telling and a challenge to the ruthlessness of political power.

The word “messiah” was used in a number of ways to describe a unique person who would bring to a head everything God planned for his Chosen People. By calling Jesus “messiah” the church was announcing that God had finally revealed his plan for the human race in and through Jesus.

All this is pretty heady stuff. But, how does it relate to us all today, as we struggle with relationships, work, and a world at war?

In the account of Peter’s great sermon and in the Gospel for today, St. Luke brings things down to earth for us. When Peter stopped preaching, those who believed gathered for the breaking of bread and the prayers. They were unified and energized as they gathered in the “apostles teaching and fellowship.” Somehow all the teaching about who Jesus was and is comes to life when thought about and prayed about together and particularly when we share the bread and the wine. So often we think we have to understand and apply the faith alone, in some personal way. When we think like that, the church becomes something we attend, or leave, or grumble about.

Perhaps we think of the church as a place to entertain us and instruct our children. Sometimes we “church shop” for a place that suits our needs.

In reality, the church is a gathering of “called and chosen” people, who seek to understand the faith together, share the journey together, and obey the commandment to “tell others” their experiences of Jesus as Lord and Messiah.

After the crucifixion some disciples were walking away from Jerusalem. They were shattered. They’d put their hope and trust in the man from Nazareth. After years roaming the country with this man who seemed so good, he’d been arrested and executed. The disciples had now to go back home and face their friends, who might well say “Duh.” Now they’d have to “shop” for another sort of religious experience.

But of course, as we heard, a stranger approached them and asked them why they looked so gloomy and they told him! The stranger began to explain how everything that had happened was meant to happen. He might have begun by saying “Duh!”

Perhaps the disciples were now beyond sermons, beyond “Bible Study” and prayers. Just like Episcopalians, they hadn’t lost their good manners. When the party arrived in the village, they invited the stranger to join them for dinner. And when that stranger broke the bread and gave thanks for the wine, “they knew it was the Lord.”

Ever since that time, we Christians have found that in gathering together around the Lord’s Table we meet the Lord and Messiah. This doesn’t mean that all our questions are answered or our problems solved. Some questions can’t be answered and some problems can’t be solved. That’s hard for us to believe.

Yet in the fellowship of the church what we hear read to us sometimes warms our hearts. In the communion of saints our hearts are often warmed as Bread and Wine become for us the very Presence of the Living Jesus who is the Lord of all and the Saviour of all. Together, in the energy of Jesus’ being, we gain the strength together to tackle the problems of our wider communities.

Coming together to this table revives our church fellowship. In that revival we speak faith to those who have no faith, justice to those who suffer from injustice, healing to those who are no longer whole. We feed, shelter, and love those who can’t manage the complexity of modern life. Then we discover that the Jesus we meet in bread and wine comes to us equally truly in the shape of the poorest outcast, repulsive in shape, wracked with disease. “I was hungry and you fed me,” he whispers.

We know it is the Lord.

John 20.19-31

As faithful Christians, one of our greatest blessings is the freedom to admit that we are sometimes full of doubt.

Now that might sound like rather a strange thing for somebody to say from the pulpit, because some people identify doubt with having a lack of faith. But actually, if you think about it, doubt and faith are two sides of the same coin. They are the Ying and Yang, if you would, of the Christian life.

Doubt is not the opposite of faith; it is in fact, an element of faith. Rather than suppress our doubts, we should explore them and allow them to set us on a journey of discovery and a deepening of our beliefs and convictions.

In our Gospel reading today, Thomas asked for proof, and don’t we also sometimes want proof as well – proof that our faith is not in vain?

Thomas often gets a bit of a bad rap for doubting the resurrection of Jesus; but actually, he was no more doubtful than the other disciples.

They too didn’t believe that Jesus had risen until he appeared to them, so why should we expect Thomas to be any different?

In fact, we should applaud Thomas for his insistence on wanting tangible proof. After all, Thomas was well aware that Jesus wasn’t the first messianic figure on the scene to be crucified by the Roman occupiers. Thomas showed great religious restraint and demonstrated the proper amount of rational doubt.  But when Jesus appeared to him, Thomas proclaimed without reservation, “My Lord, and my God.”

Doubt can be a wonderful tool that propels us into deeper learning, earnest soul searching, and spiritual revelation. Faith based on absolute certainty leads to fanaticism, but faith tempered with doubt is mature and stable.

Many believers struggle with their own doubts brought about by life’s unpredictability and tempestuous nature. We have very real struggles in our lives that generate an uncertainty about where God is to be found in all the turmoil.

Sometimes we look to spiritual giants, the superstars of Christianity, and feel inferior in our own personal walk in comparison. But you know, the ‘greatest’ in God’s Kingdom sometimes deal with the greatest doubt.

Mother Teresa’s diary reveals a saintly person who struggled with a type of doubt that would crush the faint of heart. She wrote to her spiritual confidant, in 1979, “Jesus has a very special love for you. As for me, the silence and the emptiness is so great that I look and do not see, listen and do not hear.”

For the last nearly half-century of her life Mother Teresa said that she felt no presence of God whatsoever – neither in her heart or in the Eucharist. That absence seems to have started at almost precisely the time she began tending the poor and dying in Calcutta and – except for a five-week break in 1959 – and it appears never to have abated.

Although perpetually cheery in public, Mother Teresa lived in a state of deep and abiding spiritual pain. She bemoans the “dryness,” “darkness,” “loneliness” and “torture” she was undergoing. She compares the experience to hell and at one point says it had driven her to doubt the existence of heaven and even of God.  Nevertheless, she continued to love the least in God’s creation and dedicate her life to Christ to the very end.

Mother Teresa isn’t alone in her struggle with doubt. The Polish-born Jewish-American author Isaac Bashevis Singer states that doubt is part of all religion, that all the religious thinkers were doubters. The art critic Robert Hughes said, “The greater the artist, the greater the doubt. Perfect confidence is granted to the less talented as a consolation prize.”

Catholic priest and theologian Henri Nouwen wrote, “So I am praying while not knowing how to pray. I am resting while feeling restless, at peace while tempted, safe while still anxious, surrounded by a cloud of light while still in darkness, in love while still doubting.”

Despite Fr. Nouwen’s own struggle with doubt, he was able to mentor and encourage countless thousands through his writings, lectures, and sermons. One particular quote from a book of his has been a lifeboat for many who find themselves overcome with the waves of life’s stormy doubts: “Have the courage to trust that you will not fall into an abyss of nothingness, but into the embrace of a God whose love can heal all your wounds.”

Faith is a daily, ongoing exercise. It is a risk. Doubts arise. We struggle with God. And hopefully, faith grounded in the goodness of God triumphs — even when we do not have all the answers and life doesn’t make sense.

Will we believe in a God of love who wants to be near us and has our best interest at heart? Or will we believe in a God who plays games with us, and is ultimately cruel and uncaring? Will we believe in a God who stands beside us in our troubles, or one who is distant and difficult?

The author of Hebrews writes, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” Faith is not void of doubt, but requires a daily commitment to developing our spiritual walk despite life’s uncertainties and sometimes cruelties.

Faith doesn’t take away our doubts but is strengthened by them.  And faith doesn’t deliver us from our problems and heartaches but gives us the strength to persevere through them and lead others as well as they navigate around the abyss of nothingness.

And so, may His resurrection power be at work in our lives as we learn to allow our doubts to strengthen our faith.

Amen.

ALLELUIA! Christ is risen!

He is risen indeed! ALLELUIA!

Easter is one of those occasions on which most of us come to church already knowing the story. Because of our familiarity with the Easter narrative, some of us might be tempted to let our minds wander during the reading of the scriptures. There is certainly no shortage of things in our church competing for our attention on Easter morning: everybody dressed in their Sunday best; the smell of lilies wafting from the arrangement; the Easter banners and perhaps even the polished brass of the candlesticks and cross can distract us. Still, as Christians, we ought not to underestimate the power of scripture, no matter how familiar they are to us.

Each of this morning’s readings declares something of the richness of that eternal life into which we walk with the Risen Christ this day – and every day of our lives.

From the Acts of the Apostles, we hear Peter preaching the message of God’s peace in Jesus Christ. “God raised him on the third day and allowed him to appear . . . to us who were chosen by God as witnesses . . . He commanded us to preach to the people and to testify.” Here, in the full light of the Resurrection, Peter is doing precisely what Jesus told him to do – witnessing to it.

From the Letter to the Colossians, we hear the assurance that we are raised with Christ. There is no more waiting. We are inheritors of resurrection life now. So, when it comes to being compassionate, kind, humble, patient, and loving, there’s no time like the present.

This morning, in our gospel we hear that Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb and sees that the stone has been rolled away from it. With the news that the Lord’s body is gone, she runs to Peter and John (or, as he’s called here, “the disciple whom Jesus loved”). Deciding that they need to see it for themselves, these two disciples run to the tomb and find it empty, just as Mary said they would. The linen wrappings are lying right there inside, but there is no body to be found.

One thing we might miss if we are not careful, is that Mary Magdalene, Peter, and John each have a different reaction to the empty tomb.

John, the text tells us, “saw and believed” as soon as he entered the tomb. Until this point, the disciples had not understood what had been told to them – that Jesus must rise from the dead. Apparently, this is when it clicks for John – right as it’s unfolding before his eyes.

As for Peter, the scripture isn’t as explicit. Maybe he gets it. Maybe he doesn’t. It would seem as though he has some more thinking to do. He and John both return home.

Mary, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to get it at all. At least, not yet. And can she be expected to, amid the shock of these pre-dawn hours? It’s no wonder she remains at the tomb to weep. Thinking his body has been carried away, she is left to lament the fact that she has lost Jesus a second time.

It can be tempting for us to try to identify with the major players in this or any of our more familiar scriptures. In search of a way to connect at a deeper level with prominent biblical figures, we may find ourselves wanting to determine which ones we are most similar to and why. This is the sort of thing we do when we ask ourselves, “Am I a Mary or a Martha?” when we hear the familiar account of Jesus visiting the sisters’ home in Bethany.

There is nothing inherently wrong with the desire to relate to a particular individual in this or any other biblical passage. But by doing so, we can run the risk of limiting our perspective when instead we are called to expand it – perhaps in this case by finding points of connection with several of the people we encounter.

Take for example the three disciples we meet today. Are we not, each of us, a combination of John, Peter, and Mary Magdalene? It might depend on the season of our life, or our time and location along the path of our Christian journey.

We are John when we see something and believe it. We are John when the object of our heart’s desire dawns on us in real-time, when the realisation of it causes all the jigsaw pieces to fall right into place. We are John when we arrive on Easter morning without one shadow of a doubt that Jesus is risen.

We have a dear member in our own congregation who is lying in a hospital bed in Raigmore who is John. She is certain and determined in her belief in the resurrection of Jesus from the dead and in the promise of eternal life.

We are all John when we rest certain and secure in the bonds of our belief.

But we are sometimes Peter when we are not quite as certain. Peter when it takes just a little longer to sort it all out.

There is a story told of a young girl, of about five years old, who went to Sunday School and church with her grandmother one Easter morning. On the way, her grandmother explained to her the story of Jesus’ resurrection, including his death on Good Friday. “Then, early on Sunday morning,” she said, “he came back to life!” The little girl stared up at her grandmother with a look teetering on the soft edge between innocence and confusion and exclaimed “Yeah right Grandma – ‘course he did!”

Apparently, she needed a little bit more time to think things over.

And of course, at other times we are Mary – when our grief overcomes our ability to make sense of the mystery of eternal life. We are Mary when a loved one dies and our grief overwhelms our other senses. From time to time, and for good reason, we all lose the ability to perceive something that is right in front of us, even if that something is the presence of God.

We find ourselves, each of us, in different places on our Christian journey at different times. And that’s absolutely OK – even on Easter Day.

You might well be able to run toward the empty tomb with an undefended heart, predisposed to belief even before you get a look at the evidence. Or perhaps once you arrive, you’ll need to turn away in confusion. You simply might need to take some time to sort out what’s happened and then come back later. And all that’s OK, too.

None of our possible responses changes the truth of the matter – that whoever you are, wherever you are, Jesus is right there by your side. You may not always perceive him. But He is there, nonetheless. He is waiting to say your name, and – even when you least expect it – to remind you of the faith you have deep inside. That faith which can only have been instilled by the one through whom all things were made. That faith which is all that is necessary to go out and proclaim the One who lives.

As Christians all throughout the world gather on this night, there is a shift in time itself. 

When we gather for this holy night, we pray:

This is the night, when you brought our ancestors, the children of Israel, out of bondage in Egypt, and led them through the Red Sea on dry land. This is the night, when all who believe in Christ are delivered from the gloom of sin, and are restored to grace and holiness of life. This is the night, when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell, and rose victorious from the grave.

This is the night. Like at that dawn so many generations ago, heaven and earth meet. We are given eyes to see and ears to hear the wonder of what God has done. We hear the stories of our faith and witness the God who has pursued us throughout history. God has chased us down, through desert and dry valley and flood and fire. This is the night.

But also…

This is a night that is a night like so many others. A night in which the dripping tap still leaks, and the knees ache, and the baby cries. A night when the electricity bill is due, and the car breaks down, and we wished there might be more people in church. A night where there is love and passion, as well as disappointment and grief. 

Time stops—and time goes on. Our lives are wrapped up in eternity and unfold in the very ordinary sequence of seconds, minutes, hours, and days. The night in which heaven and earth touch is unlike any other night, and it is also just like every other night. God comes to us in our lives as we live them. The rules of gravity are not suspended, but also, maybe, we can feel a little lighter. 

There are times when it seems that we are facing the impossible. Maybe “the impossible” is not the place where God has deserted us, but rather is the place where we can know even more surely that God is with us. We are here, gathered at this altar, hearing this good news, because Christ is here. Christ is everywhere.

The resurrection means that God’s presence with humanity cannot be confined by anything. In Jesus, God came to be with us: a first-century, Jewish, male carpenter. But the presence of the holy is not confined to any landscape, to any profession, to any life circumstance, to any gender.

The resurrection happens within and beyond particularity. Jesus Christ, fully human and fully divine, means that God has broken every convention of time and space, in order to be with us. There is nowhere that Christ cannot go, no rupture so deep that God cannot bridge it. 

This is not something we always remember. Sometimes, life is so painful, our suffering so deep, it is hard to believe that anyone has ever experienced anything as devastating. 

That was certainly true for Mary Magdalene and “the other Mary.” The women in our Gospel for today went to the tomb early—to pray, maybe, to try to drill into their minds what had actually happened. Maybe they wanted to be in a place where they didn’t think God could go—maybe they were angry with God. 

The women had been with Jesus from early in his ministry. They were witness to his ministry and teaching, as well as to his suffering. Maybe they just couldn’t believe what had happened, maybe they felt half-dead with loss and grief, and so they went to be in that place of death. They didn’t expect to find anything there—it was a place of nothingness and loss: a location of absence. They went to the place where Jesus was not. 

The angel says, 

“Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples. ‘He has been raised from the dead.’”

The angel brings impossible news.

The women have come looking for Jesus, expecting to have some comfort, however cold, at being by the place where he was laid. They are hoping for a place to remember and grieve for all that their friend gave them. But that is not what happens. 

When the angel appears, the guards faint, but the women are steadfast. They listen and then, with fear and great joy, they go to tell the others. 

And then something curious happens. On their way to Galilee—bursting with this amazing news—Jesus comes to them. It’s almost like he couldn’t wait! He is on his own way to Galilee, but before he leaves, he stops to see them one more time. They worship him, and again he tells them to share the news.

Jesus goes on to Galilee ahead of Mary and Mary Magdalene, just as he goes on ahead of all of us, into the future. Even we face that future with fear or foreboding, we are given this promise: Jesus will be there. 

“Galilee” can stand for so much: Galilee is the place on the other side of the medical test, the other side of the funeral, the bankruptcy, the accident. The graduation, the birth, the wedding. Whether we meet the future with joy or grief, Jesus is there. 

Jesus Christ is the anointed and beloved child of God, with us in suffering, with us in healing, and with us in joy. The one who has faced all things has gone ahead of us. The power of death had no power over him. The angel came in an earthquake to open the tomb, in order to show the women, that it was empty but Jesus was already gone before the stone was rolled away. 

“Galilee” is our own future—unknowable except for one thing: Jesus is there. 

Jesus is ready to welcome us into whatever future awaits us. He welcomes us, in solidarity, to every moment, every circumstance, every question that he has already endured. He welcomes us in every tear, every peal of laughter. He is walking beside us. Alleluia.

On Maundy Thursday the stage is being set for the final drama of Jesus’ mission. Judas has gone to the chief priests to make a deal in which he will hand Jesus over to them. This term, this ‘handing over’ is something of a refrain that appears throughout the Gospel and reaches a climax here. Remember, John the Baptist was ‘handed over’ and now we see Jesus being handed over – the term occurs three times in today’s passage. Later, the followers of Jesus will also be handed over into the hands of those who want to put an end to their mission.

We all know that Judas sells his master, hands him over, for thirty pieces of silver, though only the gospel writer Matthew mentions the actual sum given to Judas.

What people will do for money!

And Judas is not alone. What he did is happening every day. Perhaps in some way we, too, have betrayed and handed over Jesus more than once. Maybe not in such an explicit way as Judas, but perhaps much more subtly. Think about the last time you bought a particular item for example, and you chose a less costly version of the product to save some money. Did you explore how that particular item was made so cheaply? Was everyone involved in the process treated fairly and justly? Not quite like the betrayal of Jesus as Judas did, but it’s still worth thinking about.

On the first day of the Feast of Unleavened Bread, Jesus’ disciples ask him where he wants to celebrate the Passover. Little do they know the significance of this Passover for Jesus – and for them.

The Feast of Unleavened Bread and the Passover are closely linked, but there is a distinction between them. The Passover was the commemoration of the Israelites being liberated from slavery in Egypt, their escape through the Red Sea, and the beginning of their long journey to the Promised Land. The feast began at sunset after the Passover lamb had been sacrificed in the temple on the afternoon of the 14th day of the month Nisan. Associated with this, on the same evening was the eating of unleavened bread – the bread that Jesus would lift up, saying over it “This is my Body”. The eating of this bread continued for a whole week as a reminder of the sufferings the Israelites underwent and the hastiness of their departure. It was a celebration of thanks to God for the past and to bring hope for the future.

And during the meal with his followers, Jesus drops the bombshell: “One of you is about to betray me (in the Greek, ‘hand me over’). It is revealing that none of them points a finger at someone else. “Is it I, Lord?” Each one realises that he is a potential betrayer of Jesus. And, in fact, at some point during this crisis they will all abandon him.

And of course it isn’t one of his many enemies who will hand Jesus over. No, it is one of the Twelve, it is someone who has dipped his hand into the same dish with Jesus, as a sign of friendship and solidarity.

All of this has been foretold in the Scriptures but how sad it is for the person who has to take this role, even though it is a role he has deliberately chosen. There is a certain cynicism when Judas asks with an air of injured innocence, “Not I, Rabbi, surely?” “They are your words,” is Jesus’ brief reply.

The whole approaching drama is now set in motion.

And so, over the coming three days, let us watch carefully not just as spectators but as participants. We too have so often betrayed Jesus, we too have so often broken bread with Jesus and perhaps have sold him for money, out of ambition, out of greed, out of anger, hatred, revenge or even sometimes out of willful ignorance for our own personal gain.

Each day we face a choice. We can, like Judas, either abandon him in despair or, like Peter, come back to him with tears of repentance.

John 11.1-45

Our gospel reading today, like the whole of Lent, is a sort of dress rehearsal for what is coming.

 This story appears only in John’s gospel, and it’s the action of Jesus that sets in motion his death and resurrection. And, appropriately, it’s about the death of his good friend Lazarus, and Jesus’ bringing him back into earthly life.

Now if you Google ‘Lazarus tomb’ you will probably get a photo of the place in Bethany where tradition tells us that this miracle – this last of John’s seven signs – happened. It’s a hole in a rock wall, down about knee level, and just big enough for a person to get through. You have to bend down about double to get in, and I understand that coming out of it requires almost gymnastic ability. You have to come out head first, maneuvering along the rocks, trying not to scrape your back as you look up and emerge. If tradition is right and it really is the tomb of Lazarus, then he didn’t walk out like a man released from prison. He came out like a baby being born again, first his poor wrapped face, then his bandaged hands, and finally his feet.

And isn’t this a great image for how we can all sometimes feel? All wrapped up in the issues that life throws our way – just wishing to break free?  

Lazarus was the brother of Martha and Mary, some of Jesus’ closest friends. When Lazarus became ill, they sent word to Jesus, but he waited for two days before he came to them. Of course, he knew what was going to happen, but for Martha and Mary his delay must have caused great hurt. ‘Lord, if you would have been here our brother would not have died.’ These words contain faith in the power of Jesus, and love of their brother, and blame, too. How many of us do the same when a loved one dies, second guessing or even blaming ourselves. If only we’d acted differently – called the doctor sooner, taken them to a different hospital, made a different decision about treatment; maybe we even harbour some blame for the medical team.

For Martha and Mary, Jesus would have been the difference. After Martha says this to Jesus, there’s an exchange about resurrection. Jesus says ‘I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me shall not die, but have everlasting life.’

Or, perhaps, ‘I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me will come to life, and everyone who is alive and believes in me shall never die at all.’ Martha speaks of resurrection as something that will happen in the future – we’ve heard this idea so often. Most of us were taught that taught that believing in Jesus is like some sort of coupon for eternal life. Later on, when we need it, it will get us into heaven.

But, you know, Jesus didn’t speak of the future here. Not ‘I will give you eternal life.’ He spoke in the present. ‘I AM the resurrection and the life.’ Those who trust in him begin their eternal lives now.

Martha and Mary and all the rest are crying, wailing, in grief. ‘Jesus wept’ – or ‘Jesus began to cry’ – and at first those around Jesus say ‘see how much he loved him.’ But Jesus already knew he’d bring Lazarus back. The Greek word used for what Jesus did is different. The others were wailing, but Jesus teared up and wept. Jesus wept that Mary and Martha and all the rest who were wailing didn’t get it.

Here it was the end of Jesus ministry – they were some of his closest friends – and they still didn’t get it.

So Jesus went to the tomb.

Now, I don’t use the King James Version of the Bible often, But I read recently about how it translates the raising of Lazarus. Jesus, after weeping and being emotionally moved, commands those around him to open Lazarus’ tomb. There’s instant protest. Lazarus had been dead for a few days, and everyone knew that rolling that stone away wouldn’t be pretty. As the King James version puts it, Martha calls out: But Lord, he stinketh! I love that.

Anyway, then, Jesus showed them what he meant. He said: ‘Lazarus, come out!’ Lazarus had most certainly gone on, in those four days he’d been dead, into the bright light of God’s heart. Yet, he came back when his friend Jesus asked him. He crawled through that small, dark, rough hole and stumbled out into the light of Jesus.

Perhaps this raising of Lazarus isn’t something that Jesus did to Lazarus; perhaps he did it with him. To show the others that life and death in Christ’s eternal time aren’t as separate as we might think.

That those boundaries are indeed permeable. That faith moves us through the dark tunnels of our lives into the light. Over and over again.

Interviews with people who have been resuscitated after being pronounced clinically dead often reveal that, first, they may evidently get a glance of a figure of light waiting for them on the other side, and then they note that they are very reluctant to be brought back again to this one. On the other hand, when Lazarus opened his eyes to see the figure of Jesus standing there in the daylight beside him, he couldn’t for the life of him tell which side he was on.

Christ is our light; eternal light, both now and forever. And, isn’t this story about Lazarus actually what the whole of Lent is about? It’s a short time of darkness before the light of Easter. We act out the truth of life, seen through the lens of our faith. Year after year, we experience this rebirth.

And, it doesn’t always have to be dark. Sometimes, it can be full of inspiration that isn’t quiet or sombre. Rather, the hope that’s ours in faith is a constant. It’s a re-focusing, re-energizing and re-directing our life. It carries us through life’s tunnels as light that isn’t just the beacon at the end, but as illumination that’s always here, with us.

The good news here is not that miracles happen. The good news in such stories is that vitality, new life, is possible for us, promised to us in fact, even now, in face of our private doubts and fears and the reality of our public world, a world enthralled with the ways of war and death. It happens all the time. Any time we have a loss – illness, death, divorce, the end of a relationship, a job, we notice wrinkles and know that we can never look the way we once did – life is absolutely full of losses of every type and size – we heal and renew ourselves as someone more complete, more whole, closer to God. We emerge from the tunnel of darkness and chaos reborn.

This episode in John’s gospel is a metaphor for life itself. It’s about trust in what God can and does do for us, over and over. The hope that isn’t naïve, passive, wishful thinking, but hearty, robust, joyful confidence in God’s presence.  

It’s about eternal life now. Amen.