Luke 11:1-44
Lazarus Unbound
March 9, 2008
Patrick Preheim
Dying was not the best experience of my life, but neither was it the worst. My name is Eleazer; my friends and family call me Lazarus. I have spent my fair share of time in the valley of bones, and in the dry desert, and in the tomb. The pictures I brought with me today tell something of my story. Literally, my name means “God helps” (see Raymond Browns Anchor Bible Commentary, p 422.). Sometimes God has helped me in the moment of my distress, and sometimes I have had to wait a little longer for God’s help. I learned a bit about God’s timing when I died for the first time.
At the time of my first death I was living on my own in Bethany, just a day’s journey from Jerusalem. This is also the home town of Mary and Martha-- the M & M sisters. They don’t run a meat shop, they aren’t chocolate covered candies, and they don’t rap. They run a perfume shop. I know this because Mary & Martha are my sisters. The illness which led to my death started with flu like symptoms: coughing, a fever, tiredness. None of this was unusual-- there was a lot of flu going around that winter. My cough and fever worsened, and soon I was bed ridden. Mary & Martha were willing to alternate spending time watching over me. My fever was really starting to heat up. I felt thirsty; I was burning up. I was in a bit of a delirium. In my subconscious state I remember them debating if and when they should send a message to let Jesus know that I was ill. Jesus was a gifted teacher, preacher, and healer. He had cured many sick people. He even had raised the dead (Jairus’s daughter Luke 8:41-42; Widow’s son Luke 7:11-15). We all were friends. I remember feeling relief at the thought of Jesus coming to cure what was ailing me. But you know something? He didn’t come. I need to share with you what was going on inside of me those last hours as I was waiting for Jesus.
I remember feeling abandoned. I assumed my friendship with Jesus would mean that he would prioritize my needs and come quickly. You see, Jesus had helped many who were not his friends. He had healed a Roman Centurion’s slave. He had cured the daughter of a synagogue leader. He had ministered to a Samaritan woman. None of these people were his friends. He even had healed some of them from a distance. I thought that surely my connection to Jesus would protect me from suffering and surely protect me from an untimely death. But I was wrong. I remember thinking, what is the point of being friends with Jesus if the friendship does not help my when I need it most? I felt abandoned.
When it became clear that Jesus would not miraculously heal me I began to grieve my mortality. I had been to enough funerals in Bethany that I knew I would one day die, but death always seemed so far away. I was most sorry as I thought about the relationships that were not right. I thought the on-going feud I had with Uncle Ben. I thought about my grievances with some members of our local synagogue. I was clear in my own mind about releasing them from any grudge I had, but I regretted not being able to make peace with them in person. My illness came on so quickly that I just didn’t have time to go see them, and I regretted not making amends while I still could. In those hours I truly understood that we are all in the process of dying, that death is a part of life. I recognized that I could have used my time better. Not by spending more time at work or spending more time on holidays, but by making sure that I had done the hard work necessary to die well.
I must also confess that in those hours I grieved my dwindling faith in God and my friend Jesus. I wanted to trust God. I found myself struggling to understand the meaning of my own death, the senseless suffering of those afflicted by drought / hail / or fire, the suffering of those at the hands of occupiers like the Roman army. Many of our stories from the law and prophets show that God works salvation over long periods of time. The children of Israel are enslaved at least a full generations before Moses appears. It takes 40 years wandering before my people entered the promised land. It took 60 years of exile before God brought my people back from Babylon. I could not wait 40 or 60 years to see the salvation of God, I needed help right then. I wanted to be healed by God, but I understood that God’s time is not always our time. I understood it and regretted it. And then I died.
Dying is not as bad as people think. I entered a wonderful state in which I had vivid dreams, all of which were comforting. I was also in an out of body state so that I could see the people I loved: I saw Mary, Martha, and Jesus. I heard them talk. I heard Mary and Martha greet Jesus. I heard the salt in Martha’s words, “Lord if you had been here my brother would not have died”. I heard the lofty title of “Lord” with which Mary greeted Jesus and wondered if she was mocking Jesus. I heard the weeping of Jesus. I wasn’t sure if Jesus was weeping on account of not having come on time, out of grief for not having said goodbye, out of anger that evil/ death are in our world, or on account of something else. I beheld the grief of Mary, Martha and Jesus and that comforted me.
The whole entourage of M &M, Jesus, and the community then moved to my tomb.
I heard some of the community ridiculing Jesus openly. Jesus seemed un-phased by
this, like it was all part of the contest with Satan and the forces of death.
Jesus asked that the stone of my tomb be rolled away. He then said a prayer. And
then I heard him call my name, “Lazarus, come out!”. Immediately I found myself
awakened from the coma. It was a bit hard to stand up with all the bandages, but
I managed to make my way out into the light.
It took me several days to recover from my illness and my stay in the tomb, but
I did recover. And now I live life in a slightly different way. For example, I
view every day as a day of grace. You simply do not know if tomorrow you die of
an aneurism, or if you will lose control of your ox cart on an icy road, or if
your will be hit by an out of control ox cart, or if you will die of something
else. Every day is a day of grace since my first death. I don’t have time for
regrets or grudges anymore. Life is too short to be angry at other people. So, I
let my anger go to God and confess my errors when I am at fault. I did not like
how it felt to die with unresolved conflicts, so now I clean the slate. If
others want to carry that baggage that is their business, I live my life trying
to be at peace with others and God.
I have also learned that God’s time is not my time, and that is fine. Sometimes
it takes 40 years, 60 years, or a generation for God to work a miracle.
Sometimes it takes 4 days. I have come to appreciate anew God’s ability to bring
new life to bones, to bring vegetation out of desert waste, to bring the dead
from the tomb. I will confront evil and injustice in our world, but ultimately
God will take care of things in God’s time. God doesn’t even need me to believe
that a miracle is possible. Does Ezekiel believe the bones can breathe? Did I
believe I would be raised from the dead? Did the early Hebrews believe the
Egyptians would let them go? Beyond what I believe or do is the reality of God,
and I have learned that I can never, never underestimate the Lord God. God will
create and do things I could never believe or imagine. And in my darkest moments
of misery and unbelief I am comforted by the experience of God who transcends
mortality.
I have learned that I need not be afraid of death. There is a certain amount of confidence that comes from having already died once. When I hear the neighbours arguing across the street I simply go across and ask if everything is all right. In a worst case scenario one of them will turn on me, lash out at me, and threaten me. Usually the couple just looks at me and they calm down. When I see a woman or man crying I simply stop and ask if they need to talk. It doesn’t matter if they are Samaritan, Phoenician, or aboriginal. People sometimes talk, sometimes they tell me things are o.k., sometimes they tell me off. I am trying to do what is right in this world. And when I see a Roman officer acting violently against one of the people I go over and try to intervene in some way-- with words and putting myself in path of the whip or whatever. It hurts a bit, but I am not afraid to die. I just think to myself, “Ha! I have already died once! Do your worst!” Death has lost its sting and that gives me a lot of space to care for people.
I am not sure how many of you have died once, so I don’t know if this makes
sense. All I can say is that dying is really o.k. If you haven’t died to those
things that keep you captive (vices, fear of others, or fear of death), I would
say you are missing out. Since my first death I have felt such freedom. I know
God loves me and nothing can separate me from that love. Forces of Satan may try
to hurt me, place me in a tomb, or let my bones bleach in a desert. Forces of
Satan often try using my insecurities, doubts, and fears to hurt myself and
others. God keeps after me to save when I am in danger or a danger to myself.
God is larger than our biggest flaws, our biggest conflicts, our biggest doubts.
This is good news. And sometimes this is news we only understand after we have
died once. That is my story for today. May the grace and peace of Jesus Christ
be with you. Amen.