“Love Weeps”

All Saints’ Sunday

NOvember 7, 2021

Isaiah 25:6-9

John 11:32-44

I find this story of Lazarus frustrating. If we had read the whole chapter, we would have heard how someone from Bethany came to Jesus while Lazarus was sick, begging him to come and heal him. And Jesus waits. He waits until word comes that Lazarus has died before he travels to Bethany. And then he has the audacity to stand there and weep. The man who had prevented other deaths could have prevented this one. He could have prevented it with just a word. He didn’t even have to physically be there to heal Lazarus. But he chose to wait. To wait, and then to weep.

I don’t get it. And yet, Mary and Martha give him the benefit of the doubt. “Lord, had you been here, my brother would not have died.” How many times have we said the same as we mourn the loss of a loved one? “Lord, you could have healed them. You could have changed the outcome. You could have done something. But instead, you did nothing. And it’s no comfort to know that while I’m weeping, you’re weeping. It doesn’t help to know how sad you are when you could have changed this.”

There is a lot going on here, and grief can’t be reasoned with. We try in so many ways to ease grief—and guilt. We avoid the words ‘death’ and ‘died,’ trying to lighten the way in which we tell others. They passed away. They’re with their Lord. They have shed this earthly existence. God received another angel. The further we get from the reality of death, the further we walk into terrible theology, trying to ease the pain with words. Trying to avoid the harsh truth of death.

And yet, our words can’t change what is right in front of us. People die. People die even when it could have been prevented. People die senselessly. People die because of accidents, violence, neglect, and simply as a course of life. People die. Our loved ones die. There’s no getting around it. Even after he came forth from the tomb, Lazarus died…again. And perhaps violently, considering how angry the religious leaders became at the news of his resurrection. If we were to read on, the rest of the chapter tells about the council of religious leaders who were concerned about this event. They decided that it would be better for one man, Jesus, to die than for Rome to destroy the Temple and the nation of Israel before the people rise up against Rome, led by the Messiah.

And when Lazarus shows up in Jerusalem at Passover, they decide it might be good for TWO men to die in order to assure peace. Because a dead man walking around is proof. But if the proof is dead, then surely nothing really happened. And the people will again have nothing to believe in.

It’s ironic, actually. While people are generally terrified of death, these leaders are terrified of life—specifically life restored by a man claiming to be the Messiah…and doing the work of the Messiah. They are afraid because they have built a comfortable system within which they can operate. As long as they keep the people complacent, they can reap some benefits from both the people and from Rome. But it’s a fine line they walk, and they have to take care not to anger one side or the other—or both. They have to stop Jesus—and stop Lazarus—before too many people realize what’s happening. Or Rome will bear its full weight against this little country, and the religious leaders will become collateral damage. They fear the life of Lazarus because they fear their own death and destruction.

How many times do we make decisions from a fearful point of view? How often do we let our fears determine our actions? Afraid of failing, we never take a chance at a job or a relationship or an opportunity. Afraid of losing our position, we choose our own comfort over compassion for someone begging to be seen or heard. Afraid of losing our way of life or even our church, we choose to maintain a status quo rather than risking it all to say what needs to be said or do what needs to be done. Afraid of death, we choose not to live. Afraid of losing ourselves, we find ways to put off our mourning and grief—denying the weight of death.

But today, this All Saints’ Sunday, we plant ourselves firmly in the reality of death. We lift up the names of those who have died. We recognize that they aren’t coming back. And we weep openly at that truth. Because it’s okay to not be okay. This is a safe place to not be okay. It is a safe place to admit our fears and our failings. It is a safe place to say “I was wrong; I don’t know; I need help; I’m sorry.” Because it is only through death—the death of a body, the death of a dream, the death of a possibility—that new life can rise.

But be assured that new life does, indeed, spring forth. Resurrection is a promise that does not go away. Death is never the last word, regardless how final it may feel. There is always life on the other side. Always.

So, why did Jesus weep? Simply because his friend died. No matter his plans to bring him from the grave, death is sad. And Jesus wept because that’s what love does. Love hopes for new life, but love still grieves death. Fully and completely. Love weeps, not out of hopelessness but out of compassion. And when the weeping has come to an end, when the tears have dried up, we can look again and know that the life God has promised is still there, blossoming from an empty tomb. And death has not won. Fear has not won. Love wins.

Pastor Tobi White

Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church

Lincoln, NE