Sermons

Unbound

John Wilkinson	Third Presbyterian Church
March 9, 2008	John 11:1-45

    
Let us treat this morning’s gospel account in many ways, including as a compelling piece of literature. You’ve watched an acclaimed movie or play, or read an intricately crafted novel, and paid careful attention to plot and characterization. Let us do the same with the story of Lazarus.

Note first, to be sure, that the one whom this story is about, Lazarus, is silent throughout, even after his return to life.

There is, of course, Mary and Martha. We have encountered them before – Mary earlier had treated Jesus with kindness and hospitality while Martha remained in the kitchen, and had been criticized. There will be no such role debate here, but the simple recounting of sisterly grief and anguish, grief and anguish mixed with frustration at their Lord for seeming to delay his appearance.

There are the disciples. They are treating Jesus as a group of political handlers might, gauging the response as he moves from one location to another. They are worried about two groups, primarily. The first is the growing crowd of followers. They like what they see but they know it does not portend well. That is to say, as the crowd grows, so does the attention to the crowd.

If you read the verses following these, you will learn that the chief priests and the Pharisees ratchet up their concern because of what happens here. They are ever looming. Their concern is power, a concern wrapped in the guise of religious belief and practice. How could they not acknowledge and praise what is happening; yet they do not. They know that as Jesus’ power grows, theirs diminishes, and that simply will not do. We know where this is heading.

There are the Jews – a phrase that trips off the tongue these days because of our sensitivities. Remember, though, that this is an internal conversation within the Judaism of the moment. Here the Jews are consoling the sisters. Here they are glad when Jesus shows up, though they share the frustration that he did not do so earlier.

And there is Thomas. He gets one line. He will be a more central figure later, we know.

So, really, like every great story, and like every gospel account, it boils down to two characters – Jesus and us. As we have read with the story of the woman at the well, as we have read with the story of the blind man healed, as we have just read, these stories are not meant to establish fact, or analyze a healing process, or explain away a great mystery. Not at all.

They are written that we may believe. We, who did not have the benefit of the original, eyewitness experience. So that we may believe.

But first Jesus. We get details about him here. We get his seeming nonchalance at the news of Lazarus’ serious illness. No sense of emergency. No sense of urgency. Jesus loved Mary and Martha and Lazarus, we are told, but he is in no hurry. That seems odd, but it seems also to tell us something of his power and something of our anxiety.

And then, in the face of political threat, he heads to the scene. He reassures the disciples, just as he reassures Martha.

Note his compassion. We often joke about the shortest verse in the Bible – translated earlier as “Jesus wept” and now translated as “Jesus began to weep.” Discount its brevity but note its impact. A deep, deep compassion for those who are grieving, solidarity in the face of death that in my mind eclipses what will come.

The miracle of the woman at the well was in the very conversation Jesus had with her. The miracle of the blind man was that Jesus took him seriously, spoke with him when everyone else ostracized him, restored to him his dignity, of far greater value than restored sight.

Jesus has great compassion and sympathy for the grieving sisters and their community; it is that compassion that brings him to them, much more so than the desire to raise Lazarus from the dead.

So that when he tells the helpers to unbind Lazarus, it is surely a physical unbinding, wrappings and bandages and all the accessories needed for caring for a dead body. But it is more than that. Unbind him, and all of them, from their grief, from their dismay, from their anguish.

Daniel Clendenin writes that our faith is not a stoic faith. We are not to check our emotions at the door. And if we need convincing of that, read again the words of the 130th Psalm that we have read and sung already. “Out of the depths I cry to you – O God, hear my voice.”

Lazarus’ death is physical here; but there are other deaths as well laid out in this story. Poet Joy Cowley writes: “It just sneaks up on me/ and before I know it/ there’s been a kind of death,/ part of me wrapped in a shroud/ and buried in a tomb/ while the rest of me stands by/ wondering why the light has gone out.”

Martha believes in some later form of life beyond death, but she has no allusions about the present moment.

Cowley continues: “Then you, my Friend, all knowing,/ seek me out and knock/ at the edge of my heart/ calling me to come forth./ I argue that I can’t./ Death is death and I’m too far gone/ for story book miracles./ But you keep on calling…”

Even as Lazarus is unbound from his wrappings, Martha is unbound from her grief, Mary is as well. And the growing crowd of followers is unbound from their preconceived notions of what true faithfulness will look like, that moves beyond legalism and thirst for power and into true liberation, life full and free.

When Jesus weeps with us, it allows us to be released from all that binds us – fear and anxiety, dismay and hopelessness. Death will come and difficulty will come and hardship will come. But it will not define us, and it will not prevent us from living unbound lives.

Johann Franck composed words that Bach immortalized musically: “long has my heart been anxious…thunder roars and lightning flashes…yield, you spirits of sorrow.”

We know what lies ahead. We know that this Lazarus account is merely a precursor to the week that begins a week from today. As Charles Cousar writes, “the giving of life projects a future full of surprises, (so that) it turns out to be a menace to those who think they control the future.” (Texts for Preaching – Year A, page 227)

The forces of death are gathering in the face of Jesus’ compassionate, persistent witness for life. We know that Lazarus’ death points to another death. Focus on that unfolding we must.

But we also know that Lazarus’ raising points to another raising. Note even now Jesus’ compassion for those who need it. And note the words of Paul: “If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you” -- which it does – “(then) he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.”

Persistent, unbound, precious, joyous life. Now. Our journey, our promise, our hope. Amen.