Fifth Sunday of Lent Reflection

Last week we celebrated Laetare Sunday, which is all about being joyful as we approach the end of Lent and the promise of Resurrection. But I think that despite the considerable references to death in today’s readings they give us even more reasons to rejoice. At first glance you might not think so, to some extent they almost seem like bad scripts to horror movies, dead bodies rising from graves, life given to mortal bodies, and most incredibly a man, four days dead and wrapped in burial cloths, emerging from a tomb. It all sounds kind of creepy—like “Night of the Living Dead” or “Frankenstein.” Hollywood loves zombies, and more recently vampires and all manner of the undead. So apparently, do we, if box office receipts and the lines to buy the "New Moon" DVD are any indication.

Someone unfamiliar with such stories and the scriptures we hear today might dismiss them as fantasies in the creative and morbid mind of a novelist or screenwriter. But sometimes it is the familiarity with these readings that cause us to dismiss them as well—especially the account of the raising of Lazarus. Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard it before, many times, Jesus calls Lazarus from the tomb, can we sit down now? This gospel reading is long and our attention spans short. But it is a richly layered story, dense with meaning—much of which I can’t even begin to explore in this reflection. I must have read this at least a dozen times in the last couple weeks, and each time I found both deeper meaning and less certainty of what it is all about.

If you could for a moment, imagine yourself in Bethany. Perhaps you are a friend or an acquaintance of Mary and Martha, and you too are saddened by the death of their brother. Like these sisters you might be disappointed when Jesus finally shows up that He didn’t arrive earlier. Mary doesn’t even go out to meet him, and she was the one who sat at his feet, of whom He said she had chosen the better part. You think she’s upset? Like Martha, you might trust that Jesus can bring good from what appears to be a futile situation—and you hope, that despite appearances something miraculous might happen, as it has on other occasions. You’ve heard the stories of, or perhaps even witnessed the healings, the multiplication of loaves and fishes which feeds thousands of people, the powerful teachings and words of this one that perhaps like Martha you believe is “the Christ, the Son of God, the one who is coming into the world.”

Or maybe you’re a skeptic, or even an enemy, who misinterprets miracles as magic; words of comfort and hope—especially to the poor and oppressed—as the rhetoric of rebellion; servitude as weakness. You’re just looking for an excuse to condemn this one who comes to save. And you are about to get it.

If you find yourself conflicted in your role as friend or foe, or if you struggle to believe at times that this really occurred; then trust me, you are not alone. I have found myself struggling with these things. But for now, take your place among the mourners in this unfolding drama and a curious thing happens. Confronted with the grief of those who love Lazarus, “Jesus wept.” This is the shortest verse in the Bible, and for me, one of the most enigmatic ones. Why does He weep? When I was younger and life was less complicated I thought, well, if He knew He was going to raise Lazarus from the dead, why would He cry? Some of the reasons I have heard, or have thought about myself are that Jesus knows by raising Lazarus He is taking an incredible risk which will ultimately lead to condemnation and death. When word gets around about His bringing a dead man back to life what kind of reaction will there be—more and bigger crowds, a clamoring for this kingdom of which He speaks. He is becoming far too dangerous. Perhaps He weeps because no doubt Lazarus will be treated much like the blind man in last week’s gospel, hauled before the authorities and questioned, perhaps eventually persecuted. And poor Lazarus, brought back to life, must eventually die again. We have heard the stories of “near death” experiences some have had when they were revived or resuscitated—some not too happy about it as they speak of their "post death" experience as one filled with light and love. This glimpse of what might be on the other side of death seems far more appealing and that is certainly our hope and our belief.

Jesus’ weeping tells us much about the character of this man who was fully human and fully God. Familiar with suffering, He stands in solidarity with us in all the things that sadden and shake us, and death is certainly one of the most profound occasions of grief for all of us. As with Jesus’ Baptism, His mourning is another example of a response that is not required, but His action speaks to our lived and shared experiences, and His willingness to enter into them fully.

It is tempting to think that this story ends with Lazarus joyfully tearing up his will and throwing a big party. A happy ending no doubt, but the last line tells us this is only a beginning: “Now many of the Jews who had come to Mary and seen what he had done began to believe in Him.” Where does belief begin, when is faith quickened in us? Is it the result of witnessing a miracle? Perhaps, but none of us has witnessed anything like this—the raising of a dead person. Despite our unreasoned hopes, this has never happened since Jesus walked the earth. Something else is going on here. This is not just a story of a profound and unrepeated occurrence, though it does give rise to a very reasoned hope that we will all be called forth from our earthly graves to a new life with God in heaven.

This “new life” however, this beginning of belief is given to us in Baptism—and for our catechumens, who are undergoing their third scrutiny this weekend this dramatic transformation will be played out when they enter the baptismal pool—and literally die to their old selves, to emerge with a new life, united with Christ in His living and His dying. St. Paul makes this very clear in the second reading: “the One who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also, through his Spirit dwelling in you.” Paul is talking about that new life, here and now, for all the baptized—whether this Baptism occurred when you were too young to even realize it, or as you now prepare to enter into Christ’s death and resurrection in the waters of Baptism at the Easter vigil. This is not a re-animation of dead flesh but literally a new life in the Spirit—a life continually renewed and sustained as surely as breath renews and sustains the body. To illustrate the significance of this it might help to know that in the past catechumens were held under the water long enough to feel oxygen deprived and panicky. Three times their heads were immersed, making it difficult to catch their breath, rather they caught the breath of the Holy Spirit. In a very real sense, they were brought close to literal death. What’s the first thing you do when you emerge from a deep plunge into a pool or a lake? — You breathe in. In Hebrew, the word for breath and spirit is the same—“ruach” which is also a name for God.

But what is the point of all this—this powerful symbol of plunging toward death and emerging a new creation? Baptism is truly the beginning of a new life, a life where we, like Lazarus get to throw off what binds us and holds us in death’s grip. Do we enter into this near death experience simply to save ourselves—to assure our ticket to heaven? Like all the sacraments, Baptism is not about us, as individuals—it involves the whole community. Think about that, every sacrament creates or restores a relationship Remember, Jesus tells the bystanders to untie Lazarus and let him go. Jesus doesn’t until him and Lazarus doesn’t do this himself. It is done for him, by those around him, his community. Jesus gives new life, but the community assists and nurtures it. Think back to the first reading from Ezekiel. God says: “O my people, I will open your graves and have you rise from them, O my people! I will put my spirit in you that you may live” These words are addressed to the nation of Israel, a nation in exile, a people who have lost hope in being restored, folks who for all intents and purposes are as good as dead. Though their bodies live, their spirits are crushed. God promises to settle them upon their lands and God will do it.

To what end then, is this new life given? It is given for the life of the community—a life sustained and renewed each time we come together for Eucharist, each time we receive Jesus and embrace in our “Amen” the very essence of what Jesus is all about. We assent anew to a baptism not just in His death, but perhaps more profoundly in His life, living as He lives, loving as He loves, and forgiving as He forgives. Consider carefully what it means and what is required of us when we hear and affirm the words, “The Body of Christ.” They are not just a reference to this Bread of Life, but an address to and acknowledgement of each and all of us.

Certainly, we can turn our backs on this; we can choose to see in today’s readings just some fantastic stories that make for interesting reading. Baptism cannot be “undone” but we can choose to live a life in the flesh, a life that cannot please God because as Paul reminds us that those who do not have the Spirit of Christ do not belong to him. And that my brothers and sisters is downright scary. What must it be like to never be pleasing to God? That sort of life is one of a horror that even Hollywood cannot truly begin to imagine.