Peace in the face of death
Ez 37:12-14; Ps 130:1-2, 3-4, 5-6, 7-8; Rom 8:8-11; Jn 11:1-45
If you could have been present during any moment depicted in the Bible, when would it be? The instant of creation? The Resurrection? Pentecost?
For me, I’ve always been fascinated by two biblical moments not actually described, but which must have happened: the first time it started to drizzle after Noah and the animals exited the ark, and the moment when Lazarus died for the second time (and presumably was not raised again from the dead by Jesus).
Why these two? Because each of them represents a critical moment in the unfolding relationship between God and humanity.
Noah witnessed destruction on a horrific scale — literally, the de-creation of the world — and he knew that it began with falling rain. As drops began to fall once more, was there a desperate attempt to construct a makeshift ark? Or did the people trust in God’s promise that he would never flood the earth again (Gn 8:21) and thus rest secure in his unbounded mercy?
As monumental as the flood in Genesis was, I think the moment of Lazarus’ second death, when Jesus did not resurrect him, brought salvation history to an even more significant threshold.
The raising of Lazarus revealed that Jesus did indeed have absolute power over death, thus demonstrating that we are not ultimately defined by our physical limitations (the greatest limitation of all being death itself). One can only imagine Martha’s unbounded joy at having her deceased brother back with her.
When the time came that he died again, what were Martha’s expectations? Was she looking for a second miracle? Did she understand what Jesus meant when he promised that anyone who believed in him would “never die” (Jn 11:26)?
Was that promise enough to assuage her grief and convince her that, although Lazarus’ body remained in the tomb this time, he was alive in a way more wonderful than when his body had been revivified? Or, was she even more disappointed than before when it became clear that the tomb would remain occupied by her brother’s corpse?
Our Christan faith is full of wonderfully consoling statements and promises that fly in the face of so many of life’s darker realities. We share the sentiments of Ezekiel in our first reading, when he wants to know that those who died in exile will spring forth from their graves and return to their homeland.
Yet, we may strain at times to see Jesus as our “way” in the midst of confusing options, as our “truth” shining through the fog of lies and fake news, or as our “life” in the face of endless violence. To paraphrase Martha: “Lord, you are here, so why aren’t you preventing any of this?”
Cynics will point out that while it’s all well and good for Jesus to have shown special favor to his Bethany friends, he did nothing for countless others who lost loved ones, and neither he nor the Father are bringing any of our deceased family and friends back from the tomb.
Lazarus’ second death serves as a powerful “put-up-or-shut-up” challenge to Jesus and his followers — to you and to me. It forces us to come to terms with the claim that the promise of eternal life does have meaning and transformative power even on this side of the grave.
The value of Christianity is not that it prevents bad things from happening; they will inevitably happen, and often to very good people. But the love of Christ — if we choose to imitate it — can provide solace and consolation in the midst of pain and grief. It ultimately transcends the border between life and death.
As a spiritual exercise, take stock of the “deaths” in your life right now: those situations in which you feel loss and grief. How might Christ be offering you an opportunity to appreciate what is truly lasting, beautiful and worthy of your love?
Lazarus’ first death paved the way for his family and friends to ultimately experience peace in the face of his second death, and for you and I to experience it in the face of every death we will ever encounter.