John 11:1-44
The Fourth Sunday in Lent
1.
James Loney’s not a household name. And he’s not a preacher either. But maybe fifteen years ago, I heard James Loney preach a stunning sermon on this same text, the very story we’ve read in full this morning. And I’ll never hear it again, this story, without thinking of him and his astonishing testimony that day. He made this strange story come alive in a way that seemed not just curious, but compelling and even contemporary.
“Then Jesus, who was intensely troubled, approached the tomb—a small cave covered by a massive stone. And Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’ But Martha said, ‘Lord, he has been dead for four days…’” And then Jesus cried out, with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”
James Loney is a Canadian peace activist—who was serving in the early-2000s with a Christian Peacemaker Team in Iraq, when he and three others were kidnapped by Iraqi insurgents and held captive for four months. All four of them were daring and kind, all four committed to nonviolence and compassion as the substance of faith itself. And all four were in Iraq to keep ordinary Iraqis safe in a fierce and unpredictable war zone. And then, one day, they were simply and suddenly taken. Kidnapped.
And preaching on this text, this outlandishly improbable text, James talked about his own captivity, those four long months in dark, confined spaces; those four long months of knowing next to nothing about what might happen next; those four long months of hoping beyond hope for good news and freedom. He talked about unexpected connections, clipped conversations, with his captors. He talked about faith tested and lost and found again.
And then he talked about his partner—who had waited at home in Ontario all those months, waited for any news at all; his partner—who had prayed day after day after day despite fears beyond his imagining. And he talked about how it was that his partner had dared not speak out or ask for any kind of support, so concerned was he that James would be endangered in captivity had their relationship been made public. That, if revealed, his orientation would further jeopardize his life. All of this wondering, all of this longing, all of this doubting and hoping—stretching out over weeks and months in captivity.
But it was his first experience of coming out, coming out as a gay man in his 20s, that James started with. As he preached that day. How like Lazarus, he’d been “entombed” (his word) in a world of anxiety and despair, silence and fear. Held captive by his culture’s bigotry, even his beloved church’s homophobia. And how Jesus’ story had penetrated all that angst, and the isolation he’d experienced as a young gay man. Jesus the Waymaker, he said. Jesus the Morningstar, he said. Jesus the Lover of all lovers. And how Jesus—in effect—had called James out of that closet, out of that tomb, out of silence and captivity and fear. Which was wild—because all around him in those days Christians were using “Jesus” to reinforce those fears, and insist on his silence, and pass judgment on his deepest and dearest values and hopes.
But James Loney had heard Jesus say, “Come out!” “Rise up, and come out!” In his sermon he said: “It’s right there in the text. I heard it in the text—and it was as if he was speaking directly to me.” And that journey of self-discovery and gracious acceptance, and holy affirmation—so radically did it open his heart that James soon embraced other movements for peace, intersecting commitments to human rights, and a practice of nonviolent resistance rooted in Jesus’ own teaching. Because now coming out meant diving in. Self-discovery meant daring discipleship.
2.
When he was freed at last in March 2006, and finally reunited with his partner, James could say that coming out that first time had been a memory, a story, even a promise that sustained him throughout those four long months of captivity in Iraq. “In the end,” he told us, “I knew that the universe was on the side of liberation and that God would always seek out the weary and the lost.” “In the end,” he told us, “I trusted that there would be friends on the other side waiting to unbind all the chains, all the cloth, all the trauma that bound me.” He was honest in saying that, for months after his release, he lived with terrible tremors and unimaginable premonitions; and that he rarely slept through the night without nightmares. “But like Lazarus,” he said, “I have a whole community standing by to love me, to comfort me and to unwrap the binding cloths that cling to my soul.” And he used the present tense. Because the unwrapping, the unbinding, the tender touching of community: it never ends. And that’s the church. I'm convinced of it. We can do that for one another. That’s exactly what Jesus is talking about.
It’s worth noting that seven months after their release, James and his friends held a special press conference in London—where they publicly and openly forgave their captors. Can you imagine? It was a year to the day after their kidnappers had first threatened to execute them on camera in Iraq. But in their joint statement in London, they said, "We unconditionally forgive our captors for abducting and holding us. We have no desire to punish them." I mean, this is gospel stuff. "We unconditionally forgive our captors for abducting and holding us. We have no desire to punish them." It’s like Jesus up there on the cross, rejecting violence and vengeance once and for all, and calling out, across all time and distance: “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.” “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.” If violence and vengeance bind our spirits to regret and despair, forgiveness (it seems) is the great unbinding. The practice that finally frees us.
Again, for Jesus and for James Loney, coming out means setting aside revenge, casting off despair, even choosing to love the enemy, the captor, the foe. Coming out means seeking peace, pursuing reconciliation and believing in our shared humanity. Across all borders. Including all differences. Uniting us as one human and holy family. Worthy, every one of us, all of us, of love and respect.
And is it not true, then, that in this way, every one of us, every one of Jesus’ disciples is called—as James Loney was—to come out? To come out of the shadows of silence into the bright light of self-love and unfettered affirmation? To come out of the confining spaces of fear and anxiety into the open air of service and costly solidarity? To come out of the paralyzing logic of war and punishment into the liberating love and mercy of God?
When Jesus cries out for Lazarus, he cries out for you and me, for the church and for every soul would follow. “Lazarus, come out!” “Children of God, come out!” “Church, come out!” Discipleship (you see) requires our awakening: our awakening to divine grace, and our courage in going where grace would have us go, and our commitment to the One who goes before us. Jesus insists that you and I come out, that we choose to come out, over and over and over again. To be Christian is to come out. Bold and brave, compassionate and kind, resisting vengeance and violence, and choosing mercy instead. Not just in principle. But in the push and pull of daily life.
3.
And maybe there’s another indication in today’s story of what this kind of ‘coming out’ means in Christian life. And maybe we see it unfolding as Mary rushes out to find her sister Martha, and their dear friend Jesus, just outside the village. Lazarus has died. And for whatever strange and bewildering reason Jesus has delayed his visit. And now Mary falls at his feet, exhausted and brokenhearted and surely even disappointed. And she says to him, “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would still be alive.”
And when Jesus sees Mary weeping and Martha too, and others with them shaken by grief and lamentation, he is deeply, deeply moved. And he says to them, “Where have you laid his body?” And they say to him, “Lord, come and see.” And as they walk on together, toward the tomb where Lazarus lies, Jesus begins to weep. Openly. Jesus begins to weep openly.
And this too is our calling. This too is the church’s vocation.
When our neighborhoods and communities are terrorized by masked vigilantes, we have every reason to weep. When our country’s weapons, our country’s soldiers are deployed to rain fire and destruction on distant deserts and faraway cities, we have every reason to weep. When our faith itself is weaponized by nationalists and racists to justify hatred and scare our children, we have every reason to weep.
Our grief is itself a holy gift, you see, even a sacred obligation, and a sign of the Spirit’s proximity, the Spirit’s partnership in our time of great need and unrelenting sorrow. So Jesus begins to weep. Openly. Jesus begins to weep openly. Holding nothing back. Unafraid of his pain. Trusting that his tears are themselves sacraments of the Spirit’s transforming power. Preparing even in this very moment to touch the world’s pain with healing love. I have to believe that as he weeps he remembers his baptism. The waters running like streams down his cheeks. The love unbound in his heart. And now, weeping, he turns toward Lazarus. In the tomb.
Lazarus (you see) is that dear child, off to school in the morning, but clinging fast to his mom, or hanging on to his dad, just hating the idea of going to school, because he fears the bullies at recess. Lazarus is bound in bands of cloth and his sisters grieve. And Jesus too is weeping now.
Lazarus (you see) is that bright-eyed undergrad, falling in love on campus for the first time, now going home for spring break, but afraid to tell her dear friends at church, even her family at home, that she’s gay. Lazarus is bound in bands of cloth and her sisters grieve. And Jesus too is weeping now.
And Lazarus is that Cameroonian refugee, who’s risked absolutely everything to protect his life and his family; who’s hounded by an increasingly fascist government, at risk of being kidnapped (at any time) by cloaked agents of that government; who’s imprisoned—essentially—in his own home, in his own four walls. Lazarus is sealed in, bound up, and his friends grieve. And, again, Jesus is weeping now. Jesus is weeping now. It’s what Jesus does.
And Lazarus is the Free State zealot in Concord—whose guns are his only sacraments, who dreams of a world where all of us are packing heat and looking for trouble, who imagines that his deadly guns (and only his guns) make him safe and brave, who thinks that all this is democracy and security and peace. Lazarus is imprisoned by an American addiction and his own fears. And, yes again, Jesus is weeping now. Jesus is weeping too.
4.
And his weeping opens within his veins some other kind of power. Not the power of vengeance and rage. But the power of transformation and love. Not the power of pride and privilege. But the power of hope and solidarity. And so Jesus cries out with a loud voice. Just as he does, by the way, from the cross in his own hour of anguish. He cries out with a loud voice. “Lazarus, come out!” “Lazarus, come out!” “Lazarus, come out!”
And it could be that the best part is this last part. In this long, long gospel tale—longer than almost any other in all of Christian Scripture. Jesus says to Mary, and to Martha, and to the beloved community gathered there to receive the dead man walking: “Unbind him, and let him go!” “Unbind him, and let him go!”
This unbinding, my friends, is the work of the church. This unbinding, my friends, is the ministry of every beloved community. If Jesus cries for Lazarus to come out, he calls on you and me to unbind the man of the strips of cloth wound about his hands and feet, to unbind the man of the bands wrapped around his head, to unbind the man of all the worry and angst and fear that clings to his spirit now. This is a story of intentional community. It’s a story of relational power. It’s a story of liberation played out among friends, within relationships, as grieving souls see (even through their tears) the possibility and promise of new life. “Unbind him,” Jesus says, “and let him go!”
Easter, you see, is not just a day on a calendar. Easter is a mandate in the church: a spirit of joy, a commitment to community, a celebration of our capacity to unbind one another and serve together and make peace in broken places. No tomb, no cave, no captivity can hold you. Easter is a way of life, and your willingness to hear that voice that says, to you: “Come out!” If you’re hiding from yourself, “COME OUT!” If you’re frightened for the world that seems cold and callous, “COME OUT!” If you’re lost in isolation, and you’re tired of going it alone, “COME OUT!”
And just as importantly, let’s remember this morning that there’s this ministry of unbinding that requires all of us—all the Marys and all the Marthas, all the hard-core activists and all the tender-hearted caregivers. Lazarus emerges from that tomb, he comes out, not to wander aimlessly and alone through the world. Lazarus comes out after four long days into a community that is eager to unwrap the cloths that have bound his body and spirit. Lazarus comes out after four long days into a movement of disciples grateful to enlist him in their work of feeding the hungry and cherishing the children and confronting the empire. His unbinding is the unwinding of the gospel project itself. Grace and forgiveness for all. Abundance and communion at our tables. Justice for the oppressed. His unbinding is our business, my friends, the work of the church.
Amen and Ashe.
1.
“Then Jesus, who was intensely troubled, approached the tomb—a small cave covered by a massive stone. And Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’ But Martha said, ‘Lord, he has been dead for four days…’” And then Jesus cried out, with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”
James Loney is a Canadian peace activist—who was serving in the early-2000s with a Christian Peacemaker Team in Iraq, when he and three others were kidnapped by Iraqi insurgents and held captive for four months. All four of them were daring and kind, all four committed to nonviolence and compassion as the substance of faith itself. And all four were in Iraq to keep ordinary Iraqis safe in a fierce and unpredictable war zone. And then, one day, they were simply and suddenly taken. Kidnapped.
And preaching on this text, this outlandishly improbable text, James talked about his own captivity, those four long months in dark, confined spaces; those four long months of knowing next to nothing about what might happen next; those four long months of hoping beyond hope for good news and freedom. He talked about unexpected connections, clipped conversations, with his captors. He talked about faith tested and lost and found again.
And then he talked about his partner—who had waited at home in Ontario all those months, waited for any news at all; his partner—who had prayed day after day after day despite fears beyond his imagining. And he talked about how it was that his partner had dared not speak out or ask for any kind of support, so concerned was he that James would be endangered in captivity had their relationship been made public. That, if revealed, his orientation would further jeopardize his life. All of this wondering, all of this longing, all of this doubting and hoping—stretching out over weeks and months in captivity.
But it was his first experience of coming out, coming out as a gay man in his 20s, that James started with. As he preached that day. How like Lazarus, he’d been “entombed” (his word) in a world of anxiety and despair, silence and fear. Held captive by his culture’s bigotry, even his beloved church’s homophobia. And how Jesus’ story had penetrated all that angst, and the isolation he’d experienced as a young gay man. Jesus the Waymaker, he said. Jesus the Morningstar, he said. Jesus the Lover of all lovers. And how Jesus—in effect—had called James out of that closet, out of that tomb, out of silence and captivity and fear. Which was wild—because all around him in those days Christians were using “Jesus” to reinforce those fears, and insist on his silence, and pass judgment on his deepest and dearest values and hopes.
But James Loney had heard Jesus say, “Come out!” “Rise up, and come out!” In his sermon he said: “It’s right there in the text. I heard it in the text—and it was as if he was speaking directly to me.” And that journey of self-discovery and gracious acceptance, and holy affirmation—so radically did it open his heart that James soon embraced other movements for peace, intersecting commitments to human rights, and a practice of nonviolent resistance rooted in Jesus’ own teaching. Because now coming out meant diving in. Self-discovery meant daring discipleship.
2.
It’s worth noting that seven months after their release, James and his friends held a special press conference in London—where they publicly and openly forgave their captors. Can you imagine? It was a year to the day after their kidnappers had first threatened to execute them on camera in Iraq. But in their joint statement in London, they said, "We unconditionally forgive our captors for abducting and holding us. We have no desire to punish them." I mean, this is gospel stuff. "We unconditionally forgive our captors for abducting and holding us. We have no desire to punish them." It’s like Jesus up there on the cross, rejecting violence and vengeance once and for all, and calling out, across all time and distance: “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.” “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.” If violence and vengeance bind our spirits to regret and despair, forgiveness (it seems) is the great unbinding. The practice that finally frees us.
Again, for Jesus and for James Loney, coming out means setting aside revenge, casting off despair, even choosing to love the enemy, the captor, the foe. Coming out means seeking peace, pursuing reconciliation and believing in our shared humanity. Across all borders. Including all differences. Uniting us as one human and holy family. Worthy, every one of us, all of us, of love and respect.
And is it not true, then, that in this way, every one of us, every one of Jesus’ disciples is called—as James Loney was—to come out? To come out of the shadows of silence into the bright light of self-love and unfettered affirmation? To come out of the confining spaces of fear and anxiety into the open air of service and costly solidarity? To come out of the paralyzing logic of war and punishment into the liberating love and mercy of God?
When Jesus cries out for Lazarus, he cries out for you and me, for the church and for every soul would follow. “Lazarus, come out!” “Children of God, come out!” “Church, come out!” Discipleship (you see) requires our awakening: our awakening to divine grace, and our courage in going where grace would have us go, and our commitment to the One who goes before us. Jesus insists that you and I come out, that we choose to come out, over and over and over again. To be Christian is to come out. Bold and brave, compassionate and kind, resisting vengeance and violence, and choosing mercy instead. Not just in principle. But in the push and pull of daily life.
3.
And maybe there’s another indication in today’s story of what this kind of ‘coming out’ means in Christian life. And maybe we see it unfolding as Mary rushes out to find her sister Martha, and their dear friend Jesus, just outside the village. Lazarus has died. And for whatever strange and bewildering reason Jesus has delayed his visit. And now Mary falls at his feet, exhausted and brokenhearted and surely even disappointed. And she says to him, “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would still be alive.”
And when Jesus sees Mary weeping and Martha too, and others with them shaken by grief and lamentation, he is deeply, deeply moved. And he says to them, “Where have you laid his body?” And they say to him, “Lord, come and see.” And as they walk on together, toward the tomb where Lazarus lies, Jesus begins to weep. Openly. Jesus begins to weep openly.
And this too is our calling. This too is the church’s vocation.
When our neighborhoods and communities are terrorized by masked vigilantes, we have every reason to weep. When our country’s weapons, our country’s soldiers are deployed to rain fire and destruction on distant deserts and faraway cities, we have every reason to weep. When our faith itself is weaponized by nationalists and racists to justify hatred and scare our children, we have every reason to weep.
 |
| Raising Lazarus / Eric Wallis |
Lazarus (you see) is that dear child, off to school in the morning, but clinging fast to his mom, or hanging on to his dad, just hating the idea of going to school, because he fears the bullies at recess. Lazarus is bound in bands of cloth and his sisters grieve. And Jesus too is weeping now.
Lazarus (you see) is that bright-eyed undergrad, falling in love on campus for the first time, now going home for spring break, but afraid to tell her dear friends at church, even her family at home, that she’s gay. Lazarus is bound in bands of cloth and her sisters grieve. And Jesus too is weeping now.
And Lazarus is that Cameroonian refugee, who’s risked absolutely everything to protect his life and his family; who’s hounded by an increasingly fascist government, at risk of being kidnapped (at any time) by cloaked agents of that government; who’s imprisoned—essentially—in his own home, in his own four walls. Lazarus is sealed in, bound up, and his friends grieve. And, again, Jesus is weeping now. Jesus is weeping now. It’s what Jesus does.
And Lazarus is the Free State zealot in Concord—whose guns are his only sacraments, who dreams of a world where all of us are packing heat and looking for trouble, who imagines that his deadly guns (and only his guns) make him safe and brave, who thinks that all this is democracy and security and peace. Lazarus is imprisoned by an American addiction and his own fears. And, yes again, Jesus is weeping now. Jesus is weeping too.
4.
And his weeping opens within his veins some other kind of power. Not the power of vengeance and rage. But the power of transformation and love. Not the power of pride and privilege. But the power of hope and solidarity. And so Jesus cries out with a loud voice. Just as he does, by the way, from the cross in his own hour of anguish. He cries out with a loud voice. “Lazarus, come out!” “Lazarus, come out!” “Lazarus, come out!”
And it could be that the best part is this last part. In this long, long gospel tale—longer than almost any other in all of Christian Scripture. Jesus says to Mary, and to Martha, and to the beloved community gathered there to receive the dead man walking: “Unbind him, and let him go!” “Unbind him, and let him go!”
This unbinding, my friends, is the work of the church. This unbinding, my friends, is the ministry of every beloved community. If Jesus cries for Lazarus to come out, he calls on you and me to unbind the man of the strips of cloth wound about his hands and feet, to unbind the man of the bands wrapped around his head, to unbind the man of all the worry and angst and fear that clings to his spirit now. This is a story of intentional community. It’s a story of relational power. It’s a story of liberation played out among friends, within relationships, as grieving souls see (even through their tears) the possibility and promise of new life. “Unbind him,” Jesus says, “and let him go!”
Easter, you see, is not just a day on a calendar. Easter is a mandate in the church: a spirit of joy, a commitment to community, a celebration of our capacity to unbind one another and serve together and make peace in broken places. No tomb, no cave, no captivity can hold you. Easter is a way of life, and your willingness to hear that voice that says, to you: “Come out!” If you’re hiding from yourself, “COME OUT!” If you’re frightened for the world that seems cold and callous, “COME OUT!” If you’re lost in isolation, and you’re tired of going it alone, “COME OUT!”
And just as importantly, let’s remember this morning that there’s this ministry of unbinding that requires all of us—all the Marys and all the Marthas, all the hard-core activists and all the tender-hearted caregivers. Lazarus emerges from that tomb, he comes out, not to wander aimlessly and alone through the world. Lazarus comes out after four long days into a community that is eager to unwrap the cloths that have bound his body and spirit. Lazarus comes out after four long days into a movement of disciples grateful to enlist him in their work of feeding the hungry and cherishing the children and confronting the empire. His unbinding is the unwinding of the gospel project itself. Grace and forgiveness for all. Abundance and communion at our tables. Justice for the oppressed. His unbinding is our business, my friends, the work of the church.
Amen and Ashe.
