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Sarah Sanderson-Doughty A sermon preached at First Presbyterian Church, Lowville, New York, on March 24, 2007. Scripture text: John 22:1-45 Lazarus was ill, very ill. We had never seen him so ill before. I had nursed him through illnesses, placed cold cloths on his head through fevers, brought him cool water to sip countless times before, but this time nothing Mary or I did made any difference. He grew paler and paler, weaker and weaker, sicker and sicker. We could feel death lingering at the door. There was nothing left to do but to call our beloved friend, Jesus. He was our only hope. He had been healing the sick for months now. Why, we even heard that he restored the sight of a man born blind. He could help our brother. And he knew and loved our brother. Surely he would come and make him well again, for he had helped even strangers in the past. So we sent word: “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” We felt better as soon as we sent the message. The worrying, the fretting, the occasional tears of the days just past all faded away as we confidently waited for Jesus. I continued to attend to Lazarus, but I hummed and even laughed a little as I did, for I knew Jesus was on his way. The first day was a day of joyful anticipation. The second day, Lazarus stopped talking to us. He was breathing, but his breath was shallow and labored. He wouldn’t open his eyes. I kept opening the front door and looking outside, straining to see Jesus approaching with his disciples. But I could see nothing. Mary sat, staring out the window. And then he died. I came back from checking for Jesus and I noticed he wasn’t breathing any longer. That was it. Jesus never came. And our brother died. We crashed so quickly from our height of hope for Lazarus’ recovery to the depth of devastation at his death. The ache was dreadful. He died too soon and so unnecessarily. If Jesus had only been here. Mary and I wrapped his body in strips of cloth, his face in a cloth. And then the men of our family carried him to the cave and laid him in it. Prayers were said. But I could not hear them through my sobs. The thud of the stone being rolled over the entrance to the caves jolted me, and I began to wail. Four days we spent inside the house or outside his tomb weeping and mourning. Friends and family from Jerusalem kept coming to cry with us, to try to feed us, to accompany us to our visits to the tomb. By the third day I couldn’t cry anymore. My sadness had hardened to anger. Jesus was still not here. Some friend. Some man of God. On the fourth day I sat beside the window with a vacant stare. Mary was crying on her bed. All our visitors were trying to comfort her. I saw someone running toward our house and I jumped up and opened the door. “Jesus is coming!” they declared between gasps of breath. I don’t know what came over me, but I tore out of the house and went and found him on the road. I hadn’t been out of the house, save for trips to the tomb, in days. I wasn’t supposed to leave the house except for trips to the tomb, but I had to go to him. The closer I came to him, the sorrow and anger within me revived and intensified. The words came hurtling out of me, the words I had been turning over and over in my head for days, as soon as I stood in front of him. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” But then I looked in his eyes. Then I remembered who I was talking to. I saw such compassion in his eyes, compassion for which I had longed for days. I knew he knew my pain and I knew he felt it. I knew he was still a faithful friend. I knew he was still a man of God. The next words out of my mouth were calmer, and they surprised even me: “But even now I know God will give you whatever you ask of him.” I don’t know what I wanted Jesus to ask God—for my comfort, I suppose, and for Mary’s, for relief from the ache of this loss. I knew it didn’t matter what I wanted, Jesus would take care of me. He said to me so confidently, so compassionately, “Your brother will rise again.” These words were comforting. They reminded me of my faith that new life would be granted on the last day. I confessed, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” And I will never forget what he said next: “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” Chills ran down my spine. He asked me so earnestly if I believed, and in that moment I knew that I did. My disappointment, my sorrow, my anger were all still there, but a peace, a peace I can’t even begin to describe, came over me. I looked in his eyes as he waited for my reply, and I gave my heart to him completely. “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.” My brother may have died. I knew that Mary and I would die some day, too. But I knew that all would be well, for I was standing in front of our long-awaited Savior and he was promising life beyond death. He took me in his arms and held me awhile, then he asked me to go and get Mary. And so I did. I calmly walked back home, went into her room where she was still crying on her bed, and quietly said to her, “The Teacher is here and is calling for you.” I recognized the urgency with which she leapt out of bed and stumbled toward the door. She was still sobbing, and all our visitors followed her, thinking she was going to the tomb. She found Jesus right where I found him, fell on her knees, and blurted out the same words I had blurted out, “Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died.” And then she collapsed in sobs. Everyone around her started crying more loudly then, too. Jesus looked at her huddled on the ground, shaking as she sobbed, and the look on his face was one of profound pain. I had never seen him so distressed. “Where have you laid him?” he asked. Friends stood on either side of Mary and lifted her up, and everyone gathered said, “Lord, come and see.” And then Jesus began to weep—deep, deep cries, gigantic tears dropping to the ground. The weeping crowd leaned into each other and all made their way to the tomb. We stood in front of the cave with the large stone rolled in front of it. And Jesus choked out, “Take away the stone.” I didn’t know why he didn’t just give the others the good news he had given me. It had brought me peace. It would surely do the same for them. Why should we roll away the stone and reveal his rotting, stinking body? He had been dead for four days; his soul had long since left him. He was dead. We should leave the dead to rest. I told Jesus as much: “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” He looked at me, tears rolling down his face, “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” And as he spoke I heard his earlier words, “Your brother will rise again.” And I heard my earlier words, “I believe. You are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.” I stepped aside as two men rolled away the stone. Jesus looked toward heaven and prayed, prayed that others would come to believe. I said a silent prayer with him. And then he cried out in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” All gasped, I nearly fainted, when a moment later Lazarus walked out of the tomb, all wrapped in cloths. He was alive. My brother, who was dead, was alive again by the power of God, through the love of Jesus. He was alive! I hadn’t dared to even ask for this, and yet my deepest prayer had been answered. For days I had been clinging to death, for years I had been clinging to death. On that day I embraced life. Never again will I cling to death, for I believe. I believe. I believe. Do you? The Reverend Sarah Sanderson-Doughty is pastor of First Presbyterian Church, Lowville, New York. Copyright Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.). All Rights Reserved.
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