This Sunday’s gospel reading is an account Jesus bringing his friend, Lazarus, back to life after he had been dead four days. His sisters, Mary and Martha, had sent word to Jesus that their brother was gravely ill, but Jesus lingered where he was for two days before heading to Bethany. Understandably, some who believed in him were upset with his waiting so long to come. “You could have saved him,” they said.
Along with Lazarus’ family and friends, and curiosity seekers, Jesus walked to the tomb. Here alone Scripture records that Jesus wept. Then, he prayed, and called Lazarus to come forth from the tomb. Often, this miracle is depicted with Lazarus still wrapped in burial cloths stumbling into the daylight while amazed onlookers struggle to believe what is happening before their eyes. The Saint John’s Bible has given me a different perspective.
In this handwritten and illustrated masterpiece, the moment is recorded from Lazarus’ vantage point. Jesus is a small figure standing in what is truly “light at the end of the tunnel,” a small circle where the stone has been rolled away, putting the land of living in sight. The illustration does not render Lazarus, only what he might have seen surrounded still by darkness, cloths, and moths.
Sometimes, I pray with images from the Saint John’s Bible, a type of Visio Divina, as one might pray with an icon or photograph, open to God’s revelation of self through the art. When praying with this image, I wonder what Jesus’ voice sounded like to Lazarus. I am awed by the power of that voice of God coming through human vocal chords, able to command the dead to live. Was Jesus’ voice raw from weeping? Or was it strong and loud?
How long did Lazarus need before he heard and recognized the command of his God to get up and embrace life once again? Thinking of accounts of those who claim to have had experiences of death and then a return to life, I wonder if Lazarus wanted to come back.
As I sit with the image, I begin to see that small black silhouette of Jesus and know he is calling to me. Calling to me in my dark places, places that need the redeeming touch of Grace. Do I hear? How long has he been calling my name? Do I want to come out or am I comfortable with the habits, feelings, and situations that keep me bound up, unable to live life fully as I am made to do? Sometimes, our darkness offers the comfort of familiarity. It is our darkness after all, and we may feel some sense of control by our freedom to choose to stay in its grip.
Jesus called. But Lazarus had to decide to get up and walk out.
Before voicing his command, Jesus prayed: And Jesus raised his eyes and said, “Father, I thank you for hearing me. I know that you always hear me…”
When entombed in my personal fears and darkness, do I believe that God is always hearing me? Like matter trapped in a black hole, are my calls for help frozen to stillness when they come out of my mouth? Or do they make it to God’s ear?
Sunday’s reading tells me “Yes.” Yes, God is always hearing me. Yes, God stands at the boundary of life and death, both physical death and the many “deaths” we experience along our journeys. Yes, Jesus calls to me, and his voice carries with it the power to respond.
Sometimes, Jesus’ voice comes through other human vocal chords: friends, family, counselors, and doctors. Sometimes we hear it in music or sounds of nature. It is always the sound of hope. Responding is not easy. Lazarus must have struggled to make it out the tomb, but once he did, others were there to help remove the cloth binding him.
Lenten disciplines help us quiet the noise of life and hear the Voice calling us to new life.
Copyright 2011 by Mary van Balen. Visit van Balen’s blog at http://maryvanbalen.com/blog.htm