Lazarus

Yesterday was Passion Sunday (I know, I had to google it too!), and my friend Joy took the reading from John about Lazarus' resurrection, and did this to it.

I nearly cried when I heard her read it.
As and when she has a blog, I'll direct you to it. Until then, this was too beautiful not to share, so here it is...

I know that He loved me – because he wept.

My sisters’ told me afterwards, how He stood in a public place and

wept for me, my sisters who also loved Him. And no surprise really

because He noticed them, spent time with them, taught them like

they had more to contribute then to just fade into the background. He

gave them a voice and taught them how to use it, and they loved Him

for it.

And I loved Him too. He was part of our family somehow.

People knew that He loved us, and the ones that didn’t before saw it

when He wept. “See how He loved him!” they said. This strong,

incredible, remarkable man wept at my death, wept with those

grieving – and He surely knew I would live again?!

I know that he loved me – because he wept.

And yet after they said this they asked (my sisters’ say): “Could not

He who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from

dying?” My sisters’ thought it too: “Lord, if you had been here, my

brother would not have died.”

It’s all we said towards the end: “Why is He not here? Why does

He not come?” It hurt so much, and I was so scared. “What were my

sisters going to do without me? How would they manage? Why did

He not come when we sent for Him?”

And I was angry! Because I knew that he could heal me if He

chose, even from a distance, like the Centurion and his servant, like

Jairus and his daughter. And He didn’t: and it hurt so much, and I was

so scared…

And now? I know that He loved me – because He wept.

My sisters’ loved me too. They wrapped my body and perfumed it. No

oil of Nard though. Mary used it all when she anointed His feet. But

they wrapped and cared for my body, just as so recently they did the

same again for Him. My families funeral expenses have become

unreasonable.

What kind of Messiah is this? After all, that’s who He was to us.

“I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming

into the world.” That’s what Martha said to Him even in spite of my

death. That’s who He was to all of us; part of this God who bought life

back to bones in the desert, who threw the Universe into being. And

yet there He stood, inexplicably weeping, vulnerable and weak. And

now He’s dead and wrapped Himself. What kind of Messiah is that?

And yet when He stood at my tomb and called out “Lazarus,

come out!” I had to. I had no choice. In that voice was command – the

authority of more than a man, and so I rose and lived again.

And yet this God man wept? And because of this I know He loved

me…

For many days I dwelt in death. I cannot share that time with you

except to say that I cannot go back to it without it being transformed.

It is not a place I could choose to be. The night is dark and full of

terrors. Yet, He called me from it only to go there Himself so soon

after.

And because of me… This miracle, this sign of love, led to his

own death. And it has been three days, and there is no one to go and

call Him out of His grave. No one left to stand at His tomb and shout

for Him. And I am scared again, because I know what that feels like,

and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone – least of all Him. I wait for the Lord

more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who

watch for the morning. What can I do but cling to this knowledge:

I know that He loved me – because He wept.