Fifth Sunday in Lent, March 26, 2023

We all have the chance for a new life in Christ

John 11: 3–7, 17, 20–27, 33–45

So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, ‘Lord, he whom you love is ill.’ But when Jesus heard it, he said, ‘This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.’ Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.

Then after this he said to the disciples, ‘Let us go to Judea again.’

When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’ Martha said to him, ‘I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.’ Jesus said to her, ‘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?’ She said to him, ‘Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.’ When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, ‘Where have you laid him?’ They said to him, ‘Lord, come and see.’ Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, ‘See how he loved him!’ But some of them said, ‘Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?’

Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’ Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, ‘Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead for four days.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?’ So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upwards and said, ‘Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.’ When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, come out!’ The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, ‘Unbind him, and let him go.’

Many of the Jews therefore, who had come with Mary and had seen what Jesus did, believed in him.

Music Meditations

• Christ in Me Arise—Trevor Thomson
• On Eagles Wings—Jules Antenor
• I Will Arise and Go to Jesus—Rutt Sallinan
• You Raise Me Up—Josh Groban

Opening Prayer

I know what you want from me, Lord: perfect trust in your goodness. But it is hard, Lord, when so many people and institutions, in one way or another, have let me down in the past. When I am entombed in hopelessness, grant that I may hear. Your voice calling me back to you. Teach me, through scriptures like these, to let go of my fears and apprehensions and learn to rely on your goodness and care.

Companions for the Journey

A little exegesis:
Belief in the resurrection of the dead was introduced to the Jewish tradition in the book of Daniel. This belief was espoused by the Pharisees, but not the Sadducees. However, the belief in life after death was widely accepted by the common people of Jesus time (Father Ray Brown)

From “First Impressions”, a service of the Southern Dominican Province:

God is standing outside the tomb—this is the strong image that touches me in today’s readings. The tomb—our last stop on our journey to God. And what a terrible stopping-off-place it is! At American cemeteries the undertakers and grave diggers do their jobs well. The hole is dug, the excavated soil placed off to the side and the area surrounding the grave is covered with artificial green turf. (It looks like the astro-turf of indoor football stadiums.) Over the grave is a metal framed contraption and thick straps are hung from it to support the coffin. Family and friends remain in their cars until the workers ready the site with flowers. If the weather is foul, there is an awning to protect the mourners and the casket from rain or snow. When all is neatly arranged the mourners are invited to come to the grave site. The coffin is suspended over the grave, supported by that frame and straps. The grave diggers take their break off to the side, some grabbing a smoke during their idle moments. Soon they will be needed again, but not till after everyone has left. The final prayers are said, each mourner takes a flower from the nearby floral arrangements, bids farewell to the deceased and places it on the coffin before they leave. But no matter how antiseptic the grave site and how orderly the process, we know what we are looking at—it’s a grave to which we are assigning one we have loved, perhaps all of our lives. Those nearby grave diggers will soon be placing our loved one into the earth and we will see them no more.

Of course, I know I describing American first-world funeral practices. In the poorest lands the body is wrapped in a simple cloth or placed in a wooden coffin made by a family member, a grave is scratched out of rocky soil by friends, and perhaps a flower or two is left on the earth that has been scraped back into the grave. But in our culture, most of us leave before we get to see the casket lowered into the earth. We can’t watch the final triumph of the grave as it claims our beloved dead. We also have our ways of camouflaging death with cosmetics and euphemisms. But no matter where and how we bury the dead, the grave finds us at our most vulnerable and seems to have its triumphant moments over us. Death has so many co-workers dealing out death in so many forms. What will happen to the survivors? Hear what God has to say: “I will settle you upon you land; thus you will know that I am God.” Let’s see how else the promise is made and to whom. We turn to the gospel.

The story gets more personal in the gospel for in it we get: a sick person who dies, a reprimand, an expression of faith in the impossible, weeping, disbelief, seeing the impossible and then coming to belief. In addition, Jesus will have to pay personally and dearly for this miracle, for it will intensify opposition to him and begin the scheming that leads to his own grave. While God doesn’t stand helplessly by Lazarus’ grave; this miracle of life will cost God dearly as well. Lazarus is Jesus’ friend and as we hear this story we are encouraged to believe that we are friends as well. As Jesus said earlier in John, “...an hour is coming in which all those in their tombs shall hear his [the Son of Man’s] voice and come forth.” (5: 28) We friends of Jesus trust these words as we stand by the open graves of so many loved ones and anticipate that a similar grave awaits us as well.

Jesus is very much in charge here. No one can rush him, not even the urgent pleas of the dying Lazarus’ sisters. He risks the appearance of not being their true friend, of seeming unconcerned. Why does he wait so long? (And why are we also left with questions and doubts when a word from him could raise us from our death beds?) One thing is for sure—after the delay we know Lazarus is really dead! Practical Martha names the reality, “Lord, by now there will be a stench, he has been dead four days.”

What a scene; the dead man emerging from the dark, dank tomb with his burial cloths dangling from his resuscitated body! Soon Jesus will suffer a violent death. They will also wrap him, as was their custom, in burial cloths and place him in a tomb. Another group of family and friends will stand by yet one more grave and peer into its coldness. They too will feel helpless as they huddle to comfort one another. But all is not totally lost. God will visit this grave and speak a word of life over Jesus and God’s Spirit will raise him up to a completely new life. Who could have imagined? With his resurrection all of us who suffer death will be given the gift of hope and respond, “We too will rise.”

As we interpret this passage, note this about John’s gospel. For John, the life God promises in Jesus is already present to the baptized. Our new life does not begin after we have breathed our last breath or when our bodies are surrendered to the grave—it begins now. To call upon another verse from John, “I solemnly assure you, an hour is coming, has indeed come, when the dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God, and those who have heeded it shall live. (5:25) We have new life in us even as we stare at the many grave sites in the course of our lives.

There are the deaths of family and friends, of course. But we also face death if we: lose our jobs; flunk out of college; get a crippling disease; lose our physical or mental strengths in old age; give up plans of being married and having children; have our last child go off to school or get married; etc. Is new life possible beyond these and other graves? In this life? The believer, hearing today’s scriptures, is encouraged to believe that God has not abandoned us at our graves and will call out our names, utter a life-giving Word and breathe into us a resurrecting Spirit. “I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in me, even if he/she dies, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” And we respond with Martha, “Yes, Lord, I have come to believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, the one who is coming into the world.”

Weekly Memorization

Taken from the gospel for today’s session…

Lazarus, Come out!

Living the Good News

What action can you take in the next week as a response to today’s reading and discussion?

Keep a private journal of your prayer/actions responses this week. Feel free to use the personal reflection questions or the meditations which follow:

Reflection Questions

• Lazarus represents all of us, each of whom Jesus loves. Do I feel loved by Jesus?
• What does it mean to me that Jesus is the resurrection and the life?
• Jesus’ act of raising Lazarus from the death actually speeds his own death. There was a cost. Has there ever been a cost for you of doing something good?
  Did you do it anyway, or was the cost too high?
• Which of the characters in the story do you most identify with? Why?
• Lack of forgiveness is something that may keep us “stuck” in a sort of death.
  Is there someone or something about which I am refusing to offer forgiveness?
  Is there anything for which I refuse to forgive myself?
• Is these someone who refuses to forgive me?
  What sort of “death” has this caused?
• What are some of the little “deaths” in our lives? (illness, loss of a job, rejection by a loved one, etc.)
• What are some of the “stones” that keep us entombed in a sort of death? (Fear, shame, envy, anger and sadness are examples)
• Walter Burghardt, in his homily on the fifth Sunday of Lent many years ago, said: “Eternal life does not begin with death. It begins now, because through Jesus, God and I are already one.” How do we live out or fail to live out that understanding?
• Do we believe that those who have died are linked to us through the communion of saints? Do we have an examples to relate?
• Have you ever done something for a friend that caused you severe discomfort or pain? Was it worth it?
• If I were to die tomorrow, what have I left undone, unsaid?
  From whom have I withheld forgiveness?
  From whom have I not sought forgiveness?
• What parts of my life need healing, mercy, resurrection?
• Where is my interior necrosis?
  Where is the dead part of my soul?
• Do I reflect the joy of Christ, or am I like a mourner at a funeral?

Meditations

A Meditation in the Ignatian Style:

Read John 11: 1-44 again. Imagine the various scenes in this story. Try to picture Mary and Martha coping with the desperate illness of their brother. Imagine the scene on the far side of the Jordan where Jesus is hiding out to avoid arrest. What is Jesus actually doing when he receives the message about Lazarus? Try to put yourself in Mary and Martha’s shoes as they see Jesus after Lazarus has died. Would you react the same way? How does Jesus react? What does that tell you about his feelings for Lazarus and for Mary and Martha? Have you ever felt that God was a little too slow in reacting to a crisis in your life? Reflect on the final outcome and see if you can detect the presence of God in good times and in bad times. Imagine a dialogue with the risen Lazarus. What do you think he would say to you?

(by Anne Greenfield, from Songs of Life: Psalm Meditations from the Catholic Community at Stanford)

A Meditation in the Franciscan Style/Action:

Is it hard to know what to say to someone who is in the throes of grief? Can one simply acknowledge that we do not know how to help, but that we are concerned about them and are available if needed? Do you know of anyone who is grieving the loss of a loved one, or a job, or health? What one gesture of sympathy and solidarity can you make this week to comfort this person?

A Meditation in the Dominican Style/Asking Questions:

From A Year of Mercy with Pope Francis:

A homily of Pope Francis on April 6, 2014:

Today I invite you to think for a moment, in silence here: where is my interior necrosis? Where is the dead part of my soul? Where is my tomb? Think, for a short moment… What part of the heart can be corrupted because of my attachment to sin, one sin or another? And to remove the stone, to take away the stone of shame and allow the Lord to say to us as he said to Lazarus: “Come out!” that all our souls might be healed, might be raised by the love of Jesus. He is capable of forgiving us. We all need it! All of us. We are all sinners, but we must be careful not to become corrupt. Sinners we may be, but He forgives us.

Reflection:
Consider Pope Francis’ questions above. What parts of your life need healing, mercy, resurrection? Trust in the power of Jesus to transform you.

Literary Reflection:

I wonder if this is how Mary and Martha felt when they lost their brother:

“Cue Lazarus”

Start this with the invocation:
a seventy-seven Pinto,
an eastbound freeway, two boys
a few months from their driver’s license.

It happens again because you’ve
said it. You sit in the back seat,
a ghost of red vinyl, to listen
to these boys—one of whom was you,

the one along for the ride—talk
brave about cheerleaders
and socket wrenches as they pass
a stolen cigarette between them.

They don’t know you’re there,
wouldn’t believe in you should
they look backstage, backseat.
The boys are driving back from an October

orchard where they’d gone to see leaves
change. You remember: orange, brown,
as though you’d just seen those leaves,
because in this proximity

to yourself—the boy in the passenger
seat—you are thinking the
same thing, and each of your in-
carnations feels like they’ve thought this

before. Your ghost, your present tense
thinks that maybe this isn’t right.
Now you’re along for the ride.
These boys haven’t cuffed up against

their own mortality yet, though one
of them is sick. The other one,
driving and picking at the thin
hair falling from his scalp, will die

soon, because what lurks in his dark
blood can be cured by medical
science. And that cure is what will
kill him, as it leaves him weak,

unable to fight off infection
in his lungs. But that comes later.
You are here with them now to find
out what you owe to whom—your life,

mortgaged to one of these boys
and you’ve never been able to
rectify that debt. You are the
stage direction, a ghost backstage,

wanting a spotlight, a soapbox
a soliloquy. Dissolve
back into your life, like sugar
in tea—exit this scene now, stage left.

*

You are the apparition again
in your mother’s house. You follow
yourself down the yellow hallway
to the ringing phone in the kitchen.

You already know who’s calling,
the way you knew then—when you were
the self you’re haunting. Your friend
is dead. You know this even before

his sister tells you—but because your
ghost is too close, the boy can feel
your grief, but can’t feel his own.
And you did know then, didn’t you?

You knew that morning, that the earth
awakes closest to the sun—four
days into every new year.
And Lazarus, dead now, four days.

Roll away the stone. Believe
in something besides the past.
Awaken from this dream like
a man called out from a cave.

It happens this way each time:
a bourbon breakdown in January
rain—weeping an invocation,
cursing corollary.

Can you go to Tom’s grave today
and mandate him back to this life?
Should you cue him from the wing
like a stage direction? Would he

damn you—a sadness, a gravestone
on your chest, for calling him
into this mortal suffering?
If you had been in Houston that day

he’d have died anyway. You’re a fool
to think you can bargain across the river.
Haunting the past won’t stop
it from happening each time, exactly

the same way. Won’t stop your heart
from breaking like a glass decanter,
brown whisky sliding
mercury across the tile.

—Carl Marcum

Literary Reflection:

Sit with this poem for a while and see of it says anything to you about hope:
Birago Diop, A Muslim poet from Senegal, sums up his convictions about those who have gone before us:

Those who are dead have never gone away,
They are in the shadows darkening around,
They are in the shadows fading into day,
The dead are not under the ground.
They are in the trees that quiver,
They are in the woods that weep,
They are in the waters of the rivers,
They are in the waters that sleep.
They are in the crowds, they are in the homestead.
The dead are never dead.

Closing Prayer

You call me to come out, Lord, from all that keeps me bound and facing death of one sort or another—insecurity, anger, hopelessness, fear, disappointment in myself and others. The trappings of this life, like accomplishment, money, unhealthy dependence on others are wrappings that keep me from freely experiencing your gift of life and love. Set me free Lord. If I do not hear your call, call me again. And again.