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Worship on November 8, 2009

   Rev. Shannon Johnson Kershner
 

Who Holds Your Voice? 

Where do you sit in this story?  In this story from the Gospel of John, the one we know as the “raising of Lazarus,” who holds your voice? 

 Does your voice intermingle with Mary’s?  “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”  Her voice drips with grief-filled honesty and frankly, such disappointment.  “Lord, if only you had been here…”  She knew who Jesus was as well as anyone did.  She knew that he had the power to heal, to make whole, to inspire, to give life.  She knew that his presence might have changed the situation.  She trusted him.  She loved him.  She believed in him.  And because of all of that, she could not understand why he had not been there to make everything okay.  She knew he loved her family.  So why had he not come when he was summoned?  “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

 I thought about Mary’s voice when I heard about the violence at Fort Hood in central Texas.  Fort Hood is only about 45 minutes from Waco, the town in which I grew up and where my parents still live.  My father has many parishioners with ties to that military base.  My mother has some teacher co-workers whose families are employed there.  And all of us have heard on the news how that particular military family has already lost at least 520 soldiers since the start of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.[i] 

 So I can easily imagine Mary’s grief-soaked, honest cry on the lips of many women, men, and children in central Texas on this day.  “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother, my mother, my sister, my son, would not have died.”  Do you sit with those families and with Mary, kneeling at Jesus’ feet, your voice grief-soaked and disappointed?  

 Perhaps you find kinship with Martha’s voice.  Unfortunately, we do not hear from Martha in this section of the story.  But before Mary meets Jesus, Martha gets to him first.  And in her typically bold style, Martha lays it all out there for Jesus.  Unlike the grief-soaked tones of Mary’s voice, Martha’s voice has a sharp, angry edge. 

 “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.”  In other words, “You messed up Jesus, but you have the power to fix it.  So do it.”  Martha, like Mary, knew Jesus very well.  She also trusted him, loved him, and believed in him.  And that is precisely why she was angry.  Martha felt betrayed by her rabbi/friend Jesus.  And so she walked right up to him, stood up straight, looked him in the eyes and said exactly what she felt.  “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

 I have heard Martha’s voice before, too.  I have heard Martha’s voice echoing in the words of a former parishioner whose teenage daughter was battling anorexia.  This mother felt as if she were stuck in a deep, dark hole, powerless to do anything about it.  “Lord, if only you had been here…” this woman would utter, again and again.  Her daughter was fighting for her life.  Her daughter—a girl who had grown up in the church, been active in youth group, gone on mission trips—this beloved daughter of hers was sinking lower and lower into disease and dis-ease.  And her mother was furious about it.  She had always trusted God, loved God, and believed in God.  And she was angry that all of that faith had not protected her daughter from so much pain.  So in my pastor’s study, she regularly stated what she felt.  “Lord, if only you had been here, my daughter would be okay.”  Do you stand with the mother and with Martha, desiring to look Jesus eye-to-eye, sharp-edged and angry?

 Maybe your voice would be one of the voices in the crowd.  The voices who wondered loudly why this Jesus who had opened the eyes of the blind man could not have prevented Lazarus’ death.  If this Jesus was really who he said he was, then Lazarus did not need to die.  But he did.  So maybe all of this Jesus Messiah stuff was just a sham.  Maybe all of this Jesus Messiah stuff was just another man’s attempt to get power and control.  “If he is Lord,” the skeptics murmured, “then Lazarus should not be dead.  It’s just another scam.”

 I’ve heard those voices from the crowd before too.  I have friends whose voices would have fit in with the crowd’s questions.  They are wonderful, good-hearted, deeply-loving people who have been turned out and burned by the church so many times that they simply find it too hard to see anything good in it anymore.  They are friends whose hearts have been broken by people they thought were church family.  Young women and men who hear the church folk talk about love and unity, but then see the church folk act with pettiness and judgment. 

 “Shannon,” one said to me once, “I respect you.  But I cannot understand why you would get involved in the irrelevant and hypocritical institution of church.”  Their voices would have fit right in with the skeptical voices of the crowd that day outside of Lazarus’ tomb.  “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”  Do you stand with my friends and those in the crowd, skeptical or cynical?

 What about the voices of the disciples?  Does your voice blend with theirs’?  Again, in today’s portion of the story, we do not hear their voices.  But their voices rang out loudly and clearly before Jesus even made a move towards Lazarus’ grave.  Jesus and the disciples had just narrowly escaped being stoned to death in Jerusalem by those who were angry with his claims of being the Messiah.  They had fled from that place and gone across the Jordan to safety. 

 But then, a couple of days after Jesus heard about Lazarus, he told his disciples it was time to go back to Judea.  “Are you kidding?” the disciples asked.  “Rabbi, they were just now trying to stone you, and you are going there again?”  The disciples’ voices were full of fear.  Maybe Jesus had forgotten what it felt like to be frozen by fear.  But they had not forgotten.  They had not forgotten what it felt like to hear the religious leaders plotting to arrest Jesus for his ministry.  They had not forgotten what it felt like to be on guard 24/7, wary of shadows, unable to breathe deeply.  “Lord, if you go there, if we go there,…”

 Have you ever had a voice or heard a voice so constricted by fear that you had to catch your own breath?  I think about some of the voices I once heard when I was involved in planning an interfaith observance of Thanksgiving.  I was new to ministry but full of the over-confidence of a newly graduated seminarian.  And when the other religious leaders asked if the church in which I served could host the event, my colleagues and I replied, “Of course.  Why not?  We are the biggest space.”  It did not appear to be a controversial decision, at least not to this newly-minted preacher.  And so I was completely caught off-guard and knocked out of breath by the reaction of some of those in the Christian community.  “You want to do what in OUR sanctuary?  You want to let whom into our holy space?”  And we got hate letters and mean phone calls and by the end of it all, my colleagues and I were so wiped out that we were having to remind each other to breathe.  We knew that so much was fueled by fear—fear of others who were very different in many ways, but not so different in other ways.  But that fear had such dominance in those voices that it had squeezed out all of the love and compassion in them, leaving no room for anything or anyone else. 

 “Lord, if you go there, if we go there…”  Just between you and God, would your voice blend in with the fear-filled voices of the disciples—people who loved Jesus the best they could, but who just could not support his decisions to constantly be vulnerable for the sake of others who were just so very different?

 Where is your voice in this story?  Does it rest with Mary?  Martha?  Those in the crowd?  The disciples?  Maybe you hear your voice in the mouths of each of them from time to time, depending on the day.

 Of course, there is one voice we have not considered yet.  And no, I am not talking about Jesus’ voice.  I am talking about Lazarus.  Lazarus, the one to whom and with whom all of this happens.  Now, we must notice how he does not speak in this story.  Lazarus has no words in this whole interaction.  As a matter of fact, after he comes out of that tomb and is unbound, Lazarus drops out of the scene and is never mentioned again. 

 We have no record of what he said about his experience.  We do not know if he was happy about it or sad.  If he was joyful to get another shot at life here with us, or if he was upset because that meant he would have to die again one day.  We have no knowledge if Lazarus ever went on to preach or to teach after his experience of being a living, breathing miracle.  All we know about Lazarus is that Jesus called him out of the tomb and he responded, came out, was unbound and let go.

 Perhaps John did not let us hear Lazarus’ voice because he indeed said nothing.  Or perhaps John did not let us hear Lazarus’ voice because he wanted us to imagine what Lazarus’ testimony might be.  Once he had been unbound and let go, what might he have said? 

 Maybe Lazarus would have said to Mary—Sister, through this Jesus, God knows what it is like to weep.  God’s heart is always the first one to break.  But one day your tears will be dried and weeping will be a memory. 

 Maybe Lazarus would have said to Martha—Sister, through this Jesus, God knows your anger but God will not let injustice or illness or even death have the last word.   So continue to lift your head and stand tall.

 Maybe Lazarus would have said to those in the crowd—Friends, through this Jesus, God is creating the church, but it is going to be made up of people like you and me.  So that means it will be messy and sometimes messed up.  And yet, God will still choose to work in it and through it.

 Maybe Lazarus would have said to the disciples—Friends, through this Jesus, God has put flesh and blood on “Be not afraid.”  So take a deep breath and have courage.

 We don’t know for sure what Lazarus’ voice would have sounded like or what he might have said.  But because he is silent, we can all imagine his voice and wonder about his testimony. Wonder about what our testimony would be if we were like Lazarus. 

 What would we say if we opened our ears to hear Jesus call our names?  How would we respond to Jesus’ summons to come out of whatever it is that keeps us entombed—grief like Mary, anger like Martha, cynicism like the crowd, fear like the disciples.  Because, friends, that is exactly what happens in our lives each and every day. 

 Each and every day, as we sit in our own captivity—whether that be captivity to grief or to anger; captivity to cynicism or to fear; captivity to just plain numbness or to our constant busyness; or captivity to a whole host of other powers and principalities that try and lock us down—as we sit in our own captivity, Jesus stands outside those tombs and calls our names. 

 “Sisters and brothers,” Jesus cries out to us, “Come on out.  Be unbound and let go.”  Each and every day of our lives Jesus invites us to come out of the depths of whatever is keeping us captive, so we might walk into the light of a new start, a new chance, a new life, a kind of resurrection here and now, just as you are. 

 For the story of the rising of Lazarus is not just a story about the rising of Lazarus.  It is also the story about our own rising in Jesus.  It is also the story, our story, about a new life that begins today and not just after we die and are placed in our graves.

 Who knows.  Maybe that is why John keeps Lazarus silent.  Maybe he keeps him silent so that we might stand in for him and be his voice of new life and freedom.  Maybe, as members of Lazarus’ extended family, that is the voice we could claim for today.  For that is a voice that we all need to hear.  And that is a voice sorely needed in our world, as well.  “Come out.  Be unbound and let go.  Your eternal life in Christ starts now.”  Rise Up.  Rise Up.  Rise Up!