The Fifth Sunday in Lent

The raising of Lazarus. Does it strike you as odd to have this as our Gospel reading so deep within the depths of Lent as we are right now? Easter is coming very early this year, but it is still two weeks away. And yet with the raising of Lazarus it seems like those of us who have come to church on this Fifth Sunday in Lent are getting a members only preview of the Easter attraction, an advance peek at what is yet to come. But that is to misread this morning’s story. This is not an Easter story. The so-called raising of Lazarus is not a resurrection story. Although Lazarus walks forth from his tomb this morning, returning to the presence of those who loved him, death will overtake him again in the future. We are not told, but we can assume, that the next time Lazarus dies, the process of bodily decay will run its full course. His flesh will return to dust. And he will not be seen again on earth. The promise that truly awaits him after death is a story we will tell in a few weeks, but that is not this morning’s story.

The raising of Lazarus is not about resurrection. This story does not tell of death’s defeat, only of death’s diversion. It is really more of a healing story, a particularly sensational healing story, but still just a healing story. Yet that does not mean we should dismiss it. It offers us a powerful message. True, it is not a story about eternal life after death. But it is a story about life. A story about renewed life. About the gift of life offered anew. Another chance, beyond all hope, in the midst of life. A story about on-going life after life seems to have ended. A promise of hope given even on days that are not Easter.

Life renewed in the midst of life. Even when life seems to have ended; even when we see no possibility of hope. The graphic and stark description of Lazarus—dead for four days, the stench of decay growing in the cave where his body is sealed—this is a picture that offers no hope, no future to our human perception. And yet this is the setting to which Jesus brings renewed life. Jesus brings life re-newed even in times and places that seem to us to be absolutely hopeless.  That is a message I need to hear. It’s a message the world needs to hear. And we do not have to wait until Easter to hear it. No matter how dark the night, no matter how deathly the tomb in which we find ourselves… if it's the Fifth Sunday in Lent, or the twenty-sixth day of December, 2004, or just some random day in an individual life when depravity or despair or darkness overwhelms us… Even on these days, God can renew life.

Life renewed in the midst of life. Life beyond the dark and deathly tombs that shroud us in life. Even in the seemingly hopeless, God offers renewed life.

The dark and deathly tombs that shroud us in the midst of life. Part of Lent’s task is acknowledging that our sin casts all of our lives, to one degree or another, into darkness and death. In Lent, we are charged to seek and define the dark shape our own individual sins. Remember the Litany of Penitence we said together on Ash Wednesday. It is meant to prod our self-examination. To remind us all, lest we forget, that sin does darken all of our lives. Our own sin eclipses the light of our lives.

We confess, in the Litany of Penitence, that we have not loved God with our whole heart, and mind and strength. Can you say, on this Fifth Sunday in Lent, that you have always loved God with the unreserved fullness of your passion, your intelligence and unceasing fortitude? Or are there places within you which you keep separate from God, set aside for yourself? Places where ambition, greed, love of self, reign over your heart and your mind and your strength? We all cling to such places within ourselves, but they are tombs, dark and deathly places.

We also confess that we have not loved our neighbor as ourselves. We say those words often… every Sunday in the General Confession. Do you ever stop to think how often each of us fails… fails to act on our neighbor’s behalf in the same way we would act for ourselves. Our sin is dark indeed.

In the Litany of Penitence we also acknowledge that we have been deaf--we have chosen to be deaf--to God’s call to serve, denying the faith and conviction that God has given us, living before others in the world as though God were a stranger to us.

And on Ash Wednesday, we confess to God, all our past unfaithfulness. All. Every time that pride, hypocrisy or impatience has been more important to us than faithfulness. When I was growing up, "bottomless pit" was a phrase I heard most often in reference to my brother’s stomach in the years when he was a growing teenager. And we do often use the phrase lightly.  But think of it literally. Our unfaithfulness opens up a bottomless pit between us and God, between us and others, into which we fall deeper and deeper, darker and darker, forever. We confess to you Lord, all our past unfaithfulness.

These are some of the dark and deathly tombs that shroud us in life.

There are other paths that lead to death in the midst of life. Sometimes it is not so much our sin, the devices and desires of our own hearts, that leads us into darkness. Sometimes the darkness just comes upon us, overwhelms us from beyond ourselves. Illness. Despair. Tragedy. Loss. Things beyond ourselves which are larger than ourselves. Robbing us of hope. Casting dark shadows of death, unshakable shadows of death, upon our hearts.

Jesus wept to find Lazarus trapped in the deathly darkness of the tomb and Jesus called to him in a loud voice, "Lazarus, come out!"

It is a command, an invitation, an offer. Lazarus, come out. The words carry all of God’s love and all of God’s power. Jesus’ words, Jesus’ presence lift Lazarus up and draw him out of the tomb, into the light.

Jesus’ words, Jesus’ presence still speak with all of the power and love of God. Come out! Come out of the tomb.

There is one more very important piece of this story of Lazarus’ renewal. It takes place in community.  Even as Lazarus staggers slowly back into light and life, he is still bound, wrapped in the shrouds of death. And Jesus says, "Unbind him, and let him go." He speaks to the others who are there, to the community, to the family of faith. To Mary and Martha and their neighbors in Bethany and all the faithful who had walked across the valley from Jerusalem to offer their prayers and support. To everyone united in faith who mourned the taking of Lazarus by the darkness, Jesus speaks to them and says, "Unbind him and let him go."

Jesus' voice speaks from within the community of faith and it is, literally, the hands of that community who finally free Lazarus from his bounds.

Historically, Lent has been a time of preparation for baptism, and so images of baptism are before us throughout this journey of Lent. And, although baptism certainly has an individual component, the naming and sealing of an individual as Christ’s own… baptism is foremost a community event. Baptism is initiation into a community… "We receive you into the household of God." It is the community’s role to welcome, to receive. And the community also vows to do "all in our power to support you in your life in Christ." All in our power.

Jesus still speaks from within the community of faith. And to any individual who is in darkness, no matter how deathly the tomb may be, Jesus speaks with power and love, "Come out." And to every one of us gathered in Jesus’ name… to everyone of us who has been baptized into the household of God, into the community of faith… Jesus says to us, "Unbind him. Unbind her. And let her go."

These are Jesus’ words spoken to the community gathered on the Fifth Sunday in Lent.

Sermon Index
Comments are welcome.  Send to krisorr@att.net