Emmanuel Episcopal Church
October 31, 2021
All Saints’, B
John 11:32-44
White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
I’ll venture to guess that all of us have felt this way at some point. If you had been here. Where were you? Where are you?
Lord, if you had been here, cancer would not have killed my loved ones.
If you had been here our city wouldn’t have flooded, children wouldn’t starve, people wouldn’t work three jobs and be in poverty.
If you had been here, we wouldn’t have people who are feared, harassed, and killed because of the color of their skin.
Lord, if you had been here, COVID wouldn’t have ravaged our world.
Where are you, Lord? Where were you?
As much as we wish death would not separate us from our loved ones, especially when they are young or the death is brought about by violence, death continues to happen even when God is walking on earth among us. We may wish or sometimes think that because we believe in Jesus, death won’t come for us or our loved ones until we are old and prepared for it, having lived a full life. The truth that we know, however, is that death comes to all of us just as randomly and as certainly as it does for everyone. No right formula of prayer, belief, or ritual is going to stop that. We who believe in Jesus can’t stave off death any more than anyone else can.
Jesus didn’t come to stop death from happening. Death is supposed to happen. Without death, there is no new life. We know this in nature in the way biology works, in the way the earth works. Things die and return to the earth, and when they do, new life happens. New trees are nourished as old trees die and give nutrients to the soil. The same is true for animals, even for humans. Death brings new life, and a new kind of life.
Jesus didn’t come here to keep us from dying. Jesus came here to keep us living.
Now death can take many forms. Physical, mental, emotional, relational. How often are we and other alive in our bodies, but suffering death in many other ways. These deaths too are going to happen in our lives, that’s the nature of life. Jesus didn’t come here to stop these deaths from happening. Jesus came here to keep us living amidst all of these deaths.
Thinking of these non-physical deaths, I imagine a man who was cheated by a business partner, whose dream company is no longer his, but his former partner’s. He’s angry, as well he should be. Losing his business, his ideas, his dreams, that was a death for this man. I can imagine this man thirty years later still resentful, bitter, and angry. Broken, basically, having never really recovered from the betrayal and loss, he is mostly alone, not trusting, barely loving. His life really ended with that betrayal, and though he’s physically alive, he’s mostly dead inside.
“Unbind him, and let him go,” Jesus said. I can imagine this man taking a different path than continued resentment, bitterness, and anger. I can imagine this man releasing his past, releasing his hurt, and letting new life take place within him after that death. Thirty years later, I can imagine this man with a great life, a life different than what it would have been, but a life in which he loves and is loved, where he trusts, where he is fully alive, living life abundantly. Part of him died and went into the tomb, but he let it go. He was unbound by that death so that he could continue living.
Now, when death happens for us, all kinds of death, including the physical death of our loved ones, part of us dies too. Part of us goes into the tomb with Lazarus’ body. His body, after four days in the tomb, was decomposing, rotting. There was the stench of death and decay, and the same is true for us when parts of us die and we lie in the tomb. We’re sad, maybe lost, sometimes resentful and angry. “Lord if you had been here, cancer would not have killed my loved ones; our city wouldn’t have flooded; children wouldn’t starve; people wouldn’t work three jobs and be in poverty; folks wouldn’t be afraid, harassed, and killed because of the color of their skin; and COVID wouldn’t have ravaged our world.
When these deaths happen, we get to think and feel this way. We get to be sad and lost, resentful and angry. Even through that fourth day in the tomb when the stench of rotting flesh is upon us, we get to be sad and lost, resentful and angry. Such is the nature of death, but we aren’t meant to stay there forever. “Unbind him, and let him go,” Jesus said.
Come out of the tomb, for there is new life after death.
That’s true for the many non-physical deaths which take place throughout our lives, and it is also true with physical death. Jesus didn’t come here to keep us from dying. Jesus came here to keep us living.
So too with physical death, we hear Jesus’ words, “Unbind them, and let them go.” Physical death is not the end, for we continue living on in a way we don’t fully understand. More than physical life, we continue on with life in God. All of us together, unbound by death, the communion of saints, fully alive, even though our bodies have died.
All of our loved ones. All of the saints in our lives. All of the saints in the church. Past. Present. Yet to come. We are all unbound from death and brought into full life with Christ in God. That is the communion of saints, for death is not the end. As the wizard, Gandalf said in the the movie “The Return of the King,” “Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it. White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.”
With the deaths in our lives, we often say, as Mary said, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Yes he would have. Now “unbind him and let him go.” For Jesus did not come to keep us from dying. Jesus came to keep us living, living fully with God throughout this life and even after this life has ended, gathered together in God with all of our saints and loved ones, gathered to white shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.
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