Things Fall Apart

Buddhists have a way of looking at life that makes sense in its own way. They say that suffering, pain, comes from desire. The only reason we suffer is because we want something other than what we have. The only reason that a kale salad with quinoa makes me suffer is because I’d rather be eating a philly cheesesteak. If I could eliminate the desire for a philly, I wouldn’t suffer. A woman hates her job because she wants another one. A man hurts deeply because he wants his children to live closer. The solution in the Buddhist philosophy is to eliminate your desires. Stop wanting stuff and then you won’t hurt. Logically, I get it and it makes its own kind of sense.

Except I think it breaks down in the real world. Life is a little more complicated than cheesesteaks and job envy. We hurt for real reasons. You live long enough and you’ll encounter some real pain – separations in family, relationships that fizzle out, stepping barefoot on a Lego – real pain. And I don’t think there’s any pain that’s more real, more universal, than the pain of losing a loved one to death. That kind of suffering is like the ocean, it ebbs and flows, never really disappearing forever even when we come to terms with it. We just learn how to behave around it.

In some ways, this story is about both of those ideas. Martha and Mary, these two sisters, are caught between longing and suffering, grief and desire. That’s the struggle of all of us human beings eventually. We hurt and we wish for better. That’s certainly the story of these two women.

Martha comes out first because that’s who she is. She’s not one to wait around if something needs to be done. So, she goes out to see Jesus who is finally coming to town and the first thing out of her mouth is, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Strong stuff. I mean, she’s talking to Jesus. “You’re too late.” Her sister Mary would say the same thing to him in just another minute. Martha follows up with a little flattery, “God will give you whatever you ask of him.” She’s seen too much to deny that, but it didn’t keep her from pointing a finger at him. Where were you?

That’s the question, isn’t it? If we can be honest with ourselves here, that’s the question we would all ask of Christ given the time. Where were you? Why did you let these things happen? Philosophers and theologians and people of all stripes have been asking these kinds of questions for centuries. It’s the question that Job kept asking: why are you doing this? It’s the question that Elie Wiesel continuously asked of God after the Holocaust – where were you? It’s the question that I’ve heard on the tear-drenched lips of countless grieving people: How could this have happened?

It’s a good question. It hinges on three things – evil exists, God is good, God is able. The problem is simple – if God is good and able to do something about it, then why did this evil thing happen? Why did God allow 6 million Jews to die in Europe? Why did the storm come? Why did I lose her? Why did you take him? Jesus, if you really cared about Lazarus, if God will give you anything that you ask, why weren’t you here? Why is my brother dead in a tomb? You either never cared for him or you never could do anything about it.

I’m encouraged by Martha, and I mean that word literally. If Martha could seek out Jesus and ask him the hardest questions, then we can, too. Elie Wiesel did, Job did, and so we can ask these questions of God in our pain, in our grief, in our anger and indignation. And God is big enough to take it. Christ doesn’t walk away from Martha’s question and he doesn’t answer with some cliché or a cute story. He listens and he answers deeply.

“Your brother will rise again.” And Martha’s response is again such a realistic one. She says, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” I can hear her voice in my head. “I know that. I know he’ll be resurrected on the last day…” We’ve moved from the past, “if you had been here…” to the future, “… on the last day.” A terrible thing happened and I know it will be different eventually.

And as Christians we have that hope. Eventually, we will meet our loved ones again. Eventually, we will rejoin our loved ones around the throne of God. Eventually, we will see heaven and eventually God will remake this earth and we will dwell here as resurrected people. We will be restored, with new bodies, and God will dwell with us. We have this hope, eventually. And there is some comfort in that, I don’t want to deny that or take it away. There is some comfort in knowing things will eventually turn out OK.

I tell that to my girls sometimes while we’re watching movies. Both of our girls are sensitive in different ways and so in most movies there is at least one scene where the bad guys have the upper hand or a character dies or it looks like things aren’t going to be OK. It’s our job as parents to whisper in their ears, “it’s going to be OK in the end.” Aladdin will be fine, the witch doesn’t win, it will all turn out in the end. And that helps somewhat. But it doesn’t mean my girls don’t get scared, or sad, or upset when things go wrong.

So, sure, there’s hope and that matters. One day things will be set to rights, but for now we are still living in the loss. We still miss those who have gone on and just because we have an eventual hop doesn’t mean we don’t still hurt now. That’s what Martha is saying, “I know. I know eventually he will be resurrected… but until then?”

That’s the real problem, something bad happened in the past and we can’t help but wonder how things might have been different in the past. And we know God has good things in store in the future, but those are a long way away. What about now? What do we do now? Or really, if we’re honest, what we’re really wondering is what God is going to do right now? Jesus, you weren’t here when I needed you and your promises are in the future. What about now?

Martha says, “Lord, if you had been here my brother wouldn’t have died. I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus says to her, “I am the resurrection and the life.” Jesus didn’t say, “I will be the resurrection” nor did he say “I have been the resurrection.” I Am. Present tense. Right now. I am the resurrection and the life.

And then Jesus resurrects Lazarus, which is something that no one expected. Just to be clear, Martha still has faith. She has faith enough to know that if Jesus was here four days ago, her brother would still be alive. She has faith enough in Go to believe in the resurrection, but she still didn’t expect Jesus to raise Lazarus from the dead right then and there. Martha and the rest have plenty of faith, but their expectations had them locked away in either the past or the future.

And we are in the same boat.

We have faith, of course. We believe that Jesus Christ raised Lazarus from the dead, that God raised Jesus from the dead, that there were miracles and signs and wonders. And we have faith enough to believe that eternal life is ahead of us. We have faith that the resurrection will come at the end of days, whenever that may be. We have faith in what God has done in the past and we have hope in what God will do in the future, but do we have faith in God for now? Do we believe that God is the resurrection and the life now?

It’s a matter of expectation, I think. Martha expected the resurrection to come at the end and Jesus said, “Now.” That was a special case, a unique circumstance, but we step in the same trap. God will resurrect them later; we will rejoin them at the end of our lives. And the good news today is that Jesus is saying, “Now.” But of course, it’s not in the way that we expect.

This passage means a lot to me personally and I often quote it during a memorial service. For me, the miracle of raising Lazarus from the dead is amazing and encouraging, but ultimately it doesn’t mean a fraction of what verse 35 says. Jesus wept. Before the miracle of resurrection, Jesus performs a miracle of presence and shared pain and to me that’s more important and more powerful. Because when we’re in pain, the thing that means the most to us is someone who will sit with us while we suffer. You don’t have to say anything or do anything, just show up and be there.

We had a framed picture in my house growing up and I bet a lot of you have seen it, too. It that picture of footprints along the seashore and it has a poem going down the length of it. It’s a poem about life. The poet had a dream and in the dream, he was walking along the beach and as he looked behind him, he could see the path of his footprints in the sand. And looking at the footprints he could see the story of his life. Upon consideration, he could see often there were two sets of footprints, one his and one belonging to God. But during the hardest parts of his life there were only one set of footprints in the sand. So, he questions God about it. What gives? How could you abandon me during those times? You’ve seen this poem before so you know how it ends. God says, “Where you see one set of footprints is where I carried you.”

It’s a pretty poem, and maybe that’s the truth of it. But that’s not the way I would have written it. That’s not the way Martha would have written it, either. Because in the valleys of life, I don’t feel like I’m being carried through it. It feels like I’m stuck. I’d write it a little differently.

It’d start out the same: dream, life, footprints, yada yada yada.

I said to God, “Lord, I see that during the hardest times of my life, I dragged my feet, I walked in circles and eventually I just plopped down. I can see the marks my rear-end left in the sand. (Clearly, I’m a great poet.) And I just sat there until I found the courage to stand up and keep going. Why didn’t you carry me through it? Why didn’t you save me?”

And God said, “If you look closely, you will see two rear prints in the sand. That’s where I sat and wept with you.”

The truth is that there are no easy answers to the tough questions that Martha raises. The truth is sorrow is hard, grief is painful, and life is full of both. And I know we would love someone to just wave a wand and make it all better or to just carry us through all the hard, to fast-forward to the happy ending. But that’s not life, and to be honest we’d probably be worse for it. If we can lay down those expectations, then we gain far more.

Because when someone shares our grief, we find brotherhood and sisterhood – we’re not alone. When someone struggles alongside us, we find courage – we can face this together. When someone weeps with us, we find love – we cry because something, or someone, matters to us.

The greatest comfort I have found for when things fall apart is a God who weeps. Christ weeps with you in the hardest times of your life and so often that is the one thing that can carry us through it. We are not alone. Christ knows what it means to suffer. He knows betrayal, grief, disappointment, frustration, pain, and heartache. Jesus Christ knows what you’re going through and weeps with you.