John 11:1-45
Lent 5 / Year A
Some of us present this morning experience today’s Gospel
reading from a unique perspective. To lose
a sibling fosters a distinctive kind of grief.
Only our brothers and sisters know the way back to where we began life’s
journey. Because siblings are united by
a common bond forged in childhood, we live with the expectation we’ll somehow
always be together. Losing a sibling, then, destroys this illusion of
permanence in a way more profound than most other deaths.
Generally speaking, our society does not recognize the
death of a sibling as being a major loss.
If you tell someone your sister died, soon the conversation will get
around to did she have a husband and or children and how are your parents
holding up (as if their loss is somehow more significant than yours). The subtle message behind this is your grief
is somehow unwarranted and, as such, people will expect you ‘to get over it’
much quicker than is possible.
Mary and Martha experience a double shock. First, their brother Lazarus takes ill;
gravely ill. We can only imagine their
frantic state as they tend to him. In
their desperation they send for Jesus.
He loves Lazarus and surely will rush to his aid. But then comes the second shock… Lazarus
dies.
At this point the sisters unquestionably experience
many of the same feelings any of us would have at such a loss: confusion,
disorientation, deep weeping and sorrow, the feeling of time standing still, a
sense of not knowing what to do, feeling shaky, faint, or sick to your stomach,
and being overwhelmed by a sense of despair.
All are manifestations of shock; the initial reaction in the grief
process.
Anger is another common response to the death of a
loved one. It may be focused on the
disease or accident responsible for the death, the doctors or healthcare system
that did not effect a cure, and other people (such as friends, coworkers,
neighbors, and even family members) who failed to respond as we would have
liked. Anger can be directed at yourself
(through feelings of guilt or regret) or even at the person you lost
(especially if he did not tend to own health or in some other way contributed
to his death).
Mary and Martha seem to aim their anger at Jesus. When each says, “If only you had been here my
brother would not have died,” it is not quite clear if these are statements of
faith or angry accusations. Chances are
the narrative’s ambiguity means there is a hint of both in their
statements. That Jesus receives what
each sister says, and that he himself goes to the grave and weeps, validates
and legitimizes everything we feel and experience in our own grieving
process. Because Jesus mourned, we know
our mourning is a part of our humanity, not a sign of weakness or a lack of
faith.
Somewhere down the road those who grieve find a way to
accept and to embrace their loss. T.J.
Wray, in her very helpful book Surviving
the Death of a Sibling, writes
about when such a moment came to her:
One evening after dinner, my husband
and his siblings gather around the piano to sing in much the same way they did
as children... I know from experience the
singing may go on for hours. I sit [with
others] in an adjacent room… and I’m
struck by the near perfect blending of sibling voices, harmonizing in that
special way only siblings can. A stab of
sorrow reminds me that I’ll never sing with my brother again. The tears threaten then, so I leave the room
and step outside in the warm summer night.
Standing alone on the porch in the
darkness, I look up as wispy clouds part, showing off a nearly full moon. The sky, framed by treetops and studded with
blinking stars, seems vast and infinite, yet only a preamble to the universe that
stretches further beyond my reckoning.
All at once, I know with great certainty that my brother is now a part
of that universe, but at the same time, still very much a part of me. A quiet peace fills the empty places within
my soul, as I finally believe what I have taught my students for so many years:
that love survives even through the pain of death. I lean against the railing, close my eyes,
and whisper softly, “I miss you,” and my words are carried off into the night.
After that night, I knew that I
could still have a relationship with my brother, despite the fact that he was
no longer physically a part of this world.
More important, I learned I did not have to let go of him to heal. In fact, the opposite was true: I needed to
learn how to embrace both my loss and my brother in a new way.
Jesus grieves deeply at the death of his friend and in
calling him to back to life, Mary, Martha, and others are assured and convinced
of the reality of the resurrection to eternal life; a reality over which Jesus reigns. And, at some point (perhaps a matter of days
or maybe a few years down the road), Mary and Martha have to say goodbye to
their brother a second time. Surely they
believe they will see him again in the next life, but this doesn’t mean they don’t
miss him. Surely they know he is with
Jesus, but this does not mean they are not sad.
Some of you lost a sibling years ago while for others
it has been just a matter of weeks or months.
Like any deep loss, your loss has changed you forever. Some in your position report feelings of
isolation because everyone else assumes you are the person you have always
been, but you know you are not. Some
sense how others want you to get over it, but you realize it is not something
you get over, only get used to. I hope this
sermon will make all of us more aware of the complexity of this kind of loss. For each of you who have lost a sibling I
pray God will use this day to touch you in a profound way.
