Sermon for March 29, 2020 - Lent 5A - The Rev'd Isaac P. Martinez

Lections: Ezek. 37:1-14; Ps. 130; John 11:1-45

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O God, our Rock, and our Redeemer. Amen.

Good morning. Will you start by taking a couple of deep breaths with me, wherever it is that you are watching this? That’s better. I don’t know about you, but I have resisted breathing too deep during the last two weeks. This resistance is one of my defense mechanisms, along with trying to keep myself busy and gorging myself on all the latest news and opinions. And the logic behind those patterns is pretty good. If I’m busy, even if only with endless Zoom calls, then I must still have a purpose in this crazy time. If I know all the latest information, then I can at least predict a little bit ahead of where I am now, which allows me to regain some control. But the question then becomes, control over what? Defense against what?

Against fear? Sort of.

Against worry? Sure, but not entirely.

Against sadness? That’s closer to the truth. What am I defending myself against?

It’s grief, my friends. A whole lot of grief. I am grieving the loss of the life I used to know and could depend on. I am in deep grief about not being able to physically gather with all of you. I grieve being limited to technologically mediated forms of human connection.

I have not yet lost anyone close to COVID-19. But some of you have. And I grieve not being able to comfort you with a hug, to be a physical shoulder to cry on. The economic devastation of containing this virus has mostly passed me by. But I know some of you are worrying how you will make ends meet. This pandemic is exacerbating the sinfully unequal divisions already present in our country. So I grieve that I, and the church, did not do enough to address that injustice before the virus hit.

In short, I grieve because I’m no longer able to be the priest and pastor I thought I would be and still long to be. That grief is real. It is deep and it is difficult to bear. So my subconscious habits and protective patterns take over. Stay busy. Stay informed. Don’t breathe too deep. And it works; until it doesn’t. And then the grief becomes overwhelming. Maybe it has become overwhelming for you too, beloved. So what then?

Well, for me, I try to remember to breathe. Breathing helps shift my anxious mind and overwhelmed heart from the future to the present. As I regain calmness, I also regain awareness that I am alive. Even in the midst of this terrible situation, the breath of life is still a free and gracious gift. Then I can remember the Giver of every good gift. I remember that God still has something to say about this situation the human race finds itself facing. God has something for us to do in response. And it begins with God finding a place right here with us, in our suffering, in our fear, and in our deepest grief.

Now I’ve complained sometimes this year that the lectionary has saddled me with some uncomfortable readings. But today, I am so grateful that I get to break open the story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead with you this morning. In normal times, this story is meant to place us with Martha and Mary and the Judeans who come to mourn Lazarus. Two weeks away from Easter, we face the same question they did: do we finally believe that Jesus is truly the Messiah, the Son of God? Or, are we still uncertain, and need one more miraculous sign, something that would overshadow all the other wonders Jesus has done until now?

But the miracle for me from this story, in this time of pandemic, is not just that Jesus raised someone from the dead. The miracle is how much Jesus grieves the death of a friend he loved so much.

Afterall, it wasn’t a surprise to Jesus; the story says he knew Lazarus would die. And he already knew that he would raise Lazarus from the dead, not just heal him. Yet, even knowing all that, the loss of Lazarus hits Jesus so hard. The English translation doesn’t really do justice to the depth of Jesus’s emotions. The original Greek implies that Jesus was just about out of control. He was angry and he was so, so sad.

Here, Jesus, the incarnate God, weeps, he cries uncontrollably, he deeply grieves his dead friend. Today, that same God is weeping at every death from this virus. God, who knows what it is to be fully human, joins us in our grief for all the ways our lives have been destroyed and disoriented, in big ways and small.

Jesus weeps with us. But death and destruction and disorientation are not the final word for a God who is love. Because this God also creates life.

So then what is the meaning of Jesus’s suffering and grief before he resurrects Lazarus? I think it is to show that just as God joins us in our grief, that same God will not leave us there, but will bring us through death to new life. And just as it was for Lazarus, so it is with us. For the thousands who have bodily died, we look for their resurrection in the world to come. For us who have experienced everything short of death, we seek and must work for a resurrected life in this world.

This pandemic is not the first time a people who have experienced profound loss have had to dream the world anew.

Our first reading this morning was from the prophet Ezekiel and his vision of a valley of dry bones. Although Ezekiel began prophesying before the Babylonians final conquest of Judah, this vision comes after the destruction of Solomon’s Temple in 586 BC. The loss of the Temple was traumatically disorienting for the Israelites. It was a cause for individual and communal grief, as we read throughout the Old Testament prophets. It called into question their very identity as God’s covenant people. If God’s own dwelling place could be demolished, where did that leave them?

It could have left them completely abandoned. It could have meant that the sacred history of God’s promise was lost. But God did not abandon the people in exile. God does not abandon us in our exile of quarantine and social distancing. God promises to put Her spirit within us, that we might live again.

But new, resurrected life cannot and will not look exactly like the life that was lost. Judah was restored and the temple rebuilt, but now God was revealing a new purpose for the covenant people—to be a light to every nation. The prophets after Ezekiel would speak of God’s expanding dream to bring everyone into God’s loving, saving, and life-giving arms.

This pandemic and its attendant suffering and grief will not last forever. But what will come after it? All of us will have choices in the months and years ahead. Either, we can let the effects of this collective trauma keep us trapped in the patterns and systems that allowed this disease to become a catastrophe. We can continue to tolerate failed political leadership, an idolatrous ideology of the individual, and a rapacious economy that puts profits ahead of people.

Or, beloved, we can live as Christians, as a resurrection people who know that death and grief are not the last word. We can prophesy in the midst of the old, dry bones of capitalism, racism, and all the other isms and phobias that lead to death. We can proclaim that God is breathing into all people, restoring us to full and abundant life. And we can build a society that is more just, more equal, more compassionate, and more loving.

So, St. Paul’s, take another deep breath with me. That breath is God—joining you in your grief, restoring you to life, strengthening you for resurrection. Amen.