5th Sunday of Lent 2015
Robert VerEecke, S.J.
If you had come to Mass earlier in the day, the scriptures you would have
heard would have been very different than the ones you just heard. You
would have heard the beautiful words of the prophet Jeremiah, “I will make
a new covenant with my people. I will place my law within them and write
in their hearts. And they will be my people and I will be their God”. This is
part of Jeremiah’s “little book of consolation”. Just three chapters of
consoling words in the midst of many judgments and condemnations.
You would also have heard the words, “Sir, we would like to see Jesus” on
the lips of some Greeks who come to the disciples in John’s Gospel, curious
to get a look at this Jesus whom they have heard so much about.
Had you been here this morning you would have heard consoling words
from Jeremiah and a curious question from some who wanted to see Jesus
for themselves.
I know that some of you are very much in need of consoling words at this
moment. You are facing life-threatening illness. It feels like life itself is
unraveling, whirling out of control, wondering what next.
I know that others of you would like to see Jesus, especially our five Elect
who have been on a journey, getting to know Jesus, becoming closer to him
as he reveals himself to you.
But who here wouldn’t like to see Jesus? Don’t you wish we had a selfie of
Jesus? Wouldn’t you like to know what he actually looked like? I may be
wrong but I would imagine that most of us think of Jesus as tall, dark and
handsome. Someone that charismatic, who would be so attractive to men and
women alike, would have to have been well… beautiful, perfectly
proportioned, virile, a perfect human specimen who achieved this without
make-up or an exercise regime. But what if the Jesus those Greeks saw was
just “ordinary”, like most of us? What if he was a composite of all of human
kind?
I was shocked in an RCIA class when Diana Gaillardetz brought in different
images of Jesus from different cultures, but one was a composite image of
what Jesus “most likely” looked like. When I saw it, I could only say, no my
Jesus would never have looked like that.
The truth, of course, is that we have no idea what Jesus looked like. And
when we say we want to “see” Jesus, we are talking about much, much more
than his physical appearance. And, if truth be told, what we have from the
Gospels is a composite picture of Jesus. Each of the Gospels shows us who
Jesus was for the early church in unique ways. The earliest Gospel, Mark’s,
emphasizes his human nature. John, the last of the Gospels, invites us to see
more explicitly the power of God the Father working in him, as we just
heard in the story of the raising of Lazarus. And yet, even with the “mighty
works of God” that we see Jesus doing in John’s gospel, we are given to see
some of the most poignant dimensions of the human Jesus: Jesus loved.
Jesus wept. Jesus grieved.
The divine nature of Jesus has him completely in control. His human nature
has him losing control. The divine nature of Jesus gives him power over
death. His human nature is wrapped up in the pain of loss of one whom he
loved. If we want to see Jesus through a Johannine lens, we are bound to be
confronted with enigmas: “If he really loved Lazarus and Martha and Mary,
why would he have waited two days? Why wouldn’t he have responded
immediately? Why would he let those whom he loved suffer, if he could
have spared them? If he had this power over death itself, why couldn’t he
have just prayed that Lazarus would be cured of his illness when he received
the news? What is it with this Jesus?” (That’s your take home from this
homily: What is it with this Jesus?)
This is as far as I had gotten in my reflections and then I received the call
from my brother: “Bob, Mom doesn’t have long to life. The nursing home
called and she has taken a turn for the worse. They don’t expect that she will
live very long.”
The irony of the call is that it is almost identical to the one that I received
last year at this time from my other brother: “Bob, if you want to see Mom
before she dies, come quickly.” My homily for the 5th Sunday of Lent last
year was about the call, the visit and the surprise of finding my 98-year-old
mother more responsive than I had expected.
Very briefly last year I spoke of expecting the end but receiving the outline
of a smile, an almost recognition and a hand-holding that spoke to me
powerfully of the simple gestures of life. In the midst of the great mystery of
life and death, there were the human ties that bind us, a hand extended, a
smile.
I spoke too of being in liminal space. Those of you who know what it is wait
for your own or a loved one’s death know this “liminal space”, this in
between time and eternity. But I also spoke about how death “stinks”. As
Martha said, he has been in the tomb for four days and there will be a stench.
Death, even if it may be a relief, always has a stench because it robs us of
our loved ones. As universal as death is—it comes for us all—it is personal.
It is someone who gave you life. It is someone who loved you with a
mother’s love, a father’s love. It is a husband, wife, partner, a friend.
Although the raising of Lazarus is a manifestation of the power of God in
Jesus, it is also about love itself. It’s about loving and losing and being given
back the one you love. That’s what we all hope for isn’t it?
So, for those of you who are looking for consolation in a time of grief and
loss, look for the love that is more powerful than death. For those of you
who want to see Jesus, look to those who love you and you will see his face.