5th Sunday of Lent 2014
Rev. Robert VerEecke, S.J.
I asked Quentin not to finish the Gospel just yet. I’ll tell you why later on.
So the sisters sent word to Jesus saying, “Master, the one whom you love is
ill. … So when he heard that he was ill, he remained for two days in the
place where he was.”
This past week I received a message from my brother similar to this: “Bob,
Mom is not responsive. If you want to see her again before she dies, come as
soon as you can.” Like Jesus I waited for two days and then drove through a
blizzard on Monday for what I expect would be the last time I would see my
Mom alive. Unlike Jesus who found his friend Lazarus already in the grave
for four days, I found my mother much more responsive than I had expected.
After sitting with her for some time, she opened her eyes and scanned my
brother’s and my face as if there were some ancient recognition. Twice she
smiled but the most poignant moment was when she reached for my
brother’s hand and held it. She did the same to me before we left and it felt
as if she didn’t want to let go. Of my hand or of life, I couldn’t say. I had
been called to confront the great mystery of death, of almost a century of life
ending, but instead I received the gift of a wordless smile and a handholding that spoke eloquently of the ultimate meaning of life.
It was those two simple gestures that remained with me during this past
week. A smile and a hand-holding that mysteriously captured almost 99
years of joy, of love, of self-gift. When I returned to Boston I was asked to
celebrate two funeral liturgies and in both of my homilies I mentioned these
simple gestures of a smile and a hand reaching to hold onto a loved one. I
asked those mourners to remember the times that a smile or a reaching out a
hand had given them joy, relieved a burden, lifted them up, awakened them
to something precious in themselves and in their relationship with this
person. Even in her most fragile and vulnerable moments, in that space and
time between life and death, my mother was teaching me.
It is this fusion between the questions of ultimate meaning and the simple
gestures of smiles and tears, reaching and holding on that I’d invite us to
pray about today. What does it all mean: life lived for 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80,
almost 90 years? What does it all mean in the grand scheme of a universe
that began 14 billion years ago with a great explosion and expanded in size
in a trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second? And how can it all be
captured in a human gesture, a smile, one hand holding another and not
wanting to let go?
This fusion between the questions of the meaning of life and death and the
simple expressions of love and loss is what we see in the Gospel today.
There is the cosmic battle between life and death. We hear Martha’s
profession of faith in Jesus as the Christ, the one who is the Resurrection and
the life. In John’s Gospel she is the one who affirms his identity as the
Christ, not Peter as in the other Gospels. Like the nameless woman of
Samaria, Martha affirms the identity of Jesus as the Christ. But woven
through these cosmic questions of ultimate meaning are the simple gestures,
the simple affirmations of love and loss. Now Jesus loved Lazarus and
Martha and Mary. Jesus was deeply disturbed in his spirit. And Jesus wept.
The story of the raising of Lazarus leads us into a betwixt and between
place. The question on Martha’s and Mary’s mind is, “What now?” Will the
presence of Jesus make any difference to their grief and loss of their beloved
brother? They are in that liminal space of life when they just don’t know
what is coming next. Death is final. Will Jesus appearing, even after the
fact, make a difference? This is why I asked Quentin to wait to finish the
Gospel. Yes, I know you know the “rest of the story” but isn’t the reality in
which we live most often the “What now?” moment? How do we live in the
“betwixt and between”? Ritualists call that betwixt and between “liminal
space”. “Liminal” from “Limens” meaning “threshold”. And that is why I
asked Quentin to pause at Martha’s words: “Lord he has been in the grave
for four days and there will be a stench.” Because liminal space often
“stinks”. The not knowing, the wondering, the worrying, the fear of
something new, can frankly “stink”. This stinks, seeing my mother holding
on for “dear” life and not wanting to let go. This stinks dealing with other
life situations that bury us, entomb us, put up barriers to the future, and we
are reduced to echoing Martha’s words, “If only.”
Those of you who have received the message “your loved one doesn’t have
long to live,” know what it is to be in liminal space. You are waiting but do
not know how or when or why. Your loved one is standing on the threshold
of something final or something new. The last moments or moments that
last into eternity. You are at the threshold of something that is final or
something new.
There are two people here this morning who are in a liminal time and space
in their lives. Their liminality has nothing to do with physical dying but
everything to do with death and life. They have been in this liminal space, at
the threshold of new life in Christ Jesus. They are coming closer to the well
waters, the waters of baptism. The “what now” will soon be “Now is the
hour”. Soon it will be the time for you to hear your names called, “Ilyssa,
Yue, come forth. Unbind them and let them go free.”
(Gospel continues:
Jesus said to her,
“Did I not tell you that if you believe
you will see the glory of God?”
So they took away the stone.
And Jesus raised his eyes and said,
“Father, I thank you for hearing me.
I know that you always hear me;
but because of the crowd here I have said this,
that they may believe that you sent me.”
And when he had said this,
He cried out in a loud voice,
“Lazarus, come out!”
The dead man came out,
tied hand and foot with burial bands,
and his face was wrapped in a cloth.
So Jesus said to them,
“Untie him and let him go.”
Now many of the Jews who had come to Mary
and seen what he had done began to believe in him.)