Fifth Sunday of Lent: Unbinding Us

This is a hard reading to hear, partially because the narrative style, but perhaps mostly because it’s about a subject that makes us uncomfortable—death of a loved one. And it’s filled with people who are upset; everyone is either crying, disappointed or perturbed.

St. John’s Gospel, from which this account comes, recounts miraculous acts of Jesus, but in his Gospel, they are referred to as ‘signs’, rather than miracles. There are seven of them. He refers to these 7 events as signs because they point to something beyond the miracle itself. They are to help us understand ‘who’ Jesus really is, which is much more than just a miracle worker.

So, today’s reading, the Raising of Lazarus—the sign given in order to reveal that he is the Resurrection and the Life—brings us to a pivotal point in St. John’s Gospel. As the seventh and final sign, it’s the last and the greatest. And ironically, this seventh sign—Jesus’ act of restoring life—will serve as the last straw for those who would now put into play, a plan to end his life.

And like the two lengthy Gospel readings from the past two weeks—the woman of Samaria at the well and the blind man healed in the Pool of Siloam—today’s Gospel is meant to show us a development toward faith. Even those closest to Jesus struggled to believe; even if they saw his previous signs, they failed to see what the signs pointed to. This Gospel shows us that faith—that is, believing that Jesus is Resurrection and the Life—is something that must grow within.

To help this growth of faith, Jesus took his time before going to Bethany and respond to the news of Lazarus’ illness. Because no one truly believed up to that point: not the disciples, not Martha, not Mary…no one. Death had conquered their hearts. He took his time, perhaps to make a statement in this sign: that he had the power to give life. So, by the time he arrived, not only had Lazarus gone from sickness to death, he was four days dead. No one would have doubted that he was truly and completely dead. Jesus saw the power of death over all those he was trying to lead to faith. So troubled was his heart, that he wept. We might assume he wept because from grief over the death of a friend, but I believe it was more likely because death was destroying their faith in him.

I look at the current situation that we’re in. I find that different people handle such moments differently. Some of us are simply rolling with the myriad of things that must be done to care for our families; some are still dealing with persistent demands of our jobs; some are finding new ways to reach out and help others; some are starting to feel the onset of stir-craziness, having dug through and played every boardgame stored in the garage, or perhaps well on their way to exhausting Netflix’s entire catalog of movies.

But lurking beneath it all is an underlying fear. In our fallen nature, there’s always some sort of fear that drives us, but sometimes, outside factors trigger those fears, bringing them up to the surface, very much alive in our consciousness. Pretty much all of our fears are rooted in a fear that God won’t fulfill His promises, or His ways will not be enough to make us happy.

On Thursday, Pope Francis addressed us all, before blessing us with the Eucharist. He acknowledged the state of our hearts, and referring to the Gospel in which the disciples found themselves in the throes of the stormy sea, he said, “For weeks now it has been evening. We find ourselves afraid and lost. Caught off-guard by an unexpected, turbulent storm. All of us, fragile and disoriented. Each of us in need of comforting each other. Like the disciples, we’re all in this boat, and it feels like we are perishing.”

And like all those in today’s Gospel, overwhelmed by the weight of death, the sadness that has consumed them, are Lord must feel a certain sadness for how fears have come to life within us. A parishioner reached out to me via email, having observed that when our Holy Father went inside the nave of the Basilica to pray before the Eucharist, the cameras panned outside for a moment, where the darkening skies or Rome poured-down rain. And out in the rain was the crucifix, bearing the image of suffering Jesus. As the raindrops rolled down him, it indeed appeared as though Jesus was crying—crying over how all this affects us within our hearts.

We might think of the raising of Lazarus is simply about Jesus restoring life. That’s the surface meaning, but if that’s all we get from it, we’re missing something. This story is not so much about Lazarus’ restored life, because Lazarus would still die eventually. Instead this story is about this sign that tells us he is the Resurrection, and asks us to believe it.

I remind us that Resurrection is not life simply life restored to what it was; it’s about life transformed and life altogether different—life dialed up to a higher pitch. This miracle, this sign, is to help us see beyond the miracle and understand that Jesus came not to abolish death to this life—because we all will face it, just as so many have died and are dying in this health crisis. But rather, Jesus came to free us from the way that fears of it bind us, and furthermore to help us transcend it.

But just as these stories in John’s Gospel reveal that true faith in Jesus is acquired gradually, so is our movement toward the transformed life he gives. That movement began at our Baptism. On that day, the water poured over us and the Sacred Chrism with which we were anointed, served as a sign to something beyond the mere gestures themselves; something even greater than what Lazarus experienced in his restored life. Ours became truly a transformed existence. But that was only a beginning, and like the development or growth of faith that occurs in this Gospel, we must allow the grace of baptism to develop and grow in us.

How? Lean into him in this moment. Perhaps dial it back on the movie marathon or rounds of solitaire you might otherwise engage today or tomorrow. Instead, especially on this Sunday, give Jesus the space and time, to begin to foster belief. Desire it and let him quietly speak to you his words of love and his promises that are our hope. Otherwise, we remain like Lazarus in the tomb: bound and tied to the fears that keep us from truly being alive. Allow him to free you.