Two of our readings today—the readings from the Wisdom of Solomon and from the Revelation to John—are readings frequently used for the Burial Office—the liturgy of funerals and memorial services. Each time I hear these lessons, I am struck by the comfort their words hold. The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment will ever touch them. They are at peace. The faithful will abide with God in love, because grace and mercy are upon his holy ones, and he watches over his elect. God will dwell with them—he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying will be no more, for the first things have passed away.
At the beginning of each funeral or memorial, after the opening sentences and prayers, after I tell those who have gathered that we have come together for an Easter service—that even in the midst of grief, we are an Easter people. We are the people of the resurrection, the people whose faith is centered in God’s gift of forgiveness and renewal. However, the gift of resurrection is not perhaps as predictable as we might imagine. The gift of resurrection is perhaps not as predictable and perhaps not as welcome nor as easy as we might assume.
As I meditated on today’s gospel, I found myself remembering the story of Lazarus as told by Nikos Kazantzakis in The Last Temptation of Christ. His story of the events is a bit different from John’s version. As Kazantzakis tells the story, Jesus goes to Lazarus’ grave and seems compelled by a power greater than himself to call Lazarus forth. In response to his call, Lazarus pushes the gravestone aside and comes out of the grave. I think when we read the scriptural account, we tend to imagine Lazarus’ appearance as similar to the depictions of Christ after the resurrection—all shiny and bright, dressed in white and glowing with health. In Kazantzakis’ account, we see a different picture. Lazarus comes out of the grave with the physical appearance of a person who has indeed been dead for four days. He stands at the entrance of his tomb, wrapped in his shroud, reeking of the decomposition that’s begun, flinching from the light and looking puzzled. Ultimately he’s taken back to his house, and there he sits, ignoring the people who come to see if he is the same man they have been mourning. He sits in a corner, away from the light that hurts his eyes, slowly returning to his former appearance and wondering if it’s really true, if he really did die – if he really has returned from the dead.
Kazantzakis’ story gives us a picture of resurrection that may hold more truth than we’d like to believe. Resurrection is an extremely difficult process. I’m not speaking of the resurrection that we believe lies ahead of us all—the resurrection that we believe we will somehow experience after the death of our mortal bodies. None of us know what that is like, despite all the ways we wonder and conjecture and theorize.
I speak of the resurrections we have all experienced. As most of us look back over our lives, we can see those times when we have been filled with new life, those times when the lives we have known have disappeared, those times when our lives have taken a new direction. We look back on those times from the perspective of having lived into the lives we now experience, and for the most part, we are grateful for the changes that have occurred, for the new lives we have been given.
When we look back with gratitude, it’s easy to forget the difficulty of that transition. To begin with, in order to experience resurrection, we must first die. That dying can mean the loss of things that have been central to our understanding of our lives and our very being. That dying can mean the loss of loved ones, loss of those things in which we’ve taken pride, loss of abilities that may have set us apart from others and given us a sense of value. There are times when it seems that life is filled with small and larger deaths, and that the process of living is an endless series of losses.
And then there is the process of living into the resurrection we have been given. Like Lazarus, we may be so stunned that we cannot bear the light. Like Lazarus, we may be confronted by friends or family who can’t understand what has happened. Like Lazarus, we may only be able to sit quietly, reflecting on what has happened. Like Lazarus, it may take some time for the healing to take place and for us to learn to live in a new way.
Today, as we remember those who have gone before us—as we think about and celebrate the saints who have touched our lives—I’m remembering a dear friend who died two years ago at age 94. Kay and her husband Bert were members of the EFM group that was an important part of my formation as a Christian. They began—and finished—the four year course of study during their 80’s, shortly after they returned from a trip to the Holy Land and Egypt. One evening Kay told our group about a dream she’d had a few nights before. She had seen a huge valley, filled with people. They were all dressed in white and were walking shoulder to shoulder, pouring down the passes between the mountains into the valley. She said she knew some of their faces, but most of them were strangers to her. She said that as she woke, she was filled with a sense of peace and comfort. Aha! I thought—the communion of saints—Kate has touched the communion of saints! All those people—each uniquely made—each a part of God’s creation—each with a story of mistakes made and challenges met—each with a story of death and resurrection. All those people—just like us—each beloved of God and called to a special relationship with God—just like us.
Many centuries ago, Irenaeus, one of the early church fathers, said that the glory of God is a person made fully alive. And that is what happens when we are resurrected. Each time we die to those things that hold us back from living fully, we are born into new life. Each time we die to the false gods we make of the trappings of our lives, we are born into new life.
None of that is necessarily easy. Being people of the resurrection is not for sissies. Being resurrected is not an easy way to live. But Jesus said that he came so that we would have life and have it more abundantly. The everlasting life that we are assured of doesn’t begin when we die. The readings we’ve heard this morning aren’t about what happens on the other side, and life eternal is not a reward for doing the right thing or believing the right thing on this side of death. Eternal life is happening right now. Right now—in this very moment—God’s grace is inviting us into the reign of God. All we have to do is say yes.
Thanks be to God.