Grief Is Not the End

ospel Reflection John 11:1-45

I’ve always been glad I’m not Ezekiel. “Mortal” God calls him. To be called mortal by God?? “You’re going to die. You don’t live forever and you won’t live forever. You’re an earthling, one made of the clay and the breath of life from Spirit.” You’re to die. Even in your nickname, the cute little one that the God of the universe calls you, you can’t forget it. 

Except. What is the alternative? To live forever in our mortal bodies? To be immortal like the tech bros want? My beloved grandma is 99 and she’s tired. She’s tired of her body. The things she loves are less and less, as she yearns for the land of light and life. The rest of us? We know the trajectory of our lives, that we live and then we die.

Yet there is that piece, those left behind. For us, it’s not about meeting God. We’re still here. For us, it’s about the loss, utter sorrow of being without that person we loved and adored. For us, it’s about the hole they’ve left behind, about calling to God out of the depths. 

These two stories about resurrection turn me upside down, put me through a blender, and spit me out. 

On the bulletin board outside my office there is an image of this story, one written by the iconographer, John August Swanson. It’s an image of Lazarus being called from the tomb, with his friends and family in procession, unbinding him, with lights, with Jesus, and with so many questions. The first thing you might notice is the colors. John August Swanson loved colors, bright colors. You can see John August Swanson had a Mexican mother, one who gave him the gift of brightness, of pinks, oranges, yellows, and those bright colors we forget, especially this time of year when the daffodils haven’t yet shown their faces and the we see a lot of grey. But Swanson isn’t a Mexican name — his father was Swedish, and Catholic, and you can see also these proclivities in his work. Resurrection, in Swanson’s work, Lazarus’ death, is colorful. 

I wish I too could see this brightness. 

Because what I know better, what I know with my body and with my spirit is grief. Grief has been my companion these years. There has just been so much sorrow. 

So when I read this story, this story of Mary and Martha and Lazaraus and Jesus. I see the grief. I find Jesus’ slowness passive aggressive, that Michigan way that sometimes we treat one another, especially when we’re driving. I feel the strangeness of “falling asleep.” Really? That’s the way we’re going to talk about grief? I also see Jesus and that word that sticks out to me. Disturbed. Both times, both when Jesus sees grief, “Jesus was greatly disturbed. This is one of those times. I’m grateful because I see the master frustrated. Isn’t that what it means to be “greatly disturbed,” greatly unsettled, the normal pattern isn’t there anymore. 

But to me, disturbed doesn’t cut it. I was a little disturbed last night because I did something stupid. I forgot to grab the garage door opener from my car and thus everything got locked up tight. I ended up having to call a locksmith at 10:12 on a Saturday night. Disturbed. I would have been more disturbed if Asher hadn't squeezed grapefruit for me and made some juice. 

But in the prophetic tradition of Ezekiel, where he sees those dry bones brought to life a little at a time and all of those crazy visions, it could be said that was raving. Like raving mad. Like raving with grief, like raving with disgust, with hopelessness. 

Raving means you can’t regulate, you can’t figure it out, you can’t move, you feel so much but there isn’t space for that feeling. It can feel like paralysis, like not being about to do anything, like wanting to sleep through days of life, like being continually disappointed and tired. It’s uncomfortable and exhausting and it twists everything up so that you don’t feel right and you can’t function. All you can pay attention to is the feels as they well up, as they take over everything, as the grief overwhelms. 

This is what happened to Jesus that day, with Mary and Martha and Lazarus. It was more than “greatly disturbed.” It was more like raving. Like gut wrenching. Like sobbing. Not just a few stray tears, but the very human experience of grief. 

Because grief is part of what it means to be human. This is the way God made us, for deep connection with people and the world, with hearts that love and are broken. This means there are times where there is nothing to do but sob, nothing to do. And this story reminds us that even at our lowest, even this, Jesus knew this. He knew this because he experienced it, because he knew Lazarus, because he knew Mary and Martha. 

This was not the end of the story. But here Jesus paused. He stopped. He let himself be overcome. He let himself feel all the feels. 

In the Jewish tradition, time stops when a person dies. For the next week, they just sit, and their friends sit with them. They just sit, letting everything wash over them. There is no way to short circuit sorrow, no way to fix it, no way to make it better; you just have to go through it, whether it be the big sorrows of losing someone you love or the disappointments of our world, our grief is all still there. 

There is so much grief these days as things end. Sometimes it even feels like the world we know is ending.

But grief is not the end. 

It is an end, but not the end. 

In our story today, we see Lazarus coming out of the tomb, bound in his graveclothes. We see a foretaste of resurrection. We see Jesus, the God of the Universe as resurrection and life, as Messiah, the one who comes into the world. 

My story is not as interesting. After grief comes release. After grief comes hope and movement. That paralysis that’s been keeping me bound, keeping me in my tomb lessens, and it’s like spring again, with all the buds on the trees, the daffodils coming up. I’m still an earthling, but it feels good to be one. 

This is not the end. Our sorrow and loss is not the end. It’s only a stepping stone on the way. 

Then he said to me, “Mortal, these bones are the whole house of Israel. They say, ‘Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.’ Therefore prophesy, and say to them, Thus says the Lord God: I am going to open your graves, and bring you up from your graves, O my people; and I will bring you back to the land of Israel. And you shall know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves, and bring you up from your graves, O my people. I will put my spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you on your own soil; then you shall know that I, the Lord, have spoken and will act.