Expectant Purpose
A Sermon by the Reverend Mother Crystal J. Hardin on the Feast of All Saints (B), November 7, 2021.
Wisdom of Solomon 3:1-9; Psalm 24; Revelation 21:1-6a; John 11:32-44
Throughout his popular children’s book series, aptly titled A Series of Unfortunate Events, Lemony Snicket explores what it means to live in the wake of tragedy and to believe in the power of what is good despite all evidence to the contrary.
Difficult themes, to be sure, and yet themes that any living person will encounter, sooner or later. Themes perhaps best suited for adults and yet, if we’re being honest, best understood by children.
When children reach the ages that are appropriate for the Snicket books, they have the sense already that the world is going in a way that’s contrary to the rules that have been shared with them, explicitly and not so much, by parents, teachers, and the world. [1]
They’re learning that, in fact, bad things will happen to good people, sometimes in disproportionate amounts and often with no rhyme or reason. The work of life is to live in love, anyhow.
The series begins when the Baudelaire orphans’ parents die in a fire and continues as they are placed in the custody of the deplorable Count Olaf, who wants their inheritance and will do anything to get it. The author himself says, “All the stores about these three kind-hearted, quick-witted children are unhappy and wretched and will most likely fill you with deep despair.” [2] I won’t go on, because, well, spoilers. I’m sure that description alone will have you running to your local library to snag a copy, and I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you.
And yet, nestled between the bad luck and misery of these three children is tenacity, humor, and a bond born of tragedy but forged in love –the three siblings navigating a tragic landscape with expectant purpose. Expectant purpose.
You see, they are not passive actors in their own tragic story, but saints daring to be more even as they expect more from those around them. Pushing at the boundaries of what is to carve out the space of what could and should be. After all, what are saints but all of us sinners struggling up and against the powers and principalities of the world who would tell us that our struggle is in vain. That all is truly lost.
In today’s Gospel, tragedy has struck. Lazarus is dead. And we are told that Jesus stands weeping, which raises a very interesting question.
Why is Jesus so upset in the wake of a death he had the power to prevent? Was it mere compassion that caused him to weep, compassion for his friends Mary and Martha and all those who loved Lazarus but didn’t foresee or believe what Jesus would and could do? Or was it something else?
It surprises me, every time, and maybe it does you too, to see Jesus so shaken by death, especially in the Gospel of John, which, at every turn, seems to emphasize Jesus’ confidence in God’s goodness and power.
And this tracks at first, Jesus’ confidence, because when Jesus gets the news that Lazarus is ill, he keeps his cool –in fact, he keeps his cool for several days: This illness is not leading to death; [he says] it is for the sake of God’s glory (11:4). And yet, when he finally arrives in Bethany, Lazarus, his friend, is dead (and has been for a while), and a grieving Mary and Martha do not hesitate to share their anger and their blame. This is when things take a turn.
Unfortunately, some translations of this passage don’t quite get at what is happening. They may suggest that Jesus was deeply moved, and yet the Greek word is more aggressive. The KJV captures it better: When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, he groaned in the spirit, and was [deeply] troubled.
He groaned in the spirit and was deeply troubled. Jesus wept.
The crowd witnessing this, draws a conclusion, “See how he loved him!” And that’s beautiful and comforting. It suggests the depth of Jesus’ love and assures all of us that Jesus weeps alongside us in our grief. And yet.
If you’ve ever had someone you love die, particularly if they’ve died prematurely, tragically, Jesus weeping alongside you may be cold comfort. I’m just going to name that.
But what if something else is going on here. Something more than empathy or compassion, something more even than the love of a lost friend.
This is not to say that Jesus did not love Lazarus, of course, or to question its importance, but it does bring us back to the question: Why is Jesus so upset? After all, he sort of created this situation by dallying around and he himself proclaimed to Martha and anyone else in earshot only a few verses back, “I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall live.”
This is where the bonds born in tragedy and forged in love between the three friends, Mary, Martha, and Jesus, are their strongest, despite the confrontation unfolding. They are, in their grief, speaking the truth to one another, even when it’s hard. Pushing at the boundaries of what is to carve out the space of what could and should be.
Mary and Martha voice their accusation –Lord, if you had been here—not because they don’t believe, but because they do! They believe that had Jesus been there Lazarus would still be alive. And Martha calls Jesus on it. In a verse outside of this morning’s reading, she cries, “Even now I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you.” So do it, she’s saying. Show me the glory of which you speak.
Did she imagine Lazarus alive again? I’m not sure. But I know she trusted Jesus to be who he says he is, the Lord of life.
And in this situation, with his friend lying dead in a tomb, Jesus weeps not for him alone, but for death in all its forms. Jesus’ agitation, his groaning in spirit, indicates the fight yet to come: Jesus must take on Death, the last enemy of the One who comes into the world so that we might have life and have it in abundance. [3] And yet, ultimately, it will lead Jesus to the cross.
And here is a grace, that Jesus would be pushed into redemptive action by these women, his friends, and yet not without also pushing back. Not without first asking the question: Do you believe this?
Martha is operating in the realm of expectant purpose, much like the Baudelaire orphans who will not subjugate their view of the world, of what is right and just and good, to someone else’s vision or action, no matter the circumstances. And yet, every time they are met with another wrong, unjust, horrid thing they too must necessarily ask themselves, “Do we believe this?”
Do we believe that the way of love is the way of life? Do we believe in the strength of our convictions about the good in the world despite the bad everywhere? Do we believe in redemption?
Because, if the answer is no, the story may as well be over.
The same is true for Martha and for Mary, who refused to believe the end of the story as presented to them by the world. Instead, they went to the Lord of life, because where else is there to go? Placing their grief in the hands of Jesus, the one who makes all things new.
And when they do, a truth appears: the relationship between faith and the glory of God is dynamic in unpredictable and wondrous ways.
Do we see God’s glory and then believe? Or do we believe and then see the glory of God. This Gospel event suggests the latter, that expectant purpose on behalf of all us saints makes way for God’s manifestation in glory.
If we draw close to God, we need not accept the horrors of this world, even death itself, as passive actors, but are welcome and invited to push back against them, against God even, with our hearts and minds and bodies. But we must be prepared for God to push back, to take our open, hurting, and maybe even indigent hearts, and resurrect them into glory, in ways that might be painful and unexpected and yet nevertheless, always redemptive.
In the case of the Baudelaire orphans, in the midst of many trials and tribulations too great and fantastical to name here, they do finally receive a letter written to them from their parents before their untimely death. It reads in part:
Dearest children: At times the world can seem an unfriendly and sinister place but believe us when we say there is much more good in it than bad. All you have to do is look hard enough. And what might seem to be a series of unfortunate events, may be the first steps of a journey.
Amen.
[1] Julie Salamon, “Lemony Snicket’s Down and Dirty Indie,” The New York Times, 23 Sept. 2004, https://www.nytimes.com/2004/09/23/movies/lemony-snickets-down-and-dirty-indie.html.
[2] https://www.lemonysnicket.com.
[3] Ellen Davis, Preaching the Luminous Word, 278.