From the mouth of a tomb is a bad idea. That is, if your primary concern is a pleasant-smelling atmosphere. If you’d prefer to avoid the potentially offensive funk, then, by all means, leave the stone in place. Let dead things lie where they are.

However, if you’re open to the possibility of resurrection, then taking away the stone—and thus risking the possible stench—is part of the package. It could all end up a horrid, repulsive mess. Or, on the other hand…

Will always be around. Those critics who only see the bad. Those naysayers who will look for any reason to discredit you. Those dissidents who will find any reason to be against whatever you are for.

No matter what good you do. No matter how authentic you are. No matter how trustworthy you prove yourself to be. No matter how selflessly you give yourself for the well-being of others.

Show one sign of what they view as weakness, and they’ll come in for the kill.

One of the most fascinating aspects of the Incarnation is that we get to see God feeling all the feels.

It’s not often on the surface of how the Gospel writers tell their stories, but at least between the lines we can see Jesus’ experience and express the full range of human emotion. In the human form of Jesus of Nazareth we see God rejoice and laugh. We see him get angry and frustrated. We see him well up with compassion for the suffering and indignation for the oppressors. We see him face disappointment and betrayal. We see him come to the very end up the rope of hope, sweating blood on the eve of his crucifixion. We even see him weep.

That’s normally how I picture Jesus. Walking around with a serene demeanor, a glint in his eye. Even in the face of opposition or danger, there is a certain lightness in his gait. Every gesture of his hands is smooth and gracious. There is a warm equanimity that seems to subtly radiate from him, spilling over onto anyone who gets near to him. He is, after all, the Prince of Peace.

That is, until he encounters Mary and her companions in their grief. Lazarus had died, and while Jesus had his own relationship with him, and loved him, we do not see him visibly moved until Mary falls at his feet.

Most of the way. That is, he will often traverse 99% of the distance between you, but then his invitation will be for you to come toward him that last 1%.

He may not come all the way into your village, but will wait for you just outside the city limits. He may not come all the way into your home, but will take a seat on the curb. He may not come all the way into your darkest places, but will stand patiently just on the edge of the shadows.

Sometimes we expect Jesus to force his way into the middle of everything. But he knows that there is something in us—some desire that needs to be awakened, some desperation we must reach, some ember of love that longs to be fanned into flame—something in us that needs to happen before we are ready for the miracle.

For reasons that are not 100% spelled out, upon hearing that Jesus was coming to visit the grieving sisters of dead Lazarus, Mary did not go out to meet him. Like any good story, we’re invited to enter into her heartache and fill in those blanks for ourselves. I imagine that she was held in place by two powerful forces.

First, grief over the loss of her brother. Some losses are so great that going outside, to be seen in the full light of day simply feels unbearable. Or even if we would want to, the will power to move our body is just drained.

Second, anger at Jesus for not arriving sooner. Because, (as she says to him the first chance she gets,) if he had come, she knows that he could have healed Lazarus and thus saved his life.

Will not come from the mouth of Death, but from the mouth of Life. One day the lungs of God will take in a deep breath, sucking up all the oxygen in the universe, and let out one final bellowing guffaw as Death itself dies.

That is the surprisingly great Christian hope—not that we will go to heaven when we die, but that we will come back to life. A physical, earthy, feet-on-the-ground kind of life. Not some disembodied existence off in the ether. Death is real, but it is not the ultimate reality. We will all die, but Life is our destiny.

Faith is that thing in us that believes that maybe—just maybe—what we long for in the future really can become a present reality. Even if it’s just in part. Even if it’s only a foretaste. And not in a “name it and claim it” kind of way, but in an openly receptive kind of way.

Quite often we relegate the power of God to the future, and thus miss it in the present. Today is where faith makes a difference; not tomorrow.

Is no way to live.

If only this or that had happened. If only I had done such and such. If only they hadn’t decided that. If only God had intervened in a certain way. If only things had turned out differently.

In the account of the death of Lazarus, it’s interesting to note the details of measurement that John includes.

One person was sick and eventually died: Lazarus.

When Jesus heard that his friend was sick, he inexplicably delayed visiting him by two days,

When Jesus’ disciples protest his return to the area because of hostility toward him, he starts talking about twelve hours of daylight.

By the time Jesus arrived, Lazarus had been dead for four days. (Which seems to mean that by the time word read Jesus of Lazarus’ illness, he had already died).

Bethany was two miles from Jerusalem. A short journey.

How many people made that journey to come mourn with Mary and Martha, Lazarus’ sisters? John doesn’t know the exact number, so he says many.