Does not automatically result in belief.

Some will see and be filled with hope. They will turn and follow Jesus for themselves. From this moment on they will never be the same, and they welcome the thrill of what is possible in the future. After all, if Jesus can bring someone back from the dead, if he can give new life, is there anything impossible for him?

Others, however, can see the exact same miracle and be filled with fear. They will leave and run back to the safety of their structured life, to their social and religious authority figures, nervous about the future. After all, if Jesus can disrupt death itself, what else might he turn upside down?

First, the tomb must be opened. Which feels frighteningly foolish. The risk factor is about as high as it gets. No one wants to smell death. Sure, one can hope that a resurrection miracle may also dissipate the stench, but maybe not. The whole thing is a potentially unpleasant process.

Then, the dead person must hear—and accept—the invitation to come alive and walk out of the tomb. Quite often, whether out of self-pity, or cynicism, or stubbornness, or whatever, that invitation is turned down. Sometimes the dead just prefer to stay dead. Sometimes they may need a little encouragement, and others may need a little patience.

Takes effort. Belief, in the end, is going to require some kind of action—likely something that you’d rather not do. Something that’s going to require more energy than you think you have. Something that looks like undoing something else you previously worked hard to accomplish. Something that seems foolish. Something that looks ridiculous to others. Something that maybe even feels wrong to do.

Like rolling a stone away from a tomb.

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.