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.

When he was born, he was given the name Thomas by his parents.

As a child, he acquired the nickname “Twin” because, well… he was a twin. Not very creative, but apparently it stuck.

Posthumously, he has been given the nickname “Doubting Thomas” because, being absent when the risen Jesus appeared to all the other disciples, he was reluctant to believe until he could see him with his own eyes. This is quite an unfair nickname. If you read the entirety of the post-resurrection Gospel accounts, it’s clear that all of the disciples doubted. Nevertheless, despite the unnecessarily negative light the nickname casts on him (and, in the hands of judgy preachers, on all those who doubt), it has stuck.

I want to propose a new nickname: “Fearless Thomas.” Two reasons:

Everyone is somewhere along the spectrum between sleep and death. Which is why Jesus comes to do something to us that is along the spectrum between waking and reviving.

To those who have never woken up at all, he shocks them out of slumber, shining his light upon them like the sun glaring sharply through a bedroom window. For his friends who have fallen back asleep, he rouses them once again with his warm voice, welcoming them to live yet another day energized by his creative power.

Nor is it a threat to be neutralized. Nor is it a passing fad to ignore. Nor is it a revolution to be championed.

On an individual, case-by-case basis, perhaps some or all of those descriptors might feel true. In any case, such a season is fought with anxiety and trepidation and disorientation. And there are no quick off ramps.

I would describe it like this: Deconstruction is a valley to be walked through. It is a storm to be weathered. It is a dark night to be endured.

The risk averse rarely do great things. If they do, it is by accident, or luck, or divine intervention. Thank God those are all real things because fear is also a real thing. At some point we all need a happy accident, or some stroke of good luck, or divine intervention.

And thank God we have a Savior who was not afraid to head back into towns that quite recently had tried to stone him. Yes, there were rocks and angry people to pick them up, but there were also diseases that no one could cure, and demons that no one could cast out, and sinners that no one could forgive.

Doesn’t mean that he’s going to show up right when you want him to. Or in precisely the way that you expect him to. Or with the answer you’re hoping to hear. Or doing the miracle you’re asking him to do.

If it feels like he’s intentionally late, that may not be far from the truth. Yet perhaps what Tolkien wrote of Gandalf is true of Jesus:

“A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to.”

The disciple John had favorite way of speaking about himself in the third person throughout the Gospel that he wrote. “One of them, the disciple whom Jesus loved, was reclining next to him.”

But he was not the only one. There is also Lazarus. “Lord, the one you love is sick.”

John followed Jesus as his disciple for three years. He cast out demons and healed the sick. He was a participant in feeding the four thousand and the five thousand. He accompanied Jesus up onto a mountain where he and only two others saw him transfigured. He took Jesus’ mother as his own adopted mother per Jesus’ request on the cross. He later wrote several books and letters that became a part of the canon of Scripture. There is much we know about John, and many reasons we can imagine why he may have held a special place in Jesus’ heart.