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.

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.