Lazarus: Goodbye Sermon

5 Lent 2008

Rev. Mary Scott Wagner

When people enter the ordination process, they are admitted provisionally, pending a psychological exam. One part of that psychological examination is this test called the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Test; some of you may have taken the MMPT for school or as part of career or premarital counseling. A couple of weeks after I took the test, I was invited to meet with the counselor to talk about the results. I remember that as she opened the folder, she chuckled—never a good sign. She said, “I could read your results as revealing a tendency towards megalomania. See, here are the questions that seemed to reveal delusions of grandeur. ‘I believe that I can make a difference.’ You answered, ‘True.’ ‘I believe that I can change the world.’ True. ‘I know what happens after death.’ True. ‘If most people adopted my world view, the world could be a better place.’ True.”

Fortunately, the counselor was an Episcopalian. “I understand why you answered true to all of those. Most people who believe those baptismal promises would test out this way. Religious people often look like megalomaniacs on these tests.” If you embrace the essential truths of today’s lessons from Ezekiel and John, you might raise eyebrows too, if you take one of those personality tests.

Ezekiel was a captive of the powerful nation of Babylon. The people to whom he had been called to prophesy were utterly without hope. They were in such a state of despair that the scriptures tell us that they had put away all music, refused to sing or read the scriptures, and could not pray. It is in that context that God shows Ezekiel a vision of dry, parched bones and asks him, “Mortal, can these bones live?” God invites Ezekiel to say what he knows; God’s life-giving breath drives death away, and life returns. In the gospel lesson, God’s love triumphs even over death. The story of Lazarus is a story of a second chance. The stories of miracles in John aren’t even called miracles; they are signs, meant to point to Jesus’ identity as the Christ. These stories are all about moving from darkness into light, or from blindness to sight, or, in this case, from death into life. But primarily they are about God breaking in to our lives and about God’s love breaking down barriers—even the barrier of death.

When Mary and Martha send word to Jesus that Lazarus is ill, they describe him as “the one whom [Jesus] love[s].” Yet Jesus delays coming to them. Why? Because he knows that that love will ultimately glorify God by showing that God’s love is more powerful even than the ravages of death. When Jesus does arrive, and finds Lazarus dead, the sisters in the throes of terrible grief, Jesus fully enters into that grief; he is deeply disturbed, angry even, and Jesus cries. At that moment, he reminds us again of how fully Jesus entered into our humanity, of how fully God enters into suffering and pain. Death is portrayed as a place in which the dead are separated from the living. Lazarus is in a cave, in the darkness; a huge stone separates him from the people who love him.

He is bound—death is a prison, blocking hands and feet, eyes and mouth, paralyzing and separating. But Jesus calls out to Lazarus in a loud voice, and with that voice of authority, Jesus sounds like Moses, telling Pharaoh, “Let my people go!” Except that Jesus, who has reminded Martha that he is resurrection and life, calls out to death itself, and frees his friend. Lazarus emerges into light and freedom. And Jesus tells the amazed witnesses, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

John’s gospel takes pains to make it clear that Lazarus is dead. Physically, really, really dead. Martha tells Jesus that Lazarus has been dead for four whole days, that if Jesus tries to roll away the stone separating Lazarus from the living, there will be a literal stench. I love the King James Version of the Bible, by the way, in which Martha is quoted as saying of Lazarus, “He stinketh.” And you know what? It does stinketh. A lot. But there are worse things, and some of you probably already know that—there are worse things than being dead in the way Lazarus was.

There is a spiritual death; a sort of death before death, a death we choose, a soul death that keeps us stuck, bound up and unable to move, trapped and isolated, and in the dark. I’ve been in a dark cave like that, and some of you may have, too.

When Jesus summoned Lazarus, Lazarus wasn’t asked if he wanted to do what God was commanding, wasn’t asked if he would like to come out. He simply was told, “Come out.” Sometimes that’s the way we are called. God calls us to do things we don’t want to, sometimes—because sometimes even being stuck, trapped, isolated, seems less scary, less of a risk than being free, unbound, fully present and a part of life and community. I know a little bit about that, and frankly, I feel a bit for Lazarus, leaving that cave, free and given a life before death that he must live to the fullest, doing what God calls him to.

For a long time now, I have been in a stuck place, a dark place, isolated and not free. And I haven’t wanted to leave that dark cave or to take off the bindings that kept me blind and mute—because following that command to come out is very scary.

I have fallen in love with St. Andrew’s church, with this astonishing community of faith, and I have loved being a part of this place. But in my whole life, I have never, ever taken care of myself. I have counted very hard work as a virtue, not always understanding that workaholism is an addiction just like any other “ism”. I have literally buried myself in activity and in work in order not to have to look at myself or to care for the people I love. And I have then lived by the adage that if I work hard and have everything on the surface in order, I can “play hard,” do what I want. With, as you know, disastrous results. I believe that God is calling me and St. Andrew’s to a place of renewal, freedom, and new life. But frankly it seems very scary, very much a risk. After a long conversation with Bishop Shaw and a hard and long conversation on with our wardens, I have come to believe that truly the very best thing for me and for my family, and for my extended family here at St. Andrew’s is for me to resign as your rector. You all deserve a priest who can truly be present and who can focus fully on this parish. And I have realized that by working long hours and by working long hours at home as well, I have been able to keep from focusing on my own spiritual and physical well-being, avoiding the hard work of recovery.

I have worked outside the home my entire adult life. I took one semester off when Will was born, though I kept my half time job as a youth minister; when Tom was born I took off all of two weeks. But I now realize that that was my own drivenness and ambition, not a true following of God’s call. For the first time really, I believe that I must truly follow God open hearted and empty handed. I thought that it would be cowardly, an acknowledgement of failure—the cardinal sin of quitting. But I have come to see that the brave thing is to tell you the truth. I need to be still, to have time to heal and to discern, to rebuild my family and to recharge my own spirit. Within any love, anytime we give ourselves to love, we sow within that love the seeds of grief, and I know that this is painful—because I love all of you, and I am grieving over leaving this extraordinary community. But I know that this is the best thing for me, for my immediate family—and for St. Andrew’s.

God calls each of us to come with the same urgency that Jesus called out to Lazarus; God calls us to be open, to take risks; God calls us out of darkness out of the tomb and into life and freedom and true engagement with others. In short, God calls us to be alive and to be real.

St. Andrew’s is an amazing place, gifted with hugely committed and talented staff and lay leadership. And you will face a big challenge as this community makes this transition.

I want you to know that I love you and I thank you. You will be in wonderful hands from our diocese, our lay leadership, and, for the next few months, Arrington’s superb leadership. I have the incredible opportunity to embrace life and wholeness, to reject the dry, parched life and to embrace abundant life; and so does our community and each one of us as individuals.