Being Unbound
Davey Gerhard
The Fifth Sunday in Lent, March 26, 2023
Romans 8:6-11 • John 11:1-45
“Unbind him, and let him go.” Amen.
I can’t speak for you, but I, for one, have some real problems with the miracles and signs in the Gospels. Whether it’s changing water into wine, or the faith healing of the blind or paralyzed, and even the raising of the dead, I view these stories with a hefty dose of skepticism. Science says these things can’t be as they’re written, so there must be some deeper metaphor at work here, right? Certainly, if I just view these stories as metaphor, I can quiet down the part of my head that is shouting, “this is impossible to believe!”
I think that would be alright were it not for the fact that these stories come up all the time, throughout the year, Jesus heals this person, Jesus makes fish appear where they weren’t, Jesus makes abundance out of scarcity. Week after week in our Gospels, these stories are told, and each Sunday as we recite or sing the Creed, we say out loud that we believe that someone who was dead was restored to life. That is a whole lot of content to simply write off as metaphor, so what is really going on here?
Bible scholars divide John’s Gospel into two main sections: The Book of Signs, and the Book of Glory. The first eleven chapters are of Jesus’ signs and wonders, his teachings and his gathering of community. Unlike the other three Gospels which end with the story of the Resurrection and a few bits and pieces that follow, John’s Gospel goes on for another ten chapters with stories about the resurrected Jesus and his continued teaching. Today’s story takes place in Bethany, a mere two miles from Jerusalem, as we are told, and it falls at the very end of the Book of Signs – this is the last story John tells about Jesus’ life before beginning the story of his passion, death, and resurrection.
So, today’s story places us right at the beginning of the end: within sight of the place of Jesus’ triumph and then his execution, and in the home of his closest friends.
If you recall, the last time Jesus visited this home, it was also a rough moment. His presence among them started a kerfuffle between Mary and Martha. This time, Martha is not going to be second place, and marches out to meet Jesus at the edge of town. She is hurt, she is angry. Her brother is dead, and Jesus, a part of her chosen family, the one who could have saved him, is four days late.
Jesus gives her an answer that would have really annoyed me. It is likely the power dynamic in place that keeps her from saying what I might have “Jesus, quit messing around here. I am asking a serious question.” Jesus is a man, after all, and Martha isn’t. He’s also the teacher, and she is the disciple. It’s not ‘til Mary comes out, that Jesus seems moved. To me, this is another data point in why Martha deserves her sainthood so much – Mary seems to win again.
But I don’t think Jesus resuscitating his friend Lazarus is the main point for us this Sunday morning. Yes, the event was significant for Lazarus and his sisters. But there is a different significance for us today. The key to me is that Jesus promises eternal life as a current event, not something that happens in the future.
Notice the dialogue. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” At this point Martha expresses her faith in the resurrection to come saying, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.”
But Martha used the future tense and Jesus corrects her making sure that she understands the promise of new life is a present tense event. Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life. Do you believe this?”
Jesus did not say, “I will be the resurrection and I will give life.” Jesus promises a life-giving transformation in the present. At that point, Martha replies, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the one coming into the world.” Martha expresses present tense faith even though her brother is still dead and buried.
This is, of course, what we do at every funeral we attend. We do not see any evidence of rebirth, any sign of new or eternal life. Yet, we too stand by the grave and pronounce that what we see is not absolute. New life is God’s ultimate answer to those who believe.
But the Truth of this passage for me comes in the closing words, “Jesus said to them, ‘Unbind him, and let him go.’” This statement is, for me, both immanently practical and clearly metaphorical.
First, the practical. Lazarus was prepared for burial. His ankles would have been tied together and his wrist bound in front of him. He would have also had a strap around his chin. Then rather than being wrapped mummy-style, there would have been a large burial sheet under the length of his body that in once piece went up his back over his head and down the front. This shroud would have been further strapped around in place with wrappings. Lazarus was quite literally bound up in his burial clothes.
Beyond the practical, Lazarus was bound to death. Lazarus needed to get separated from the power of death. Yes, he would die again one day, but Lazarus did not have to live under the bondage of death. For each of us without Jesus is bound to death and we need Jesus to unbind us.
A few years ago, I preached a sermon on the last Sunday of Easter, when we hear that Jesus performed many signs not written in this book. From this place I told the story of my friend, Sarah with whom I had sung in the choir at Christ Church in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and how she would make a funny face, and make a rabbit figure with her hands, representing one of the many possible signs for which there is no account in John’s Gospel.
Aside from recounting how Sarah made me giggle in church, I also told the story of her diagnosis with pancreatic cancer and the quick death that followed. On the last day of her life, Sarah had requested that her chosen family gather. She was in hospice at home, and her wife, Melanie, was by her side. The few of us who were gathered, prayed, and talked quietly, told stories. No one was hungry enough to eat the food that we had all brought. Like a lazy disciple, I fell asleep at some point.
We were all awakened at 2 in the morning. Gilda, Sarah’s Golden Retriever, was standing by her bedside, barking, the hair on her neck and back standing up, her tail, usually wagging, was still, pointing up. As we gathered in the bedroom, we saw Melanie feeling for a pulse. Sarah was at peace, her body still, her mouth opened, her eyes had been closed.
Suddenly, Gilda stopped barking. She relaxed her stance, her tail slowly wagged. She made a nuzzling motion with her head, the same that she would make when Sarah would scratch behind her ears. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth in bliss. While Sarah’s hands were lifeless and motionless on the bed, Sarah’s ascending spirit was using her first moment of risen life to comfort her dog in a timeless gesture. And then, stillness again. We looked at each other and realized that something miraculous and powerful had happened.
A whole year later, when Lent came around again, I was living in San Francisco, and I was a newcomer here at Holy Innocents, having attended for just a few months. In honor of Sarah, and as a theological experiment, my Lenten practice in that year was to give up my skepticism of miracles. When we said the Nicene Creed, I said the whole thing, and I believed, intentionally, in the physical resurrection of Jesus, and in a God that could make miracles happen. In my journey since then, I have witnessed so many more miracles in this place, in this community, with you, my family. I’m a believer in the impossible.
And so, here we are, two miles from Jerusalem, on the last Sunday of Lent. Next week, we will walk in procession and enter the city itself, from which the week- long passion will play itself out. Like my friend, Sarah, Jesus uses his last moments to do what he can to ease the minds and heal the hearts of the people he loves.
I don’t look forward to death. And I don’t enjoy dwelling on the prospect. But that knowledge, that eternal life has already started, set me free both from the worry of what might be coming, and from the jaded cynicism of eternal nothingness. Life goes on, in this life, and in the eternal life. You too can be set free. You too can be unbound, you are already unbound.
Jesus is still declaring that death is not the ultimate answer, and the grave is not a stronger power than the love of God. Jesus calls to you to come out of the grave. Grab hold of the certainty of eternal life. It’s not some distant prospect. You are unbound right now. Amen.