Their time must be found.
Their time must be allowed.
Their time must come, no longer dry.
You must let them approach, let them in.
Let them in.
Let them roam.
Let them have their way.
They will come slowly,
sweeping over you like a gentle mist,
gently covering every hurt, every burden,
every little matter that before was dry.
Let them come.
Let them come.
They will come like an angel
softly touching all those places never before trespassed.
They will come with a purpose and intended meaning,
like the father on his way to help and comfort his child.
Let them come in full, running over.
They will come like a torrent of healing water,
reaching your soul’s driest places.
The gift of tears is powerful, healing,
among God’s finest gifts.
This gift has the ability to make all things hurtful
fall to a place of clarity and proportion.
As you welcome this gift, life is renewed,
the sting of heartache is soothed.
Like salve for the soul, healing and refreshing.
Let them come.
Let them come.
The gift of holy tears brings
the potential for new beginnings.
Begin anew often.
Let tears be your companion.
Allow your tears their time.
All them entrance to the secret places never before explored.
Allow them to do their intended work with no fear.
Let them come.
Let them come.
Joan T. Broussard
Jesus began to weep.
I cry a lot. I don’t like admitting that out loud, but it’s true. And when I do, it is because I’m deeply moved by frustration or anger or fear or deep grief. But until recently, I’d become so good at putting my own emotions aside, compartmentalizing my feelings so that I could be present to those in need, that for a while I didn’t cry. And that’s not a good thing.
A few years back I took a class on grieving and ritual. It was at a time when I had done 8 funerals in a year, which in my context, was a lot. I was expecting to learn ways to be present to those in times of grief and crisis. I was expecting to learn debriefing skills for first responders. I was expecting to talk about the dying process. To be honest, I was expecting that it would be an intellectual exercise about very emotional experiences. It wasn’t. This particular class was an opportunity for people to share their grief. It was an opportunity for those who hold space for everyone else to be able to cry, moan and wail. And I was incredibly uncomfortable. I was being invited to be completely vulnerable with people I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to. I was so resistant to the idea of crying in front of others, of sharing and experiencing my own pain and sadness that I fell back into my natural role as listener and holder of space. And so I never cried…not even once.
Jesus began to weep.
Since that experience, I’ve done a lot of reflecting on that class. I’ve come to realize that my resistance was really fear. I was afraid to cry. I was afraid that if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I was afraid that someone would think that I was...too fragile...too emotional...too weak...too vulnerable...too imperfect. My fear kept me from experiencing anything that weekend, and so I’ve become very intentional about not trying to compartmentalize my emotions.
And when I read “Jesus began to weep” this week--well, it was like reading it for the first time. Here is Jesus--the one to whom I pray for strength, courage and wisdom--weeping. In this moment he is faced with the death of his friend, and for just a moment instead of being the one to offer consolation to others, he weeps. I must say, I find this very liberating. In all the things that Jesus faced--the scorn, the accusations, his betrayal and crucifixion--he does with courage, with steadfastness of faith and strength that I could never imagine having to muster. But he also grieves. Somehow in my mind, Jesus weeping makes it ok for me to weep too. In this full expression of his humanity, I have approval to be human too.
But the story of Lazarus isn’t just a story of grief; it’s also about resurrection, new life, or as the poem said “new beginnings”.
The gospel tells us that Mary and Martha have been grieving the loss of their brother Lazarus and waiting for Jesus to arrive. When they explain to Jesus that Lazarus has been dead for four days, Martha warns “already there is a stench”. And yet Jesus calls for the stone to be rolled away.
I think in my childish mind I imagined Lazarus to be a bit like the Mummy from the old black and white movies or Scooby-Doo cartoons. Somehow he just wasn’t very real to me...even as an adult. Then I encountered the artist John August Swanson’s depiction of the “Raising of Lazarus”. My apologies to those of you who are unfamiliar with this painting. If you look closely and you will notice that Jesus meets Lazarus in the doorway of the tomb and embraces him. It looks like he might even try remove some of the bandages that Lazarus has been wrapped in. Jesus is not deterred by the stench. Jesus is not afraid. Jesus embraces him and loves him.
As I’ve spent time with this image, one of the things that has come up for me is that if Jesus embraced Lazarus in this moment, how often has he embraced us when we stink? How often has he called to us to come out when we’ve died and been buried? Sometimes it’s easier to ignore that calling voice, roll over and face the wall. For me, that kind of spiritual death is manifested in how easily annoyed, frustrated and exhausted I become. And yet, Jesus called to Lazarus and he calls each one of us to come out of our tombs and experience new life. Chances are, it’ll happen more than once, too.
So this week I invite you to spend some time listening for that call, allow for those holy tears to come when you feel resistant. Know that when you are in pain and sorrow, Jesus weeps with you. And when it’s time for you to be in the world again, Jesus will be there, calling you, embracing you, and removing the bandages from your heartache.
Let us pray.
God of compassion, you call us out of the bindings of death on this, our resurrection day: make us ready to surrender the fear in which we hide to step into your future alive and unashamed; through Jesus Christ, the life of the world. Amen. (Prayers for an inclusive church)