Unbinding and Letting Go
The Rev. Amy Hodges Morehous
Lent 5, Year A
April 10, 2011
From the icy coldness of the pit,
I will praise your name,
for like a shepherd
searching for a lost sheep
you will not give up
until you find me.
Here in the gloom,
I wait for the light of your coming.
Then I will shout
that my God is the God
who does not rest
until all are
gathered in
from the threat of night.
--Ann Weems, from Psalms of Lament
Unbind Him, and Let Him Go
John 11:1-45
After the length of that Gospel reading, I suspect what you would like me to say is, “Isn’t that a nice story? Doesn’t Jesus do some terrific things in people’s lives? Amen.” - and then we can all move on with the service. Well, I’m not going to do that - I know you’re all shocked.
The Gospel begins in the depths of pain and grief. Martha and Mary send word to Jesus that their brother is seriously ill. Responding quickly, because of his great love for the three of them, heedless of the danger the trip might put him in, Jesus rushes to Lazarus’ side, heals him, and they all live happily ever after.
Except that isn’t the way the story goes, is it? I don’t think it is a particularly nice story. I think it’s difficult. I think Jesus make some very clear choices in it - choices we may have a hard time understanding. Jesus does not come to Lazarus’ bedside. He doesn’t even make it back for the funeral. He is late. He is so late that his friends probably assume that he isn’t coming at all.
So, it’s very easy to understand Martha’s response. Hearing he is coming, she runs out of town to meet him, flinging herself toward him with no regard for social propriety or self-protection. Nice, single women did not run outside town to meet men. Not only was it shocking, it wasn’t even safe. She runs to meet him, to pour out her anguish and grief. Although Martha and her family have been faithful followers of Christ, and very visible members of the community, it is clear from this story that being faithful to Jesus is no guarantee against pain and tragedy. There is no one on earth whose righteousness, wisdom, hard work, or good planning will save them from seeing the depths of grief. Good people suffer, bad people suffer. Or, as Jesus says, “Rain falls on the just and the unjust.” Rain falls into each of our lives, and we all get wet.
What can we do in our suffering? We can cry out to God. “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.” “Out of the depths have I called unto thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice.”
In Martha’s pain and grief, she says to Jesus the same angry words that many of us have said to God in tragic and painful times. “If you had been here, my brother would not have died. If you had been present, Jesus, this terrible thing would not have happened.” It is a statement of both great faith, and great anger. Jesus’ response to Martha is kind. He could have said any number of things. He could have returned anger for anger, said “How dare you be angry with me, when my friends and I risk our very lives to come back here?”
But Jesus does not say that to her. He does not rebuke her, or chastise her for behaving improperly, for breaking social customs, or tell her she’s got it all wrong. He returns to town, he weeps with his friends, he shares their pain. Jesus doesn’t rush in and upend everything immediately. He pauses to mark the change in their lives. It matters to Jesus that they all grieve together before new life begins. It is only after publicly grieving with them that Jesus calls Lazarus forth from the tomb.
Now, I’m not going to stand up here before you this morning and talk about the redemptive power of suffering, about how much we grow as a result of our pain. While I do think that can be true, I also don’t think God causes us pain purposefully, in order to push us to mature spiritually. There are few things that will drive a grieving person away from God faster than telling them that their loved one’s suffering or death was “part of God’s plan.” I don’t believe in a God who plays with our lives like chess pieces. There are just as many people who are crushed by their pain and suffering as there are those who take that pain and make something redemptive from it. That does not mean that one is strong, and another weak. God does not exist solely to beat us over the head with clubs until we say “Thanks be to God for the headache.”
However, I do believe that we can cry to God out of the very depths of that pain, and anger, and suffering. I believe that God will always be present with us as we wrestle with it. God weeps with us during painful times in our lives, just as Jesus weeps with his friends before Lazarus’ tomb. I know how it feels to watch my own child grieve; I cannot believe that God would ever be aloof to any of His children’s suffering.
There is no depth, no loss, no tragedy, no disease or death, nothing on heaven or on earth beyond God's redemption. We may suffer, but we will not do it alone. God will not leave those He loves alone. God is present even when we cannot feel it.
And there is something more than that, even, something more amazing: God is still present and redeeming the universe that He made and loves. Sarah Dylan Brewer says, “When we cry out from the depths, God hears. When Jesus seems slow in coming, he is coming. And if we worry that it is too late, Jesus shows that it is never too late. After we have become convinced that all is lost, when we are ready to concede to death and are seeking only to contain the damage or bury it because it smells, Jesus demonstrates that there is no loss, no death, no tragedy beyond God's redemption, beyond the reach of infinite love and abundant life.”
We hear this story in Lent as a forerunner of The Resurrection story - Christ returning to life from crucifixion and death. Jesus calls Lazarus forth from death into life. Just as he calls to Lazarus, he calls to each of us. We’re all here this morning because we’ve heard some faint echo of Christ’s call to us. We may not have understood it, but we heard it. Something has called us out of our individual lives, into this community. We’re here this morning, blinking in the daylight, not looking too much like the newly risen dead, and wondering how we got here. We assemble here in this beautiful space, together, every Sunday, and wonder, “Now what?!”
Luckily, Jesus has a direction for us, with our new lives, our shiny, newly risen selves. What does he say to the crowd after Lazarus is returned to life? “Unbind him, and let him go.” Unbind him. Let him go. Jesus doesn’t unwrap the grave clothes that are tightly wrapped around Lazarus, that hold him captive. He doesn’t tell Lazarus to go and do it himself. He tells the people present to take care of the newly risen man, and restore him to his place in the community.
Jesus Christ can call me forth to new life. He can summon me to this place, to be with you, where I can rejoice in that life. But I cannot unbind myself. I can’t unwrap myself from my grief, and my cares, and my fears alone. For that I need God, yes, but I also need you - each of you.
After our son died last year, my first Sunday back happened to be St. Andrew’s Sunday. Before agreeing to come back that day, I had read all the readings, had thought I could make it through the service without completely coming undone. I had forgotten to look at the hymns. The Gospel hymn that day was “Amazing Grace”, accompanied by the bagpipes. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how I could possibly make it through that. I was not able to sing “Amazing Grace” for myself - I just didn’t have the words, or the song. Instead, I stood, and listened, and you sang “Amazing Grace” for me - I closed my eyes and listened, and the church echoed with your voices, and your song, and something in my heart floated free. When I could not sing “Amazing Grace” for myself, I knew that others could carry the tune for me. So if you ever wonder if your presence here matters - know that it profoundly does. If you were here that day, you helped to unbind me and set a small part of my heart free - even though you didn’t even know it happened.
We are here, together, to be about the business of unbinding. We are here to unbind each other - and all God’s children - from those things that hold us captive in this life. From fear, and grief. From disappointments, from disasters, from pain. From injustice and separation and sin. From all the things that hold us back from living full lives as children of God. We are responsible for each other and to each other as part of a community of God. To do that, we must be present for one another. We are here to listen, to learn, to support, to serve, to worship...to grow into the free, redeemed people, as God created us to be.
Jesus Christ calls you forth this day to new life, calls you just as you are, just where you are. Be present for one another. Unbind one another from the clothes of the grave, and go forth into a world that is thirsty for God’s love and hope. The spirit of the Lord will be within you, and these dry bones will yet live.
Amen.
“I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning.”
Lent 5, Year A
April 10, 2011
From the icy coldness of the pit,
I will praise your name,
for like a shepherd
searching for a lost sheep
you will not give up
until you find me.
Here in the gloom,
I wait for the light of your coming.
Then I will shout
that my God is the God
who does not rest
until all are
gathered in
from the threat of night.
--Ann Weems, from Psalms of Lament
Unbind Him, and Let Him Go
John 11:1-45
After the length of that Gospel reading, I suspect what you would like me to say is, “Isn’t that a nice story? Doesn’t Jesus do some terrific things in people’s lives? Amen.” - and then we can all move on with the service. Well, I’m not going to do that - I know you’re all shocked.
The Gospel begins in the depths of pain and grief. Martha and Mary send word to Jesus that their brother is seriously ill. Responding quickly, because of his great love for the three of them, heedless of the danger the trip might put him in, Jesus rushes to Lazarus’ side, heals him, and they all live happily ever after.
Except that isn’t the way the story goes, is it? I don’t think it is a particularly nice story. I think it’s difficult. I think Jesus make some very clear choices in it - choices we may have a hard time understanding. Jesus does not come to Lazarus’ bedside. He doesn’t even make it back for the funeral. He is late. He is so late that his friends probably assume that he isn’t coming at all.
So, it’s very easy to understand Martha’s response. Hearing he is coming, she runs out of town to meet him, flinging herself toward him with no regard for social propriety or self-protection. Nice, single women did not run outside town to meet men. Not only was it shocking, it wasn’t even safe. She runs to meet him, to pour out her anguish and grief. Although Martha and her family have been faithful followers of Christ, and very visible members of the community, it is clear from this story that being faithful to Jesus is no guarantee against pain and tragedy. There is no one on earth whose righteousness, wisdom, hard work, or good planning will save them from seeing the depths of grief. Good people suffer, bad people suffer. Or, as Jesus says, “Rain falls on the just and the unjust.” Rain falls into each of our lives, and we all get wet.
What can we do in our suffering? We can cry out to God. “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.” “Out of the depths have I called unto thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice.”
In Martha’s pain and grief, she says to Jesus the same angry words that many of us have said to God in tragic and painful times. “If you had been here, my brother would not have died. If you had been present, Jesus, this terrible thing would not have happened.” It is a statement of both great faith, and great anger. Jesus’ response to Martha is kind. He could have said any number of things. He could have returned anger for anger, said “How dare you be angry with me, when my friends and I risk our very lives to come back here?”
But Jesus does not say that to her. He does not rebuke her, or chastise her for behaving improperly, for breaking social customs, or tell her she’s got it all wrong. He returns to town, he weeps with his friends, he shares their pain. Jesus doesn’t rush in and upend everything immediately. He pauses to mark the change in their lives. It matters to Jesus that they all grieve together before new life begins. It is only after publicly grieving with them that Jesus calls Lazarus forth from the tomb.
Now, I’m not going to stand up here before you this morning and talk about the redemptive power of suffering, about how much we grow as a result of our pain. While I do think that can be true, I also don’t think God causes us pain purposefully, in order to push us to mature spiritually. There are few things that will drive a grieving person away from God faster than telling them that their loved one’s suffering or death was “part of God’s plan.” I don’t believe in a God who plays with our lives like chess pieces. There are just as many people who are crushed by their pain and suffering as there are those who take that pain and make something redemptive from it. That does not mean that one is strong, and another weak. God does not exist solely to beat us over the head with clubs until we say “Thanks be to God for the headache.”
However, I do believe that we can cry to God out of the very depths of that pain, and anger, and suffering. I believe that God will always be present with us as we wrestle with it. God weeps with us during painful times in our lives, just as Jesus weeps with his friends before Lazarus’ tomb. I know how it feels to watch my own child grieve; I cannot believe that God would ever be aloof to any of His children’s suffering.
There is no depth, no loss, no tragedy, no disease or death, nothing on heaven or on earth beyond God's redemption. We may suffer, but we will not do it alone. God will not leave those He loves alone. God is present even when we cannot feel it.
And there is something more than that, even, something more amazing: God is still present and redeeming the universe that He made and loves. Sarah Dylan Brewer says, “When we cry out from the depths, God hears. When Jesus seems slow in coming, he is coming. And if we worry that it is too late, Jesus shows that it is never too late. After we have become convinced that all is lost, when we are ready to concede to death and are seeking only to contain the damage or bury it because it smells, Jesus demonstrates that there is no loss, no death, no tragedy beyond God's redemption, beyond the reach of infinite love and abundant life.”
We hear this story in Lent as a forerunner of The Resurrection story - Christ returning to life from crucifixion and death. Jesus calls Lazarus forth from death into life. Just as he calls to Lazarus, he calls to each of us. We’re all here this morning because we’ve heard some faint echo of Christ’s call to us. We may not have understood it, but we heard it. Something has called us out of our individual lives, into this community. We’re here this morning, blinking in the daylight, not looking too much like the newly risen dead, and wondering how we got here. We assemble here in this beautiful space, together, every Sunday, and wonder, “Now what?!”
Luckily, Jesus has a direction for us, with our new lives, our shiny, newly risen selves. What does he say to the crowd after Lazarus is returned to life? “Unbind him, and let him go.” Unbind him. Let him go. Jesus doesn’t unwrap the grave clothes that are tightly wrapped around Lazarus, that hold him captive. He doesn’t tell Lazarus to go and do it himself. He tells the people present to take care of the newly risen man, and restore him to his place in the community.
Jesus Christ can call me forth to new life. He can summon me to this place, to be with you, where I can rejoice in that life. But I cannot unbind myself. I can’t unwrap myself from my grief, and my cares, and my fears alone. For that I need God, yes, but I also need you - each of you.
After our son died last year, my first Sunday back happened to be St. Andrew’s Sunday. Before agreeing to come back that day, I had read all the readings, had thought I could make it through the service without completely coming undone. I had forgotten to look at the hymns. The Gospel hymn that day was “Amazing Grace”, accompanied by the bagpipes. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how I could possibly make it through that. I was not able to sing “Amazing Grace” for myself - I just didn’t have the words, or the song. Instead, I stood, and listened, and you sang “Amazing Grace” for me - I closed my eyes and listened, and the church echoed with your voices, and your song, and something in my heart floated free. When I could not sing “Amazing Grace” for myself, I knew that others could carry the tune for me. So if you ever wonder if your presence here matters - know that it profoundly does. If you were here that day, you helped to unbind me and set a small part of my heart free - even though you didn’t even know it happened.
We are here, together, to be about the business of unbinding. We are here to unbind each other - and all God’s children - from those things that hold us captive in this life. From fear, and grief. From disappointments, from disasters, from pain. From injustice and separation and sin. From all the things that hold us back from living full lives as children of God. We are responsible for each other and to each other as part of a community of God. To do that, we must be present for one another. We are here to listen, to learn, to support, to serve, to worship...to grow into the free, redeemed people, as God created us to be.
Jesus Christ calls you forth this day to new life, calls you just as you are, just where you are. Be present for one another. Unbind one another from the clothes of the grave, and go forth into a world that is thirsty for God’s love and hope. The spirit of the Lord will be within you, and these dry bones will yet live.
Amen.
“I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning.”
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