November 7, 2021 – All Saints’ Sunday
Hope Lutheran Church
Rev. Mary Erickson
John 11:32-44
In Spite of Grief, We Hope
Friends, may grace and peace be yours in abundance in the knowledge of God and Christ Jesus our Lord.
Once a year the church year calendar recognizes this day we call All Saints’ Sunday. On this first Sunday in November we pause to lift up and recognize people significant to us who have died. We thank God for the life they were given. We give thanks for their presence and influence upon us.
It’s a day filled with mixed emotions. Once again our hearts are revisited by grief. It may be a grief fresh and only a few days old. Or it may be a pang we carry with us, even after many long decades. Even so, we also feel hope in spite of the grief. We hope in the promise of the great gathering of saints. We look forward to that great day when all of God’s redeemed will be united together in endless day.
That mix of emotions is common. Grief ebbs and flows. Grieving begins raw and harsh. But even in the thick of our loss, laughter and joy can appear unexpectedly. The great tide of grief gradually recedes over time. But then we hear a song or smell an odor and boom – that old pang of grief pierces once again. The memory may come with pain, and yet we also cherish it. For in remembering their presence, they’re suddenly with us once more.
The eleventh chapter of John tells the remarkable story of Jesus’ friend Lazarus. Lazarus and his two sisters, Martha and Mary, are about the only people in the Bible who are identified specifically as Jesus’ friends. They hold a special place for him.
Well, Lazarus becomes mortally ill and dies. Despite being relatively nearby, Jesus refuses to travel to Bethany where the three siblings live. He doesn’t show up until Lazarus has laid in the grave for four days. Jesus purposely delayed coming because he knows what he’s going to do. He’s going to demonstrate the power of divine resurrection.
He knows this, and yet, when Jesus is surrounded in the moment of intense grief, his emotions overwhelm him. Jesus arrives at Bethany. He connects with Martha and then with Mary. He sees their grief. He hears the sympathetic cries of the community surrounding the two sisters. The emotional wave of grief crashes over Jesus, and he, too, weeps.
Jesus knows what he’s going to do. He knows that Lazarus will step out from his grave. But still he cries. Grief and loss fill him to the brim.
In this exchange, we see both Jesus’ divinity and his humanity. In his divinity, Jesus knows that death does not have the last word. As the divine Son of Man, Jesus intends to raise Lazarus. But at the same time, we see Jesus in his full humanity. He succumbs to grief, his heart is heavy, and he cries.
Jesus stands before Lazarus’ tomb. He’s still under the grip of great emotion. He orders people to remove the stone from the front of the tomb. Lazarus has been in there for four days. By now his body would be decomposing. The tomb was filled with the stench of death. Even so, they roll the stone anyway. Jesus called out to Lazarus. The crowd anticipated the smell of death, but what stepped from the tomb was life.
The stone in front of Lazurus’ tomb was much like the one that would stand before Jesus’ tomb. The stone is the barrier between life and death. Jesus stood outside of Lazarus’ tomb and orders that barrier to be removed. And then, under his power, he commands life to come out of the grave.
In just a matter of days, Jesus himself will be dead and buried within his own grave. A stone will be placed in front of his tomb. That barrier between life on the outside and death on the inside will be secured in place. But this time, instead of commanding the stone to be rolled away from outside of the tomb, divine power of resurrection will command from the inside. In the darkness, in the domain of death, resurrection life will emerge.
This knowledge is our hope. In spite of grief, we hope. We hope because we know that in death, life is merely changed, not ended.
Clergyman and author Henry Van Dyke wrote a parable about the transition in death. Death isn’t the end. It’s a new beginning.
He writes:
"I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side, spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.
"Then, someone at my side says, 'There, she is gone.'
"Gone where? Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast, hull and spar as she was when she left my side. And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port. Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.
"And, just at the moment when someone says, 'There, she is gone,' there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, 'Here she comes!' And that is dying..."
On this All Saints’ Sunday, we’re filled with mixed emotions. In looking to the ones we’ve loved, we grieve. But in looking to our Savior, we hope. This day allows us to cherish the memories of our departed friends. We light these candles to remind us that the flame of their influence lives on inside our hearts. But these candles also remind us of the resurrection, Christ is the light of the world, the light no darkness can overcome. In hope, we look forward to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. Walk in the light. Walk in the hope of resurrection life.
