The Lord of Life (or the pale sign)

(John 11:1–45)

     Last Sunday, the Gospel led us to reflect on the sign of the opening of the eyes.

Even in those who have lost their way, there can be a growing awareness of personal dignity and vocation through faith.

One question remains: if a Light is given at the right time... perhaps it is of little use.

Christ imparts to us a consciousness rich in perceptions and capable of wise, spiritual and missionary endeavour – but is there a final Goal, or does it all end here?

If we must manage on our own, what is the point of the biblical Promises? 

Why do we feel a longing for Fullness, only to plunge into nothingness?

Where is God’s love and omnipotence? And the Risen One, the life of the Eternal One present among us? Has not his very life already been given to us?

The event of death is disconcerting, and that of a friend of God in the community [Bethany] perhaps heightens the questions about the meaning of our faith and our wholehearted commitment.

Why, at the moment of greatest need, does the Lord allow us to fall? Why does He seem not to be there (v.21)?

Nevertheless, we understand that managing to endure an endless old age would not be a victory over death.

The belief of ancient cultures is that when the gods formed humanity, they assigned death to it, and kept life for themselves.

Anyone who had gone on a desperate quest for the mythical herb that makes the old young had to resign themselves to the fact that to die meant setting off for a land of no return.

By allowing even his dearest friends to perish, Jesus teaches us: it is not his intention to prolong biological existence (vv. 14–15), nor simply to improve it a little.

Christ is not a ‘doctor’ who comes to postpone the appointment with death, but rather the One who conquers death – because He transforms it into a Birth.

After all, a truly authentic, human and humanising life needs to face our condition head-on.

Health and physical life are gifts that everyone wishes to prolong, but which must ultimately be surrendered, in the Final Destination that no longer fades.

Eternal [in the Gospels, the very Life of the Eternal: Zoè aiònios] is not this form of life [in the Gospels: Bìos – perhaps enhanced] but only its moments of profound love.

This is the authenticity of the grace to be sought and cultivated. A permanence to which we must respond, a unique condition that cannot defeat us.

The Definitive World does not interfere with the natural course of events, although it may already manifest itself – in the intimate reality of multifaceted coexistence.

But this higher experience [of Covenant even amidst hardships] lies solely in that which is indestructible; personal, and in micro and macro relationships.

In particular, Communion: the sole sign of the form of Life that takes charge but does not falter, has no limits, and will have no end.

For this reason, the Lord does not enter the ‘village’ where others have gone to console and offer condolences.

He wants Mary to leave the house where everyone weeps in despair and offers funeral condolences – as if everything were over.

He intends to draw us out of the ‘little village’ where it is believed that the earthly end can only be senselessly postponed, until the grave with no future.

He wants us decisively out of the little village where everyone is in mourning and remains with the false consolation of funeral rites, ‘relief’ seasoned only with pretty little phrases.

The natural emotion of parting does not hold back the tears, which spontaneously ‘flow from the eyes, slide down’ [dakryein-edakrysen].

The emotion does not produce a wild, wailing cry [klaiein] like that of the inconsolable Jews [vv.33.35 Greek text; the English translation is confusing].

No farewell. For this reason, the command follows to remove the stone that at that time sealed the tombs (v.39).

The powerful call is absolutely imperative: the ‘deceased’ are not ‘dead’, as ancient religions believe; their life continues.

‘Lazarus, come out!’ [v.43 Greek text]: it is the cry of life’s victory. 

In the adventure of Faith in Christ, we discover that life has no stones laid upon it.

Enough of lamenting over life-destroying situations. They bring us closer to our roots, and to full blossoming.

And let us stop weeping for the ‘dead’!

The call the Lord makes today – even after two millennia! – is that there is no sunken world of the departed.

Compared to our journey on earth, those who have passed on are not clearly separated from us; in a place of its own, cut off from communication with the present.

Archaic beliefs, in fact, imagined that Hades or Sheol was a dark cave, shrouded in mist, here and there populated by insubstantial, wandering spirits.

The world of the living is not separated from that of the dead.

‘Lazarus has fallen asleep’ (v.11), that is to say: he is not fallen, for men do not die. They pass from creaturely life [bìos] to full Life [Zoè].

The deceased has left this world and entered the world of God, reborn and brought forth into his authentic, complete, definitive being.

Therefore: “Unbind him and let him go!”

In short, Lazarus has not simply ended up in the grave, nor, having been revived by Christ, does he return to this form of life for another spell… inexorably marked by its limits.

In the story, in fact, whilst everyone goes towards Jesus, Lazarus does not.

This is not what Jesus can do in the face of death. He does not immortalise this condition; otherwise, existence would continue to be a futile flight from the decisive rendezvous.

And it is time to stop mourning the loved one: ‘deceased’, not ‘dead’.

We must not hold them back with obsessive visits, tormented memories, talismans, condolences: let them exist happily in their new condition!

Life for us and Life for those who have already blossomed in the world of God’s Peace – where  we live life to the full: with one another and for one another.

A state which we can thus foreshadow, by dissolving no few inner blocks, external impediments, and relational bonds; drowned in the moods of bitterness, consternation, and despondency:

‘Even today, Jesus repeats to us: “Take away the stone”. God did not create us for the grave; he created us for life—beautiful, good, joyful.

We are therefore called to remove the stones of everything that smacks of death: for example, the hypocrisy with which faith is lived is death; destructive criticism of others is death; offence and slander are death; the marginalisation of the poor is death.

The Lord asks us to remove these stones from our hearts, and life will then blossom once more around us.

Christ lives, and whoever welcomes him and adheres to him comes into contact with life. Without Christ, or outside of Christ, not only is life absent, but one falls back into death.

May each of us be close to those who are undergoing trials, becoming for them a reflection of God’s love and tenderness, which frees from death and brings life to victory.”

[Pope Francis, Angelus, 29 March 2020]

To reflect on and live out the message:

When faced with bereavement, what atmosphere do you sense at home, in church, at the cemetery, during the funeral? And how do condolences affect you?

On Bethany [continuation of the passage on Lazarus]:

Jesus Comes to the Feast, but in Secret

(John 11:45–56)

    Christ is everything that the Jewish feasts had promised and proclaimed.

They interpreted these events authoritatively, yet unconsciously (verses 47–52 delight in words with double meanings).

The high priest was in fact speaking in the name of God: he interpreted the situation in a divinely inspired manner.

In Christ, the fulfilment of the promise made to Abraham was beginning: the era of the dispersion of mankind was coming to an end.

The Cross would fulfil the Temple’s vocation: the gathering of the people and the unity of the human being from the arid and distant land, in sharing and gratuitousness.

But what, even for Jesus, could have been the (energetic) starting point for not retreating within the confines of his own environment down to the smallest detail, and for setting in motion a path of rebirth?

The community of Bethany [‘house of the poor’] is an image of the earliest communities of faith, destitute and composed solely of brothers and sisters, without co-opted or appointed authorities. On a human scale.

Where those bonds that prevented one from going beyond the already known could be broken. Without patriarchs whose control was calibrated, obsessive and vindictive – where one does not watch over others.

A haven of healthy relationships, which managed to give meaning even to wounds.

It is the only place where Jesus felt at ease, that is, the only reality in which we can still recognise him as alive and present in our midst – indeed, the Source of life for the humble and the needy.

The Gospel passage jarrs with the vulgar cunning of the leaders and the out-of-scale nature of the venues and prescribed festivals.

As if no lifeblood flowed there between the holiness of God and the real lives of the humble.

Although the Master did good – as in all regimes, there was no shortage of informers (v.46).

On the other hand, a large part of the inhabitants of Jerusalem found their material sustenance in the income generated by the Temple’s activities.

Imagine if the top of the class would have let the bone be snatched from their mouths, to follow a stranger who intended to supplant the official institution and positions of privilege with a bare-bones utopia.

The throne of the princes of the fraternal House, on the other hand, was devoid of cushions, and the community’s coordinator was a woman: Martha [‘lady’]. A leader in reverse, a servant.

Far from a reactionary defence of privileged positions and the old order... still all downward pressures and a drive to ‘sort things out’ according to the chain of command, which never give us any inspiration for new life. A sticky situation that the synodal journey initiative is finally attempting to break free from.

Under Domitian, these small alternative communities – though caring for the little ones and the far-flung – had to live as Jesus did: in hiding.

They paid for unity with the cross. But they renewed the life of the empire.