Read: John 11:1-45

I imagine most of us, young and old alike, have mourned the loss of someone dear to us. After that, the “if only” wishes sometimes begin. “If only” I had called, visited, hugged, kissed, said “I love you” one last time. We wish for something different, not so final.

When my mother died, I was 3000 miles away. ‘If only’ I had been with her. Our children were with her and I’m grateful for that. Still, I wrestled with the ‘if only’ thoughts. Bye-and-bye, I remembered the happy times when we talked over everything in the world – school, boys, duplicate bridge, marriage, my babies, her grandbabies!

Just imagine the dizzying swing of emotions experienced by Mary and Martha when their friend Jesus raised their brother Lazarus from the dead. They mourned their brother’s death and then experienced such shocking joy just four days later. My own experience with rejoicing in the memories of my mother took longer than four days, but I got there. Thanks be to God.
-Sue Shepherd

Read: John 11:1-45

Jesus wept.

I will pass over some puzzling features of this text to note that when Jesus – who had delayed by two days his journey to Lazarus’ side – eventually got to the home of Mary and Martha, Lazarus had been in the tomb for four days, and the mourners were keening and wailing. Jesus wept.

Yes, Martha had run out to meet Jesus before he arrived on the scene, and Martha had heard Jesus say “your brother will rise again.” Even with this hope for Lazarus in his heart, a hope he shared with Martha, Jesus wept.

The Book of Common Prayer contains a “note” on the burial liturgy which acknowledges that the rites for burial are Easter rites and are thus characterized by joy. “This joy, however, does not make human grief unchristian,” the note continues. “The very love we have for each other in Christ brings deep sorrow when we are parted by death, because Jesus wept at the grave of his friend.”

So, as the Letter to the Romans counsels, “rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” So we are to let ourselves cry. Let others cry. Share grief, without uttering platitudes to one another.

And in our hearts, we nurture the hope expressed in one of the prayers of the burial liturgy in which we pray for

“faith to see in death the gate of eternal life, so that in quiet confidence we may continue our course on earth, until, by our call, we are reunited with those who have gone before.”

O God, inspire in me the quiet confidence that trusts you even in the face of death, and so establish me in that confidence that I will be free to weep over my losses and the losses of others. Make me a member in truth of Christ’s community of compassion. Amen.
-Fr. Jonathan Weldon

Read: John 9:1-41

“… Isn’t this the same (one) who used to come sit and beg?”

Our focus this year is on community.

When I’m not feeling well, I go into isolation. It’s not because I am contagious or unclean (although I certainly could be). It’s simply because I find my suffering deeply personal. I don’t try to hide my suffering. There’s no shame involved. I had a friend who was a physician, and his hair was always jet-black until he retired. He then went gray – almost white–haired overnight. He no longer had to color it to keep up the appearance of being young for his clients. I found he actually looked ten years younger with his natural hair than he ever did with it dyed. Sometimes our vanity or training calls for the erection of a facade. No, I don’t try to hide my frailties, nor do I wish to brag about them. I don’t suffer martyrs well either, to be honest, so I try not to pull that out of the haversack of fakery I keep close by for emergencies.

No, when I am not well, I isolate myself so that I may recover more quickly and with fewer distractions. Give me chicken soup, take my blood, poke me with needles as needed, but otherwise just stay away so that, in my being healed, I can recover enough to rejoin the human family. When I’m feeling human again, that’s when I will leave my sick bed.

The man born blind lived most of his life in isolation. The unwell were often shunned. My isolation is short-term and by choice, but not so the one born blind (or deaf). And yet, Jesus draws near. Jesus touches. Jesus anoints with a holy mudpack and sends him off for a self-service facial baptism. And the one is healed by the One, restored to a new community, because the old one challenges, chastises, and ostracizes. Not Jesus. “You’re well; it is the work of God; leave darkness behind, and join us.”

Let us pray. God, the forces for healing and restoration are varied; they rest in your hands. Heal and restore us so that we may be instruments of healing and restoration to this community in which we live. Amen.
– Fr. Keith Axberg