I actually wrote this post the day before Christmas Eve, but we have been running so hard in all areas of life since then—many doctors’ appointments for Evie, a couple rounds of a nasty cold for the kids—that I am only now getting back around to this. In the time since I wrote it, I’ve worked through most of my grief over the loss of my father, but I’ve left my original draft almost entirely untouched.
My Dad died five days ago. Suddenly. In a car accident. My brother called me with the news just as I was returning home from the hospital with Matthias, who had just gotten a bright green cast on his lower leg to protect his broken toe. I left for Pennsylvania the next day with Josiah, Gabriela, and Matthias and spent the next couple of days out there helping to comfort my Mom and brother, while Kristie stayed home with the other six kids. (I definitely had the easier end of this arrangement, logistically-speaking.) I helped with plans for the funeral and the steps Mom would need to take in the next couple of weeks to sort out the details of her life now that Dad is gone. I can’t think of a week I’ve had that’s been harder than this one. Never have I cried so hard so often. Never have I felt such physical aches without an accompanying fever. This. Was. Hard. There was no time to prepare for his passing, no time to say goodbye, no time to do anything at all. All of a sudden, he was just gone, and there we were trying to pick up the pieces to help Mom get ready to keep moving ahead. Through it all, there were a lot of tears.
When we met with the pastor who would do the funeral service, he said he often talks about the death and resurrection of Lazarus in these situations. He didn’t elaborate much on the spot, partially because there were a number of other topics to discuss, but I spent some time on the drive home thinking about why Lazarus’s death would be an edifying passage to reference at a funeral. Is it because we’re hoping for an instantaneous resurrection of our loved one, like Lazarus experienced? I don’t think so, as nothing in the account of Lazarus (John 11:1–44) suggests that this is now to be typical for people who pass away. The point of Lazarus’s death and resurrection has primarily to do with Jesus, not Mary and Martha’s brother. Jesus says as much right at the outset, in verse 4.
So I started thinking about what happened when Jesus arrived in Bethany. What did He do when he arrived there? Most notably to me, at least this week, is that He wept. (verse 35) But why did He weep? Is it because he was shocked by the news that his friend had died? Clearly not, because He had told the disciples before they left that Lazarus was dead. Was He upset at the thought that maybe He could have done more, that if He had just been there, Lazarus wouldn’t have died? No again, because He decided to delay their journey by two days, knowing full well what would happen to HIs friend in the meantime. (verse 6) Did He weep because He missed His friend’s presence? Possibly. His being incarnate means that He experienced life as we do, and that would include missing the presence of someone who had passed away. But I think there’s more to it than just that, because to weep simply for this reason would be akin to mourning like those who have no hope. (cf. 1 Thess. 4:13) I see two main reasons why Jesus wept here:
- He wept because of how heartbroken Mary and Martha were. They had been at their house weeping and had been joined by a contingent of Jews who were commiserating them over their loss. When this group arrived at the outskirts of the village where Jesus was waiting, that’s when He was moved to tears.
- He wept because of the unnaturalness of death. The other time we read of Jesus weeping is in Luke 19:41. That time, He was looking out over Jerusalem and pondering her sins and stubbornness.
Based on this, the crux of mourning—and weeping—biblically is to do so in recognition of the fact that death is part of the curse we are under after the Fall, and that it unnaturally separates us from those we’re closest to. The pain that causes is real, and when we see others around us hurting, that increases our grief not in a vicious cycle, but because we see more fully the wide-ranging effects of sin in this age.
But the story doesn’t end here. We all know that instead of just comforting Mary and Martha with kind words or some thoughtfully-selected flowers, He asserts His authority and ultimate victory over death by calling Lazarus back from the dead. What a jaw-dropping moment that must have been! And it wasn’t the only time He asserted authority in astonishing ways. Think of the number of time He healed lepers, blind men, people who were lame, people who were sick. Over and over again, He turns the narrative around so that instead of focusing on the brokenness of His people, we’re made to look at His regal authority over the universe and His atoning, saving work on behalf of His people. That’s why we don’t mourn like people who have no hope. We mourn the ugly, painful nature of death, something that everyone now has to suffer as a result of Adam’s sin. And we mourn the pain that others feel when someone close to them dies. But we do not mourn because we think we’ve lost our loved one forever. If both are in Christ, then we know we will be reunited one day in the very presence of God because Jesus has paid for our sins and saved us from wrath. His victory was sealed in His resurrection and foreshadowed in His raising Lazarus from the dead. I look forward to the day when death will be no more, when there will be no more tears of sorrow, when God’s people will no longer be troubled by what currently ails them. I look forward to seeing the shackles of sin removed from all of us, and I look forward to seeing our kids no longer hindered by their special needs. More than probably any other week in my life, this one has made me yearn for the return of our Lord. Come, Lord Jesus.