Lazarus and the Saints

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Our Gospel reading today concerns the raising of Lazarus.

You know the story, of course –
Lazarus was the brother of Martha and Mary,
and Jesus seems to have been a frequent, and beloved, visitor to their home in Bethany, just outside Jerusalem.
It’s possible, if not probable, that he stayed there most years when he came up to Jerusalem for the Passover,
and they certainly seem to have been among his closest friends.

Anyway, Lazarus falls ill, and they send to Jesus to come and heal him.
But Jesus, unaccountably, delays for another two days.
And when he does set out to go there, the disciples are rather worried, as they fear for his safety.
But he explains that Lazarus has died, and God wants him raised from the dead.

And when he gets to Bethany, both Martha and Mary disobey tradition, and come out to meet him.
Normally, relatives of the deceased were expected to stay seated on low stools while the visitors came to them to offer their condolences –
it’s called sitting shiva, and I understand it’s done in Jewish families to this day.
Anyway, Martha and Mary run out to meet him, Martha first.
Jesus has this wonderful conversation with her which culminates in him saying to her, “I am the resurrection and the life.
Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.
Do you believe this?” and Martha replying with that wonderful declaration of faith:
“I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, who was to come into the world.”
Martha said this.
Martha.
A woman –
and not only a woman, but a traditional woman,
usually more concerned with getting a meal for Jesus and the disciples than in learning what he had to say!
It’s amazing.

Anyway, then we come to the bit we just read,
where Mary comes out to Jesus in her turn,
and Jesus weeps at his friend’s grave.
And then he calls for the stone to be rolled away and Martha, wonderful, practical Martha, complains that it’s going to stink quite dreadfully after four days....
but the stone gets rolled away, and Lazarus comes forth, still wrapped in his graveclothes.

Now, it’s a wonderful story, and I expect you, like me, have heard many great sermons and much wonderful teaching on it.
But the reason why we had it this morning is because tomorrow is All Saints’ Day, when the church is asked to celebrate those who have gone before into glory.
What is sometimes known as the Church Triumphant;
we here on earth being the Church Militant.

Today, of course, is Halloween.
Actually, it’s the Eve of All Saints, or All Hallows, so All Hallows Eve, Halloween.
When you look round the shops, you see, above all, orange pumpkins which are in season at this time of year – the small ones, of course, are delicious to eat, and the larger ones make delightful jack-o-lanterns.
It’s only really in this century that the pumpkin has become the vegetable of choice for jack-o-lanterns; in my youth, they were neither imported nor grown here, and if you wanted a jack-o-lantern, you had to carve it from a swede!
Which was not easy.
Also, in my childhood, although Halloween parties were a thing,
it was greatly overshadowed by Guy Fawkes’ Night, on 5 November.
Children didn’t go trick-or-treating, back then; instead, they would make a guy, and take it through the streets on an old pushchair or go-kart, and ask passers-by for “a penny for the guy”, which money was probably spent on fireworks.
I have to admit that I’d really rather we still did that!
I don’t at all care for the spooky aspects of Halloween, and the hints of evil that run through it,
although people do say that it is to celebrate Jesus’ victory over such things.
Nevertheless, I prefer to think of it as the Eve of All Saints.

In France, All Saints’ Day is a Bank Holiday,
and although Halloween is increasingly a thing there, as here,
the tradition there is to take flowers –
usually chrysanthemums –
to put on your loved ones’ graves.

But All Saints itself is about life, not death.
No spiders or ghosts or witches or other nasties.
It’s a triumph of life.
Jesus said “I am the Resurrection and the Life.
Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

So, granted that what we are celebrating is All Saints, what is a saint?
Strikes me there seem to be two kinds of saints.
The first is a Saint with a capital S.
These are often Bible people, like St Paul, of course, but there are also lots of Saints who were, in life, totally dedicated to being God’s person.
To the point where, very often, they got into serious trouble, or even killed for it.
There was St Polycarp, who was put to death,
and when he was given a chance to recant, to say he wasn’t a Christian after all, he said very firmly that he’d served God, man and boy,
for something like eighty years now, and God had never let him down,
so if they thought he was going to let God down at the last minute, they’d another think coming.
Or words to that effect.

There were Saints Perpetua and Felicity, her servant.
Saint Perpetua was a young mother, whose husband and father both roundly disapproved of her being a Christian,
and Felicity, also a Christian, was expecting a baby when they were taken and put on trial.
They were left until Felicity had had her baby –
a little girl, who was brought up by her sister –
and then they had to face wild beasts in the arena.
And so went to glory.

There are lots of other saints, too, whose story has come down to us.
Although sometimes their stories are rather less exotic than we once thought.
St George, for instance, the patron saint of England:
he was born in Cappadocia of noble, Christian parents and on the death of his father, accompanied his mother to Palestine, her country of origin, where she had land and George was to run the estate.
He rose to high rank in the Roman army, and was martyred for complaining to the then Emperor about his persecuting the Christians –
he ended up being one of the first to be put to death.

And his dragon?
Oh, that was a bit of a misunderstanding.
The Greek church venerated George as a soldier-saint,
and told many stories of his bravery and protection in battle.
The western Christians, joining with the Byzantine Christians in the Crusades, elaborated and misinterpreted the Greek traditions and devised their own version.
The story we know today of Saint George and the dragon dates from the troubadours of the 14th century.
Of course, you can look at it, as they did, in symbolic terms:
the Princess is the church, which George rescued from the clutches of Satan.
I imagine football fans often see places like Brazil or Argentina as the dragon, especially during the World Cup!

But not all Saints belong to the dawn of Christianity.
There is Thomas More, for instance, who was put to death by Henry the Eighth as he wouldn’t admit that the King’s marriage to Katharine of Aragon was valid, or that the King was Head of the Church.
And in our own day, Mother Theresa, Archbishop Romero, Pope John the Twenty-third – he was the one who called for Vatican 2, you may remember, which produced so many changes in the Roman church, and a great many others.

So, anyway, those are just a very few of the many “Saints” with a capital S.
No bad thing to read some of the stories of their lives, and learn who they were, and why the Church continues to remember them.

And then, of course, there is the other sort of saint, the saint with a small “s”.
St Paul often addresses his letters to “The Saints” in such-and-such a town.
He basically means the Christians.
Us, in other words.
We are God’s saints.
We are the sanctified people –
sanctified means “being made holy”, or being made more like Jesus.

And you notice that it is “being made holy”, not “making ourselves holy”.
We can do nothing to become a saint by ourselves!
We can’t even say that God has saved me because I believe in him –
our salvation, our sainthood, is a free gift from God and we can do nothing to earn it, not even believe in God!
We aren’t saved as a reward for believing –
we are saved because God loves us!

We believe that, like Lazarus, we shall be raised from dead.
But unlike him, we shall probably be raised to eternal life with Jesus,
and God will wipe away every tear from our eyes.
And we are also told that Jesus came so that we might have life, and have it abundantly.
That applies to the here and now, too, not just pie in the sky when we die!
Our whole lives now have that eternal dimension.
That doesn’t mean, of course, that we won’t experience great sorrow here –
sadly, that is part of human existence.
And I don’t think it means that we can live just as we like, doing whatever we like, because God has saved us.
Rather to the contrary, I think personal holiness is very important.
We need to do all we can to avoid sin.
Jesus shows us in some of his teachings what his people are going to be like:
poor in spirit –
not thinking more of themselves than they ought;
mourning, perhaps for the ungodly world in which we live;
meek, which means slow to anger and gentle with others;
hungry and thirsty for righteousness;
merciful;
pure in heart;
peacemakers and so on.

St Paul gives other lists of characteristics that Christians will display;
you probably remember from his letter to the Galatians:
Love, joy, peace, patience and so on.
And he gives lots of lists of the sort of behaviour that Christians don’t do, ranging from gluttony to fornication.
Basically the sort of things that put “Me” first, and make “me” the centre of my life.

But the wonderful thing is that we don’t have to strive and struggle and do violence to our own natures.
Yes, of course, we are inherently selfish and it’s nearly impossible to put God first in our own strength.
But the whole point is, we don’t have to do it in our own strength.
That is why God sent the Holy Spirit, to come into us, fill us, and transform us.
We wouldn’t be very happy in heaven if we were stuck in our old nature, after all!

But if we let God transform us, we can have abundant life here on this earth, and then we leave our bodies behind and go on to be with Jesus.
And that, we are told, is even better!

Jesus asks us, “I am the resurrection and the life.
Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.
Do you believe this?”

Can we reply, with Martha, “I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, who was to come into the world.”?

Change Happens

 An updated version of this sermon, preached in 2015.


Today's readings are all about change.
Things changed for Job, and things changed for Bartimaeus.

So, then Job.
It's a funny old story, isn't it?
Do you know, nobody knows anything about it –
what you see is totally what you get!
Nobody knows who it was written, or when, or why, or whether it is true history or a fictional story –
most probably the latter!
Apparently, The Book of Job is incredibly ancient, or parts of it are.
And so it makes it very difficult for us to understand.
We do realise, of course, that it was one of the earliest attempts someone made to rationalise why bad things happen to good people,
but it still seems odd to us.

Just to remind you, the story first of all establishes Job as really rich, and then as a really holy person –
whenever his children have parties, which they seem to have done pretty frequently, he offers sacrifices to God just in case the parties were orgies!
And so on.
Then God says to Satan, hey, look at old Job, isn't he a super servant of mine, and Satan says, rather crossly, yeah, well, it's all right for him –
just look how you've blessed him.
Anybody would be a super servant like that.
You take all those blessings away from him, and see if he still serves you!
And that, of course, is just exactly what happens.
The children are all killed,
the crops are all destroyed,
the flocks and herds perish.
And Job still remains faithful to God:
“Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return there;
the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away;
blessed be the name of the Lord.”

So then Satan says, well, all right, Job is still worshipping you,
but he still has his health, doesn't he?
I bet he would sing a very different tune if you let me take his health away!
So God says, well, okay, only you mustn't kill him.
And Job gets a plague of boils, which must have been really nasty –
painful, uncomfortable, itchy and making him feel rotten in himself as well.
Poor sod.
No wonder he ends up sitting on a dung-heap, scratching himself with a piece of broken china!

And his wife, who must have suffered just as much as Job, only of course women weren't really people in those days, she says “Curse God, and die!”
In other words, what do you have left to live for?
But Job refuses, although he does, with some justification, curse the day on which he was born.

Then you know the rest of the story, of course.
How the three "friends" come and try to persuade him to admit that he deserves all that had come upon him –
we've all had friends like that who try to make our various sufferings be our fault, and who try to poultice them with pious platitudes.
Gaslighting, don’t they call it?
And Job insists that he is not at fault, and demands some answers from God!
Which, in the end, he gets.
But not totally satisfactory to our ears, although they really are the most glorious poetry.
Here's just a tiny bit:

“Do you give the horse its might?
Do you clothe its neck with mane?
Do you make it leap like the locust?
Its majestic snorting is terrible.
It paws violently, exults mightily;
it goes out to meet the weapons.
It laughs at fear, and is not dismayed;
it does not turn back from the sword.
Upon it rattle the quiver, the flashing spear, and the javelin.
With fierceness and rage it swallows the ground;
it cannot stand still at the sound of the trumpet.
When the trumpet sounds, it says "Aha!"
From a distance it smells the battle, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting.
Is it by your wisdom that the hawk soars,
and spreads its wings towards the south?
Is it at your command that the eagle mounts up and makes its nest on high?
It lives on the rock and makes its home in the fastness of the rocky crag.
From there it spies the prey;
its eyes see it from far away.
Its young ones suck up blood;
and where the slain are, there it is.”
Wonderful stuff, and it goes on for about three chapters, talking of the natural world and its wonders, and how God is the author of them all.

If you ever want to rejoice in creation, read Job chapters 38, 39 and 40.
My father asked me to read chapter 39 at his funeral, which I did, in the Authorised Version that he preferred – I was comforted, then, by the unicorns: “Will the unicorn be willing to serve thee,
or abide by thy crib?
Canst thou bind the unicorn with his band in the furrow?
or will he harrow the valleys after thee?
Wilt thou trust him, because his strength is great?”
I was very disappointed when I discovered that in more modern versions, they replace “unicorn” with “wild ox” – not the same thing at all!
Anyway at the end, as we heard in our first reading, Job repents "in dust and ashes", we are told, and then his riches are restored to him.
But would even more children and riches really make up for those seven children who were killed?
I doubt it, which is one of the reasons it’s probably a story, rather than actual history.
But the point I want to make this morning is that God intervened in Job's life, and things changed.
At first they changed for the worse, but then they changed for the better.

And the same thing happened to Bartimaeus, as we heard in our Gospel reading.
Jesus touched him, and his life was changed beyond all recognition.
In John's version of the story, we're told a little bit about the consequences of the healing.

For Bartimaeus life changed immediately.
My sister-in-law, who is blind, says that not only would he have been given his sight, but he would have been given the gift of being able to see, otherwise how would he have known what he was looking at?
He wouldn't have known whether what he was looking at was a person or a camel or a tree, would he?
But he was given the gift, so he knew.
And he could stop begging for his living, he realised, and he went and did whatever the local equivalent of signing-on was.
And, of course there were lots of mutterings and whisperings –
Is it him?
Can't be!
Must be someone new in town, who just looks like him!
“Yes, it's me,” explains Bartimaeus, anxious to tell his story.
“Yes, I was blind, and yes, I can see now!”
“So what happens?” ask the neighbours.
“Well, this bloke put some mud on my eyes and told me to go and wash, and when I did, then I could see.
No, I don't know where he is –
I never saw him;
Yes, I'd probably know his voice, but I didn't actually see him!”

And the neighbours, thinking all this a bit odd, drag him before the Pharisees, the religious authorities of the day.
And they don't believe him.
Not possible.
Nobody born blind gets to see, it just doesn't happen.
And if it did, it couldn't happen on the Sabbath.
Not unless the person who did it was a sinner,
because only a sinner would do that on the Sabbath –
it's work, isn't it?
And if the person who did it was a sinner, it can't have happened!
They got themselves in a right old muddle.

Now we, of course, know what Jesus' thoughts about healing on the Sabbath day were –
he is on record elsewhere as pointing out that you'd rescue a distressed donkey, or, indeed, lead it to the horse-trough to get a drink, whatever day of the week it was, so surely healing a human being was a right and proper activity for the Sabbath.

But the Pharisees didn't believe this.
They thought healing was work, and thus not a proper activity for the Sabbath at all.
So they decided it couldn't possibly have happened, and sent for Bartimaeus's parents to say “Now come on, your son wasn't really blind, was he?
What has happened?”

And his parents, equally bewildered, say
“Well yes, he is our son;
yes, he was born blind;
yes, it does appear that he can now see;
no, we don't know what happened;
why don't you ask him?”

And the Bible tells us they were also scared of being expelled from the synagogue, which is why they didn't say anything more.
Actually, they must have had a fearful mixture of emotions, don't you think –
thrilled that their son could suddenly see,
scared of the authorities,
wondering what exactly Jesus had done,
and was it something they ought to have done themselves, and so on.
And, of course, wondering how life was going to be from now on.

Very soon now, their son probably wouldn't need them any more;
now he was like other people, he could, perhaps, earn a proper living and even marry and have a family.
So the authorities go back to Bartimaeus, and he says,
“Well, how would I know if the person who healed me is a sinner or not?
All I know is that I was blind, and now I can see!”
And then they asked him again, well, how did it happen, and he gets fed up with them going on and says
“But I told you!
Didn't you listen?
Or maybe you want to be his disciples, too?”
which was, of course, rather cheeky and he deserved being told off for it, but then again, I expect he was still rather hyper about having been healed.

And he does go on rather and tells them that the man who opened his eyes must be from God, can't possibly not be, and they get even more fed up with him, and sling him out.
And then Jesus meets him again –
of course Bartimaeus, not having seen him before, doesn't actually recognise him –
and reveals himself to him.
And Bartimaeus worships him.

 
Make no mistake, my friends, when God touches our lives, things change.
Sometimes it is our behaviour which changes;
sometimes our attitudes;
sometimes, even, our very faith.
But it's easy to fall out of the habit of allowing God to touch you and change you.
I know I have, many times.
The joy of it is, though, that we can always come back.
We aren't left alone to fend for ourselves –
we would always fail if we were.
We just need to acknowledge to ourselves –
and to God, of course, but God knew, anyway –
that we've wandered away again.

That's a bit simplistic, of course –
there are times when we are quite sure we haven't wandered away, and yet God seems far off.
But I'm not going into that one right now;
nobody really knows why that happens, except God!
After all, Job didn’t know why his life had gone so totally and completely pear-shaped – but God knew!
But for most of us, most of the time,
if we fall out of the habit of allowing God to touch us and heal us and change us,
we simply have to acknowledge that this is what has happened,
and we are back with him again.
It can be scary.
But then, we are always given the strength and the ability to cope with whatever comes.
We don't have to cope alone.
God is there, not only changing us,
but enabling us to cope with that change.
And we are changed and grown, and God gets the glory!
Because it's not just about what happens to us –
although, human as we are, that's the bit we think about most.
It's also about showing God's glory to the world,
as God showed Job, and this has come down to us;
As happened when Bartimaeus was healed;
as may well happen if and when God touches our lives.
Amen.