Lazarus

It was impossible. Until Jesus decided to change what was possible.

Photo by Einar Storsul on Unsplash

The sun was hot on the back of Martha’s neck. She had spent a long but fruitful day with her brother Lazarus. The harvest was finally in, and their days were now spent reaping the fruits of their labor. Martha stood wiping the sweat from her brow. The golden setting sun cast bright beams of orange and yellow across her face signaling the end of another day. She looked in the distance and saw her brother walking toward her. He had spent most of the day working the west side of the field. Martha bent to pick up her basket, the comfort of  a warm meal with her brother and sister beaconing her. Her fingers closed across the handle when she heard an odd sound…a thud of a sort. She stood and saw nothing. She turned back to see where Lazarus was. To her horror she saw her brother lying on the ground. “No…no, no, no” she cried as she ran to him. Since the death of their parents, Lazarus had been the head of the household for her and Mary. He was their support, their life line, their brother. He was all the family they had left. “Come on Lazarus, come on. You need to get up now.” Martha crooned trying to get him on his feet. He stood weakly leaning on her for support. She could feel the heat of a fever seeping through his clothes. He had complained the last couple of days he didn't feel well but they didn’t think anything of it. After all, he was young, healthy, thriving. “Martha…” he spoke nothing else before he collapsed again. Martha dropped her basket and ran back to the house yelling, “Mary! Mary! Quick! Get help!”

“It’s been two days, Mary, still no sign of the fever breaking.” Martha said to Mary as she replaced the cold rag on his head. “Send for Him.” She commanded her sister. “He is many days away…what if He doesn’t make it in time? Are we going to lose him, Martha?” Mary replied, tears spilling over her cheeks. Martha repeated with urgency “Send for Jesus, Mary! He’s Lazarus’s only chance now.” Mary left the room hastily; sending word by one of the servants to find Jesus and tell him that his friend Lazarus is dying. “Please, you must be quick. There is no time to waste.” Mary said. “It’s done Martha, word is being sent.” Mary said as she went back to the room of her dying hope. “You hear that Laz?” Martha whispered to her brother “Jesus is coming. He’s going to take care of you.” Lazarus managed a weak smile as he mumbled incoherently. Martha and Mary looked at each other as Lazarus went unconscious. “What are we going to do Martha?” Mary asked. Martha placed the back of her hand across his forehead. “His temperature is up. I don’t know how much more his body can take.”

Another day passed. The harvest was now long forgotten. Morning crept slowly into the windows of their house. Martha walked into the kitchen where Mary was preparing breakfast. She held sweat soaked bedding. “I keep thinking his fever is breaking but as soon as it does, it comes right back.” Mary took the bedding, placed it in a basket and took her sister’s hands. “Martha, did you not sleep at all?” Mary asked. “How can I? He has to make it. He has to.” Martha quickly gathered fresh bedding and turned to go back to Lazarus’s room. Mary caught her arm as she rushed by “You need rest too, Martha. You can’t continue on like this. Please go try to sleep some. I will watch over him.” Martha shook her head, tears filling her eyes. She tried to blink them back. She had to be strong. “Only for a moment. But you must promise to wake me if anything changes.” Martha turned to go to her room. She was asleep almost as soon as her head lay on her pillow.

Terrible memories flooded her dreams. Her father had been the first to go. Weeks went by with their mother trying to nurse him back to health. Doctors were called in, each giving a different diagnosis but each giving the same result…he wouldn’t make it. “Another, please.” Her mother said to her, handing her the bowl with the mix of spices, herbs, and a special healing oil she used to ease her father’s pain. She rushed out of the room and began making another bowl of medicine. Her father began another coughing fit, his body desperately trying to expel the virus within. She made it to the kitchen and poured vial after vial in the bowl. She ground herbs, crushed spices and reached for the final part. The healing oil. “Martha!!!” Her mother cried out over the terrible sound ripping through her father. “Im coming! It’s almost done!” She tipped the flask of healing oil out. Nothing happened. Not a drop left the flask. Impossible. Again she tipped it. Still nothing. She looked in the flask. It was perfectly full. “Come on. Come on.” She pleaded. “It won’t work without it.” She tipped it over again with no result. Martha screamed as she broke the vial to retrieve the contents. Carefully trying to carefully to tip the contents out…still, nothing happened. The bowl remained as empty as ever… There was sudden silence. Then, a horrible sound she would never forget. “No! No, my love!” Her mother screamed. “Martha! Martha quickly!” Martha couldn’t move. Her feet were stuck where they were. “Im coming!” She yelled back with tears of panic streaming down her face. “Quickly! Quickly!….”

“Quickly! Martha, Please!” Mary urged as she tried to wake her sister. Martha sat up out realizing it was all a nightmare, but she was about to walk into another. “It’s Lazarus, Martha…”Before Mary could finish her sentence Martha was out of the bed and almost to Lazarus’s room. She felt the cold chill of death with each ragged breath her brother made reminding her with every sound of the moments before her father passed. Suddenly, an idea came to her. “Help me get him up Mary.” She said. “What? Why?” Mary asked. Martha was grabbing blankets and cushions as quickly as the words that were coming out of her mouth. “We’re going to the door. I want Lazarus to watch with me.” Mary was confused and alarmed at her sister’s haste. “I want him to see Jesus coming to save him.”

Minutes later, a makeshift bed was set by the door. Martha sat behind her brother, his limp body reclined against her. “Try to breathe with me, Laz. You’re gonna be ok. He’s gonna come.” Lazarus gasped desperately, trying to fill his lungs with air that wouldn’t come. Hours passed. Another sun set casting the same orange and yellow beams across Martha’s face. Lazarus was asleep, his breathing unsteady and raspy. Martha whispered quietly to her sister, “Why hasn’t he come yet? We sent word days ago.” She was careful to not allow her brother to hear her, even in sleep. He couldn’t think he had been abandoned by his dearest friend. “I don’t know.” Mary’s voice cracked. “I don’t know what’s going to happen and I’m so scared Martha.”

One by one the starts lit up the night sky. Mary had fallen asleep on the floor next to where Martha held her brother. She fought sleep but refused to give in. She quoted the scriptures read to her by her own father. Scriptures of hope and peace. Stories filled her mind of all the times God saved her people. Surely he would do it again. God was here. God was man. God was Jesus. God would come. All night long she waited and watched. She perked up at every sound. Hope flooded her every time she saw the disturbance of the dust on the road. It would be any moment now. It would have to be. There had been more than enough time for Him to arrive. The chirp of a bird alerted her to the start of another day. The sun had not peaked the horizon yet, but the sky began to lighten ever so slightly. She thought it safe to rest her head for a moment on the door frame as Mary would soon be awake. As her eyes closed Lazarus woke. “Sisters…” he croaked out. “Mary! Mary! Wake up!” Martha shouted. His fever was sky high, his breath coming in short ragged gasps. “Sis…ters…help.” Martha cried, her eyes flowing with tears. “We’re right here Laz. Right here.” Martha said as she laid him on the cushions to retrieve another cold rag. “We’re not leaving you. Jesus is almost here. He’s almost here Lazarus.” Mary said as she held his scalding hot hand. He turned his face to the road just as Martha returned. His eyes were set on the horizon. Martha knew he was looking for Jesus. “You see that hill? He’s coming right over it.” A rattle ripped through his chest as he went limp. “No Laz, no, no. He’s coming! Hold on a little longer! He’s coming! Please!” Lazarus turned his head to his sisters, lifted a weak hand to them, and breathed his last.

Visitors, mourners, and friends filled the small house. The funeral long over. Lazarus buried in the family tomb. Mary thanked and hosted person after person. She looked out of the window at her sister standing alone in the distance gazing down the road.

Dust covered Martha’s tear streaked face. Her eyes swollen and red. Martha turned her face to the sun and shaking screamed at the sky. “WHY DIDN’T YOU COME?! WHERE ARE YOU!?” No sooner had the words left her mouth, she saw it. A small group, silhouetted on the horizon, and led by what was their only hope. Jesus. He was too late. It was done. They sent word for him. And He didn’t come. Lazarus, her brother, was gone, and there was no coming back from the dead. It shouldn’t have happened like this. He was supposed to come. It was as if her legs moved without her control. She began to run. Anger, doubt, frustration, and hurt fueling each step. She was still several feet away when the pain urging her run began to pour out of her mouth. “Lord! If you had been here!” She closed the gap in a few more strides. “If you would have been here, my brother would not have died.” She said nothing else. Only fell into Jesus’s chest weeping. He placed a hand on her head, with it, the smallest spark of hope lit within her again. It had never been done. No one could come back from the dead….But he was Jesus. God’s son. God made into flesh. And Jesus could do anything. Martha raised her head, and looked hope in the eyes. “But even now, I know that God will give you whatever you ask.”

It was all Jesus needed. Not a fire. Not even a flame. A spark. A spark of faith was enough for her to see what few had ever seen. The tiniest mustard seed sized faith, and Martha changed the course of her family forever. “Where have you put him.” Jesus asked.  Moments later, Martha, Mary, and the disciples stood in front of the tomb. It’s shadow casting a dark gloom over all of them. Jesus himself wept and mourned with them, the loss of his friend. And though he knew it was not the end for Lazarus, he still felt the sting of grief out of his abundance of love. Jesus looked at his disciples, “Roll the stone aside.”

What was he thinking? Was he trying to pay his respects in this way? It was forbidden to touch death. He would be unclean. Martha quickly rushed forward to stop them. She had seen death once with her father, twice with her mother, three times with Lazarus, and she desperately didn’t want to see it again. “Lord, please, he has been dead for four days. The smell will be terrible.” Jesus stepped toward her with his hands extended. She placed her trembling hands into his. “Didn’t I tell you that you would see God’s glory if you believe?”

It couldn’t be. It was impossible. “Father!” Jesus cried with a loud voice. “Thank you for always hearing me. You always hear me, but I say it outlaid for the sake of all these people. So they will know you have sent me.” Jesus turned his eyes to the tomb. The shadow across it seeming to inch away with each unbearably passing second. For a moment, Martha felt as if all of creation itself held its breath. “Lazarus! Come out.” The silence was tangible. The air thick with fear, uncertainty, hope, grief, and the smallest drop of faith.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Impossible.” Mary whispered behind her sister. The sound grew louder.

Thud. Thud.

Into the light, hopped the grave clothes wrapped body of their brother. It couldn’t have happened. It’s a dream. It can’t be real. A smile spread across Jesus’s face as he gave his final command to them. “Unwrap him and let him go.” All of those present rushed forward. They tore off the face covering, the bindings, the perfumed cloth and there, standing before them, the picture of health, stood Lazarus.

“Martha? Mary? He said as he took in the faces of his sisters.” At once, as if an eruption had occurred, cheers, screams, and shouts of joy tore through the air. “I don’t think we finished gathering the harvest.” Lazarus said looking down at his sisters clinging to him. They laughed as they replied, “No, we didn’t.”

A year came and went. Before they knew it, they were collecting the fruits of another year’s blessing. Martha bent to her basket, eager for the meal Mary was preparing. She looked into the distance and saw Lazarus silhouetted against that same horizon. A group had gathered around him. They came almost daily to hear the story. He was sick, but now he is whole. He was bound, but now he was free. He was dead, but now he is alive.

It was impossible. Absolutely impossible. Until Jesus decided to change what was possible.