If you had been here…Presence is everything!
Bring your authentic self to Jesus.
They always identify our scripture as the raising of Lazarus. I get it. Flashy miracle. But for me, the heart of the story is the confrontation between the sisters and Jesus. Maybe we should call it: The day Mary and Martha let Jesus have it.
When their brother fell ill, they begged Jesus to come. He delayed. Why? They didn’t get it. Lazarus was one of Jesus’ closest friends. Besties. When he arrives, Lazarus is in a tomb.
Martha confronts him first. She is angry, raw. “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
Soon afterwards, he finds Mary. She says the same thing, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
I love that neither sister held back. Maybe the first message to us is: Whatever it is, whatever is on your heart, you can take it to Jesus. He’s been yelled at before. He can take it.
It’s an invitation to bring your real self, even if you are ticked off or overwhelmed. You don’t have to pretty it up with religious language or pretend not to feel horrible. You can bring it to him.
If you had been here. . .
Maybe you’ve been in a situation like Mary and Martha’s.
Lord, if you had been here, if you had cared, if you had been real, that accident would not have happened, that test would have come back negative, I wouldn’t have gotten fired, my loved one would still be here. Lord, if you had been here, my life would be better.
The second message of this story is that our faith is not a charm against tragedy and heartache. It’s not some magic that says, if you just believe right and keep your nose clean, you’ll be immune from tragedy. It’s a hard pill to swallow. And it’s why so many people give up on faith.
And that’s too bad. The message isn’t so much that bad things won’t happen to good people, it’s that Jesus comes to be with us in the midst of it.
A presence in times of trouble.
Remember the 23rd Psalm? “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, Thou art with me.” God shows up in our grief.
Jesus shows up for Mary and Martha in their hour of grief and anger. He is so moved that he wept.
It’s remarkable. He wept. It might have said Jesus chastised them, or Jesus threw some cliché at them, like “He’s in a better place or God won’t give you more than you can handle.”
Jesus comes to be with us and weeps with us when life deals us bad news. Jesus weeps with everyone who suffers. Jesus weeps over the loss of life and displacement because of war, illness, and death. He models empathy and compassion.
A ministry of presence.
When I was just a few weeks out of seminary, serving a small rural church, I got a call I wasn’t ready for. A family I hadn’t even met, yet had just learned that their adult son had taken his own life. “Could you come over, pastor?” I hung up the phone and sat there for a moment, instantly regretting my decision to become a minister. What was I supposed to do? What could I say? What did they expect from me?
On the drive over, I ran through everything I could remember from my pastoral care classes. I had notebooks full of theory. I knew the stages of grief. I knew what not to say — no “he’s in a better place,” no “God has a plan.” But knowing what not to say is not the same as knowing what to say. By the time I pulled into their driveway, I had nothing but an ache in my gut.
I didn’t know anyone in the house. Just family. It was quiet. Grief like that has a texture — it’s thick, almost physical, like trying to move through something that doesn’t want to let you pass. I shook hands. I hugged someone. I sat down. And I waited for the right words to come.
They didn’t. But they didn’t want words that could make it somehow better, but a presence. You call a pastor when you want a reminder of God’s presence and a representation of the church’s care.
Jesus wept. This story of how Jesus walked into the home of people who were furious and shattered, and he didn’t fix it or explain it. He felt it with them. That was the whole thing.
So that’s what I did. I stayed. I let it be as bad as it was. Word had gotten out. A steady stream of church folks appeared at the doorstep. Hugs. Head shakes. Food. Weeping with them.
Presence. It’s what we do. We show up, bringing God’s care with us. It seems so inadequate sometimes. But it’s not nothing. It makes all the difference in the world.
Simply showing up, or a hand on the shoulder, or a card, or a word of encouragement. They can be everything someone needs to take the next step forward.
Be okay with saying, “I don’t know.”
When Jesus is with Mary and Martha, he doesn’t explain why bad things happen. Maybe it’s good to let go of that impulse to make it an intellectual problem. I think much of the time, the best we can do is three words, “I don’t know.”
Jesus doesn’t give an explanation. He gives his presence and affirms that God is still working in their lives. And Martha, despite her anger, grief, and confusion, is able to say, “I believe you are the Messiah.” Sometimes the best we can do is lean into a faith that reminds us that God is good, still working to bring healing and new life even when the worst happens.
Take Jesus to “that place.”
Jesus asks them to take him to Lazarus’ tomb. Maybe he says to us:
Take me to that place.
Take me to the place you stopped hoping.
Take me to the place where you learned to go numb.
Take me to the place you dare not share with anyone else.
Jesus stands outside all those tombs and calls us by name. Come forth!
Maybe Jesus is calling us forth from our despair, from our fear of what others think, from our worst mistakes, or whatever binds us. Come forth from that belief that nothing new can happen.
An object lesson about new life.
Because we aren’t going to get our dead to rise again after a few days, the raising of Lazarus seems mostly to be an object lesson, symbolic, showing God is stronger than the powers of death. There is new life with God after death.
Although we are not going to get a miraculous reversal of tragedy we can be assured that whatever has happened is not the last chapter, the last move of God; there is something in your tomorrow that God is working on now. Leaning into faith in moments of loss is like pushing our foot on the accelerator; it helps us move forward.
With the help of loving people who bring God’s care with them, you are going to live through this. Love again. Breathe again. Have joy again. Give God time to work the rest of the story.
Being there.
Remember where we started. Martha, raw and furious, stands in front of Jesus and says: “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
Here’s the thing. He was there. Not when she wanted him. Not in the way she demanded. Or to prevent the worst from happening. But he was there — weeping with her, standing at the tomb with her, calling Lazarus by name. He was there.
And he is here. Not as a charm against tragedy. Or as a guarantee of the flashy miracle. But as the one who shows up — in a hand on the shoulder, a phone call, in someone who drives across town just to sit with you in the fog.
That’s the presence that changes everything. That’s the presence that says: this is not the last chapter. That’s the presence that removes what binds us.
Martha said, “If you had been here.” And the gospel’s answer — the answer this story has been building toward all along — is: He was. He is. He will be.
You do not walk alone. This is not the end. Amen.