Sermon, Sun 25 Feb: Wk4 Ps23 - 'Walking through the valley'

READINGS: Ps 23; John 11:1-4; 17-29 and John 11:30-44

SERMON
Let’s pray: may the words of my mouth and the thoughts of all our hearts, be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our strength and our redeemer. Amen

‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; 
your rod and your staff, they comfort me.’

They were a tight unit.
The two sisters, and their brother.
No parents, or grandparents.
Just these three –
sharing their resources,
caring for one another,
occasionally falling out with one another,
but always, always, loving one another.
The brother was the man of the house –
representing their interests in the wider community.
The sisters too, had their distinct roles in the scheme of things:
one was the practical planner –
keeping them all organised,
keeping everything running smoothly and well;
the other sister was the listener,
the storyteller,
the calm centre.
Just as a three-legged stool is the most stable,
so the three of them, for the most part,
were a harmonious balancing act,
working together for the good of all.

But the brother became ill.
Seriously ill.
And so, the sisters tended him,
tried to nurse him back to health,
couldn’t bear to think of life without him,
and, hoping for a miracle, had sent a message to a friend
who seemed the sort to be able to fix things –
make things better...
make...people better.
But the friend was delayed.
Their brother died,
and their whole world was thrown off-kilter.

In the immediate aftermath, they were kept busy with the sheer practicalities:
preparing his body –
that one last act of tenderness that they could offer to their brother,
and the funeral and burial needed arranging.
Their house filled with friends and neighbours saying a mix of helpful and unhelpful things:
‘He was so kind: maybe God needed another angel.’
But what kind of God would take their brother
away from them, when they needed him...when they loved him so?
‘Well, perhaps it was just his time.’
Well, maybe it was, but the observation gave no comfort.
So many words swirled around them.
All they really wanted was a friend not afraid to just sit,
just be,
just be with them and perhaps hold a hand...
not rush to fill the awkward, gaping silence
that mirrored the gaping emptiness
where their brother had been.

Death is always awkward.
And though they loved God,
it was hard to feel God’s love in this valley of shadows that they walked in.
And why didn’t their friend come?
So many emotions.
But then, too, not able to feel anything at all.
Wanting to hide away under the duvet;
or wanting to just keep busy, keep occupied.
And a sense of aching tiredness that sucked the life out of them.
What was the right way to grieve?
Nobody teaches you that:
but if you can’t cry on cue, you’re heartless;
and if you weep heartfelt tears, you’re overdoing it.
But grief has no rules –
even though some think that there’s a check list.

The sisters buried their brother,
commended him to God,
went back to the house
where his voice was now silent,
where his seat was now empty.
The practical sister began the business of tidying his life away –
cupboards needed cleared.
The listening sister heard the sighs as clothes were put into bags,
observed a pair of sandals kept back and a set of clothes –
in case he needed them...
but, he wouldn’t, of course.
And, in the evenings, she told stories of their brother –
remembering,
bringing him back to life in mind’s-eye, and in their hearts.
Shared conversations,
shared silence, over wine.
And questions.
Why hadn’t their friend come?
If only he had, surely...
surely all of them, brother included, would be sitting together, laughing, and telling stories?

The days pass slowly.
Dreary, drab, hard days.
People, still coming and going:
bringing food, trying to show care and kindness.
It’s on the fourth day after the burial,
when news comes:
their friend is on the way.
And the practical sister,
the one who keeps herself ever-busy,
leaves the house to meet him on the road.
Others are there:
there are always so many others around whenever he’s around.
Her eyes, meeting his,
with a greeting more in the way of hurt rebuke:
‘If you’d have been here, he wouldn’t have died.’
And even in the grief and sadness, words of hope:
‘But even now, God will give you whatever you ask.’
Maybe?
Perhaps?
But what is it that she’s asking for,
what is it that she’s hoping will happen?
Healing?
That particular door’s been firmly bolted –
or, at least, the stone’s been rolled across the tomb.
The comment is there,
just as her brother’s shoes are still there in the mostly empty cupboard.
You can’t beat death.
And then, this much-delayed friend offers words of comfort:
‘Your brother will rise again.’
In her head, she understands this –
it’s part of the way she’s lived her faith, and she trots out the usual formula:
‘he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.’
Fine.
But so...abstract.
Distant.
It’s not as if he’s coming back now.
She wants, needs, something a little more concrete,
a little more...real than theological statements.

Death is ...awkward.
Faith is hard.
And then, this friend speaks once more:
‘I...am the resurrection and the life...whoever lives and believes in me will never die.
Do you believe this?’
And she does.
But she wants to go and find her sister:
she’s much better at dealing with all this philosophical stuff.
The other sister comes out to meet him;
again the words are said:
‘If you’d have been here, he wouldn’t have died.’
She’s tearful.
And he’s moved to tears.
He, too. misses his friend, and hurts for the sisters:
they’ve been like family to him.
They go to the tomb and he asks for the stone to be moved.
The ever-practical sister points out the pitfalls of this idea.
‘Believe, and see the glory of God,’ he replies.
He prays.
All around, the people look on, wondering what he’s up to.
The sisters stand beside him,
watching, waiting, puzzled, oddly hopeful:
but not sure of what they hope for.
He calls out to his friend:
‘Lazarus, come out!’
And so it happens, that on this day, death doesn’t have the last word,
for there, in the valley of the shadow of death,
Jesus, the Good Shepherd, calls forth life:
shows, in this extraordinary act, God’s power over death itself;
shows the promise that there is more to life than just death –
shows that while we will all die,
we’re not born to die –
we’re born to live;
and we’re reborn into eternity.

This story is not about a corpse, it’s about life.
It’s about promise:
God’s promise to us that death is not the end of everything,
although it can be bitter, and hard, and painful.
It’s about presence:
God’s presence with us
even in the midst of evil
of darkness,
...of death...
of that rod and staff guiding us even in the darkest of valleys –
and of God, not leaving us there,
but leading us through and out the other side of it,
even though at times it’s so hard to feel his presence with us.
Yet, God is faithful:
regardless of what we feel, God walks with us.
And, this story is about learning to live –
even here, and even now, on this side of death,
not just looking to eternity and the promise of what’s to come –
but thinking of what it is to live as those who understand
that even now, the kingdom is among us;
that even now, we are called
out of the tombs of worldly expectations and pressures and life-limiting definitions,
and called to live fully, truly.
Not to live with our lives on hold, waiting for eternity,
but rather, to live our lives holding out the promise of life to those around us,
and the promise and comfort of God’s presence.

At the beginning of this series on Psalm 23,
I said that the psalm was written as a response to a crisis in the life of the psalmist.
Most of the time when we hear this psalm being read, we’re probably at a funeral –
very probably, because the writer acknowledges the hard stuff:
there’s no denial of it.
But the psalm, like the story of Lazarus,
is not about the corpse, 
is not about the dark valley:
it’s about the God who is with us and brings us through.

There’s a song by the Eurythmics –
which just goes to show my age –
and it has the lyrics:
‘dying is easy, it’s living that’s hard.’
Facing death is part of being human — we can’t change that.
Being human has its share of good and bad — and we don’t deny that, either.
And yet, within this present life we live,
what we do affirm is that we already have the hope of eternal joy.
How do we live this life we’ve been given,
and make space to look, and to listen for, God’s presence of life within us,
and, in the life of the world?

Jesus calls us to come out into the light of God’s glory,
and to live into his joy –
it’s not a light and fluffy, happy-clappy,
‘stick your fingers in your ears and pretend the tough stuff isn’t there’ kind of thing...
but a joy that goes deep into the core of our very being,
that’s true, real,
and that sustains us in the valleys or on the mountain-tops,
as we make our way in this world
and walk toward the next.
It’s why:
‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, 
I will fear no evil, for you are with me; 
your rod and your staff, they comfort me.’

I’ve often wondered about Lazarus:
about what happened next.
When faced with the opportunity to live,
what did he do?
When faced with the opportunity to live,
what will we do, I wonder?

Let’s pray:
God our Shepherd,
God of all consolation and compassion,
just as your Son comforted Marth and Mary,
so your rod and staff comfort us...
your breath alone brings life
to dry bones and weary souls.
Pour out your Spirit upon us,
that we may face despair and death
with the hope of resurrection
and faith in the One
who called Lazarus forth from the grave. Amen