Homily 62 — John 11, verses 1 to 29

“Now a certain man was sick, named Lazarus, of Bethany, the town of Mary and her sister Martha. It was that Mary who anointed the Lord with ointment.” [a]

Many people, when they see someone who is pleasing to God suffering something terrible — falling sick, for instance, or into poverty, or anything else of the kind — stumble. They do not know that to endure these things belongs especially to those who are dear to God. Lazarus, after all, was one of Christ’s friends, and he was sick. That, at any rate, is what those who sent the message said: “Look, the one you love is sick.”

But let us consider the passage from the beginning. “A certain man,” it says, “was sick, Lazarus of Bethany.” It is not without a reason or by chance that the writer has mentioned where Lazarus came from; he has a reason, which he will tell us later. For now let us keep to the passage in front of us. For our benefit he also tells us who Lazarus’s sisters were, and what Mary had beyond her sister, going on to say, “It was that Mary who anointed the Lord with ointment.”

Here some people raise a doubt and say: “How could the Lord allow a woman to do this?” First, then, we must understand that this is not the prostitute mentioned in Matthew (Matthew 26, verse 7), or the one in Luke (Luke 7, verse 37), but a different person. They were prostitutes, full of many vices; but she was a woman of dignity and zeal, for she showed her zeal in welcoming Christ as her guest. The evangelist also wants to show that the sisters loved him too, and yet he allowed Lazarus to die.

But why did they not do as the centurion and the royal official did — leave their sick brother and come to Christ themselves, instead of sending? They were very confident in Christ and felt a strong closeness to him. Besides, they were weak women, and weighed down with grief; and that they did not act this way because they thought little of him, they showed afterward. It is clear, then, that this Mary was not the prostitute.

Someone will ask: “But why did Christ receive that prostitute?” To take away her wrongdoing; to show his love for humankind; to teach you that there is no sickness that overpowers his goodness. So do not look only at the fact that he received her; consider the other point too — how he changed her.

But, to return: why does the evangelist tell us this story? Or rather, what does he want to show us by saying, in verse 5, “Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus”? That we should never be resentful or upset if sickness comes to good people who are dear to God.

Verse 3: “Look, the one you love is sick.” They wanted to move Christ to pity, for they still regarded him as a man. This is plain from what they say — “If you had been here, he would not have died” — and from their not saying, “Look, Lazarus is sick,” but, “Look, the one you love is sick.” What, then, did Christ say?

Verse 4: “This sickness does not lead to death, but is for the glory of God, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” Notice how he again declares that his glory and the Father’s are one. After saying “of God,” he has added, “so that the Son of God may be glorified.”

“This sickness does not lead to death.” Since he intended to stay two days where he was, he sends the messengers away for now with this answer. So we must admire Lazarus’s sisters. They had heard that the sickness did “not lead to death,” and yet they saw him dead; still they did not stumble, although the outcome had been the exact opposite. Even so they came to him, and did not think that he had spoken falsely.

The word “so that” in this passage signals not the cause but the result. The sickness came about from other causes, but he used it for the glory of God.

Verse 6: “And having said this, he stayed two days.” Why did he stay? So that Lazarus might breathe his last and be buried, and no one could claim that he had restored him before he was dead, calling it a stupor, a faint, a fit, but not death. That is why he stayed so long: so that decay would set in, and they would say, “By now he stinks.”

Verse 7: “Then he says to his disciples, ‘Let us go into Judea.’” Why does he tell them beforehand here, when in other places he never told them in advance where he was going? They had been badly frightened; and since they were in that state of mind, he warns them ahead of time, so that the suddenness would not trouble them. What, then, do the disciples say?

Verse 8: “The Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?” So they had been afraid for him too, but for the most part for themselves, since they were not yet mature. That is why Thomas, shaking with fear, said, “Let us go too, that we may die with him” (verse 16); for Thomas was weaker and more unbelieving than the rest. But see how Jesus encourages them by what he says.

Verse 9: “Are there not twelve hours in the day?” He is saying either this — “The one whose conscience accuses him of no evil will suffer nothing dreadful; only the one who does evil will suffer; so we need not fear, since we have done nothing that deserves death” — or else this: “The one who ‘sees the light of this world’ is safe; and if the one who sees the light of this world is safe, much more the one who is with me, as long as he does not cut himself off from me.” Having encouraged them with these words, he adds that the reason for going there was pressing, and shows them that they were about to go not to Jerusalem but to Bethany.

Verses 11 and 12: “Our friend Lazarus,” he says, “has fallen asleep, but I am going so that I may wake him out of sleep.” That is: “I am not going for the same purpose as before, to argue and contend with the Jews again, but to wake our friend.”

Verse 12: “Then his disciples said, ‘Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will get well.’” They did not say this without a reason; they wanted to prevent the journey there. One of them asks: “Are you saying that he is asleep? Then there is no pressing reason to go.” Yet this is the very reason he had said “our friend”: to show that going there was necessary. So, since they were somewhat reluctant, he said:

Verse 14: “He is dead.” He had spoken the first way because he wanted to show that he did not love boasting; but since they did not understand, he added, “He is dead.” [f]

Verse 15: “And I am glad for your sake.” Why “for your sake”? “Because I have told you of his death beforehand, without being there; and because when I raise him again, there will be no suspicion of deceit.” Do you see how the disciples were still immature in their disposition, and did not know his power as they should have? This came from the terrors that pressed in on them, troubling and unsettling their souls.

When he said, “He has fallen asleep,” he added, “I am going to wake him.” But when he said, “He is dead,” he did not add, “I am going to raise him.” He would not announce in words what he was about to establish beyond doubt by deeds. Everywhere he teaches us not to seek empty glory, and not to make promises without reason. And if he did make such a promise in the case of the centurion when he was called on — for he said, “I will come and heal him” (Matthew 8, verse 7) — he said it to bring the centurion’s faith to light.

If anyone asks, “How could the disciples imagine he meant sleep? How did they not understand from his saying, ‘I am going to wake him,’ that death was meant? It would have been foolish of them to expect him to go two miles just to wake a man,” we would answer that they took it for an obscure saying, of the kind he often spoke to them.

Now they were all afraid of attacks from the Jews, but Thomas more than the rest. That is why he said, in verse 16, “Let us go too, that we may die with him.”

Some say that he wanted to die himself, but that is not so; the words are rather those of cowardice. Yet he was not rebuked, because Christ was still bearing with his weakness. Afterward, though, he became stronger than all of them, and unconquerable. For this is the wonderful thing: that we see someone so weak before the crucifixion become, after the crucifixion and after he had believed in the resurrection, more zealous than anyone. So great was the power of Christ! The very man who did not dare to go with Christ to Bethany afterward, without seeing Christ, ran through almost the whole inhabited world, and lived among nations full of murder that wanted to kill him.

But if Bethany was about two miles away, how had Lazarus been “dead four days”? Jesus stayed two days. On the day before those two, someone had come with the message — the same day on which Lazarus died — and then, in the course of the fourth day, he arrived. He waited to be sent for, and did not come without being asked, so that no one would suspect what took place. Nor did the women he loved come themselves; others were sent.

Verse 18: “Now Bethany was about two miles away.” He does not mention this without reason. He wants to tell us that it was near, and that for this reason many people were likely to be there. So, having made this plain, he adds, in verse 19, “Many of the Jews came to comfort them.”

But how could they comfort women whom Christ loved, when they had agreed that anyone who confessed Christ would be put out of the synagogue? Either it was because the disaster was so grievous, or because they respected the sisters as women of high birth; or else those who came were not of the wicked sort — at any rate, many even of them believed. The evangelist mentions these details to prove that Lazarus was really dead.

But why did Martha not take her sister with her when she went out to meet Christ? She wanted to meet him alone and tell him what had happened. But once he had brought her to good hope, she went and called Mary, who met him while her grief was still at its height. Do you see how fervent her love was? This is the Mary of whom he said, “Mary has chosen the good part” (Luke 10, verse 42). [i]

Someone asks: “How is it, then, that Martha seems the more zealous?” She was not more zealous. It was because the other had not yet been told; Martha was in fact the weaker. Even after she had heard such things from Christ, she still speaks in a low, earthbound way: “By now he stinks, for he has been dead four days” (verse 39). But Mary, though she had heard nothing, said nothing of the kind; believing at once, she says, in verse 21, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

See how great the heavenly wisdom of these women is, even though their understanding is weak. When they saw Christ, they did not break out into mourning and wailing and loud crying, as we do when we see someone we know coming in on our grief; at once they show reverence to their Teacher. So both these sisters believed in Christ, but not in the right way. They did not yet know for certain either that he was God, or that he did these things by his own power and authority; and on both points he taught them. They showed that they did not know the first by saying, “If you had been here, our brother would not have died”; and the second by saying, in verse 22, “Whatever you ask of God, he will give you” — as though they were speaking of some virtuous and approved mortal. But see what Christ says.

Verse 23: “Your brother will rise again.” So far he corrects her earlier words, “Whatever you ask.” For he did not say, “I will ask,” but what? “Your brother will rise again.” To have said, “Woman, you are still looking downward; I need no one else’s help, but do everything myself,” would have been hard for her, and a stumbling block in her way. But to say, “He will rise again,” was the act of someone choosing a middle way of speaking. And by what follows he hinted at the points I have mentioned. For when Martha says, in verse 24, “I know that he will rise again at the last day,” he answers, to show his authority more clearly, in verse 25: “I am the resurrection and the life.”

He shows that he needs no one else to help him, if he himself is the life. If he needed another, how could he be “the resurrection and the life”? Yet he did not state this openly; he only hinted at it. And when she says again, “Whatever you ask,” he answers, “Whoever believes in me, though he were dead, yet he will live” — showing that he is the Giver of good things, and that it is from him we must ask.

Verse 26: “And whoever lives and believes in me will never die.” Notice how he leads her mind upward. Raising Lazarus was not the only thing in view; she and those with her had to learn about the resurrection. That is why, before raising the dead man, he teaches heavenly wisdom in words. But if he is “the resurrection” and “the life,” he is not confined to a place; present everywhere, he knows how to heal. So if they had said, as the centurion did, “Speak the word, and my servant will be healed” (Matthew 8, verse 8), he would have done it. But since they called him to them and begged him to come, he stoops down to meet them, to lift them out of the low opinion they had formed of him, and comes to the place. Yet even while stooping to them, he showed that he had the power to heal even when absent. That is also why he delayed: the mercy would not have been plain the moment it was given, unless there had first been the stench of the corpse.

But how did the woman know that there was to be a resurrection? They had heard Christ say many things about the resurrection; and yet she still wanted to see him now. And notice how she still lingers down below. Even after hearing, “I am the resurrection and the life,” she did not say, “Raise him,” but, in verse 27, “I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God.”

What is Christ’s reply? “Whoever believes in me, though he were dead, yet he will live” — speaking here of this death that is common to all. “And whoever lives and believes in me will never die” (verse 26) — meaning that other death. “Since, then, I am the resurrection and the life, do not be troubled, though your brother is already dead. Believe, for this is not death.” For the moment he comforted her about what had happened, and gave her glimpses of hope by saying, “He will rise again,” and, “I am the resurrection”; and he showed that once Lazarus had risen again, even if he should die again, he would suffer no harm, so that there is no need to fear this death. What he says amounts to this: “Neither is this man dead, nor will you die.”

“Do you believe this?” She says, “I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God” — “who was to come into the world.”

The woman does not seem to me to understand the saying. She was aware that it was something great, but she did not grasp the whole meaning, so that when she was asked one thing, she answered another. Yet for the time being she gained this much at least: she moderated her grief. Such was the power of Christ’s words. That is why Martha went out first, and Mary followed. For their affection for their Teacher did not let them feel their present sorrow strongly; so the minds of these women were truly wise as well as loving.

But in our day, among our other evils, there is one sickness very common among our women. They make a great show in their dirges and wailings: baring their arms, tearing their hair, scratching furrows down their cheeks. Some do it from grief, others from ostentation and rivalry, others from loose living; and they bare their arms, and that in the sight of men. [k]

What are you doing, woman? Tell me: do you strip yourself indecently in the middle of the marketplace, with men present — you, a member of Christ? Do you tear your hair, and rip your clothes, and wail loudly, and join in the dancing, and look all the while like the women of Bacchus — and do you not think you are offending God? What madness is this? Will the pagans not laugh? Will they not think our teachings are myths? They will say: “There is no resurrection. The teachings of the Christians are mockery, trickery and fabrication. Their women lament as though there were nothing after this world; they pay no attention to the words written in their books. All those words are fictions, and these women show that they are. If they had believed that the one who has died is not dead but has moved on to a better life, they would not mourn him as someone who no longer exists; they would not beat themselves like this; they would not say such words as these, so full of unbelief: ‘I will never see you again; I will never have you back.’ Their whole religion is a myth. And if the very greatest of their good things is so completely disbelieved among them, how much more the other things they revere!”

The pagans are not so womanish; many of them have practiced heavenly wisdom. One woman, hearing that her child had fallen in battle, at once asked, “And how do things stand with the city?” Another, a truly wise man, was wearing a garland when he heard that his son had fallen for his country. He took off the garland and asked which of the two it was; then, when he had learned which, he immediately put the garland back on. Many also gave their sons and their daughters to be slaughtered in honor of their evil gods; and Spartan women urge their sons either to bring their shields back safe from war, or to be brought back dead upon them.

That is why I am ashamed: the pagans show true wisdom in these matters, and we behave disgracefully. Those who know nothing of the resurrection play the part of those who know; and those who know play the part of those who do not. Often, too, many people do out of shame before others what they will not do for God’s sake. For women of the upper class neither tear their hair nor bare their arms — and this very thing is a most serious charge against them. Not because they do not strip themselves, but because they act as they do not out of reverence for God, but so as not to be thought to disgrace themselves. Is their shame stronger than their grief, and the fear of God not stronger? Does this not deserve the severest blame?

What rich women do because of their wealth, the poor ought to do out of the fear of God. But as things are, it is quite the reverse: the rich behave wisely out of empty glory, and the poor, out of smallness of soul, behave disgracefully. What could be worse than this upside-down state of things? We do everything for people, everything for the things of earth. And the words these people say are full of madness and invite a great deal of ridicule.

The Lord does say, “Blessed are those who mourn” (Matthew 5, verse 4); but he is speaking of those who mourn for their sins. And no one mourns with that kind of mourning, or cares for a lost soul. The other kind we were not told to practice, and we practice it.

Someone asks: “What then? Is it possible, being human, not to weep?” No — nor do I forbid weeping. What I forbid is beating yourselves, and weeping without measure. I am not harsh or cruel. I know that our nature asks and looks for its friends and daily companions; it cannot help grieving. Christ showed as much, for he wept over Lazarus. So do the same: weep, but gently, but decently, but with the fear of God. If you weep like that, you are not weeping as one who disbelieves the resurrection, but as one who cannot bear the separation. For we weep even over those who are leaving us and setting off for foreign lands, yet we do not do it in despair.

So weep in that way, as if you were sending someone off on his way to another land. I say this not as laying down a rule, but stooping down to meet human weakness. For if the one who has died was a sinner, someone who offended God in many things, there is reason to weep — or rather, not only to weep, since that does him no good, but to do what one can to win him some comfort by almsgiving and offerings. But there is reason also to rejoice at this: that his wickedness has been cut short. If he was righteous, there is again reason to be glad, that what is his is now in safe keeping, free from the uncertainty of the future; if he was young, that he has been quickly set free from the evils common to life; if old, that he has departed after having his fill of what people count desirable. [n]

But you, neglecting to think about these things, urge your maidservants on to act as mourners, as though, supposedly, you were honoring the dead — when it is the greatest dishonor. For honor to the dead is not wailing and lamenting, but hymns and the singing of psalms and an excellent life. When the good man departs, he will depart with angels, though no one is near his remains; but the corrupt man, though he has a whole city escorting his funeral, will gain nothing from it. Do you want to honor the one who has gone? Honor him another way: by almsgiving, by acts of kindness and public service. What good do all these lamentations do?

I have also heard of another grievous thing: that many women attract lovers by their mournful cries, winning by the fervor of their wailing a reputation for devotion to their husbands. What a devilish scheme! What a satanic invention! How long will we be nothing but dust and ashes, nothing but blood and flesh? Let us look up to heaven; let us think about spiritual things. How will we be able to rebuke the pagans, how to urge them on, when we do such things? How will we argue with them about the resurrection? How about the rest of our heavenly wisdom? How will we ourselves live without fear?

Do you not know that grief brings death? Grief darkens the seeing part of the soul; it not only keeps the soul from perceiving anything it ought, but also does it great harm. So in the one way we offend God and do no good either to ourselves or to the one who has gone; in the other we please God and win honor among people. If we do not sink down ourselves, he will soon remove what remains of our dejection; if we are resentful, he lets us be handed over to grief. If we are thankful, we will not be dejected.

Someone asks: “But how is it possible not to grieve, when one has lost a son or a daughter or a wife?” I do not say, “Do not grieve,” but, “Do not grieve without measure.” For if we consider that it is God who has taken them, and that the husband or son we had was mortal, we will soon be comforted. Resentment belongs to those who look for something higher than their nature. You were born human, and mortal. Why, then, do you grieve that what is natural has happened? Do you grieve that you are kept alive by eating? Do you want to live without it? Think the same way about death: being mortal, do not look for immortality yet. This has been appointed once and for all. So do not grieve, and do not put on a show of mourning; submit to the laws laid on everyone alike.

Grieve for your sins. That is good mourning; that is the highest wisdom. So let us mourn for this reason continually, that we may obtain the joy that is there, through the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.