Peace be With You!

The doors were locked. Because they were afraid. And let’s admit it. We know the feeling. When life so frightens us that we hide under the covers, or double bolt the door, or like a three year old close our eyes and make believe nobody is there any more.

But, you know, somehow the storms of life seep in nonetheless, under the covers, under the door even peeking through our clenched shut eyes, the harsh realities of life have a way of still seeping in. But so does the Christ. Even though the doors were locked for fear of the Jews, “Jesus came and stood in their midst and said to them, "Peace be with you.”

Everyone’s s afraid sometimes. Fear, the scientist would tell us, is a primitive physiological phenomenon involving the release of massive amounts of adrenaline, which hits the amygdala and overrides rational thoughts. Stephen King puts it a little more simply, calling it “the emotion that makes us blind.” He goes on:

How many things are we afraid of? We’re afraid to turn off the lights when our hands are wet. We’re afraid to stick a knife into the toaster to get the stuck English muffin without unplugging it first. We’re afraid of what the doctor may tell us when the physical exam is over; when the airplane suddenly takes a great unearthly lurch in midair. We’re afraid that the oil may run out, that the good air will run out, the good water, the good life. When the daughter promised to be in by eleven and it’s now quarter past twelve and sleet is spatting against the window like dry sand, we sit and pretend to watch the Tonite Show and look occasionally at the mute telephone and we feel the emotion that makes us blind, the emotion that makes a stealthy ruin of the thinking process. (Stephen King, Night Shift, 1978).

And, of course, he reminds us, we know how to save ourselves from fear:

At night, when I go to bed, I still am at pains to be sure that my legs are under the blankets after the lights go out. I'm not a child anymore but... I don't like to sleep with one leg sticking out. Because if a cool hand ever reached out from under the bed and grasped my ankle, I might scream. Yes, I might scream to wake the dead. That sort of thing doesn't happen, of course, and we all know that….The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn't real. I know that, and I also know that if I'm careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle (Stephen King, Night Shift, 1978).

And if we’re not careful, fear can take over our lives. We can become just a bundle of nerves, desperate to escape everything that could go wrong.

That’s why the Lord’s Prayer we pray at Mass goes on longer than the one we pray at all times. Perhaps you’ve noticed it: how the last four words of the Our Father “deliver us from evil” are extended by the Priest in a prayer we call “the embolism.”

“Deliver us, Lord,” he begins, “from every evil.” And he continues: “graciously grant peace in our days” Grant peace. Deliver us from evil and give us peace. Deliver us from the threat of death which prowls the streets of Jerusalem following the crucifixion of Jesus. The evil from which the disciples sought to protect themselves from by locking the door to the upper room. Deliver us from evil. Grant us peace. But this peace is not just the absence of evil.  For, the prayer goes on, we seek deliverance “from all distress.” Distress.

Distress is translated from the Latin word perturbatione, very close to the Spanish perturbación. But what kind of distress are we talking about here?

Maybe one of the best hints is found in the story of the Resurrection of Lazarus, which we read just a few weeks ago. Do you remember when Jesus goes to the grave of Lazarus and weeps? Well, just a verse before he weeps, Jesus is standing there gazing at the fresh grave of his friend and we are told he was “deeply moved: (Cf. John 11:33). The Latin word here is turbavit, and its the same root from which we get “turbine” or “perturbed.” It is that deeply rooted upset, that chaotic psychological state during which nothing is certain and everything is churning around in desperation.

It’s a species of fear, manifested as an uneasiness of the spirit: a free-floating and desperate anxiety. At its deepest, it is the fear of death, annihilation and utter destruction.

And that’s where the disciples are today in the upper room. Locked into their fears, convinced that the only thing between them and a miserable death is the lock on the door.

But then Jesus stands in front of them, risen and glorious. “Peace be with you,” he says. Not the temporary and stingy peace the world gives, but the peace which has conquered all darkness and sin and even death itself. Let not your hearts be troubled or afraid. For I am with you, now and every day for the rest of your lives.

Such peace, found only in an encounter with the Risen Lord, flows from the depths of the one through whom we were made, who out of love for us in our littleness was made man, and who opened his arms on the altar of the Cross.

For he, the Prince of Peace, (Cf. Isaiah 9:6) is our peace, (Cf. Ephesians 2:14ff) my peace, your peace. He is the peace which utterly changes those who dwell in the light of his face and makes of them a new creation.

So, there’s nothing to be afraid of any more. No fear of being alone, or failing, or even of death. For even in our most desperate hours he is right there beside us, whispering into out hearts “Peace be with you.”

The Sacred Paschal Triduum 2019

Lessons from the Heart of a Good Priest

I gave this homily this evening at a Mass opening the veneration of the heart of Saint John Vianney here at the Cathedral.

 
  
Day after day this crippled man was carried to the the “the Beautiful Gate,” where he would beg money from everyone coming to pray. And when Peter and John came by, he expected to get something, but not what he got. He wanted a twenty money, but they gave him Jesus.

When the two disciples were walking from Jerusalem to Emmaus they encountered a stranger along the way. They expected to get a sympathetic ear, but not what they got. They got Jesus.

And each time people go looking for a Priest, they expect to get something. And what do they get?

Hopefully they get Jesus, for it is from the hands of the Priest that the Church receives Christ’s own Body and Blood. “How great is the priest!” the Curé once wrote. “If [the priest] but realized what he was, he would die…” (1)

The priest, he taught us, is “a Good Shepherd, a Pastor after God’s own heart…” (2) For “who put [Christ] there in the tabernacle? The Priest. Who welcomed your soul at the beginning of life? The Priest. Who feeds your soul and gives it strength for the journey? The Priest; and who will prepare your soul to appear before God…? The priest, ever the priest.” (3)

What a glorious description of who the Priest is.  Or rather, who the Priest is supposed to be.

For, sadly, in every generation, the Curé reminds us some Priests “grow tepid.”(4)

Sometimes, seeking the approval of the masses, they preach themselves and not Christ Jesus. Sometimes, unfaithful or neglectful of the flock, they abuse the very ones they have been called to nurture and protect.

Sometimes they have been corrupted by the world, blinded by the cataracts which have clouded their eyes of faith, eyes which on the day of ordination saw the Lord and his Church and his beloved people with such loving clarity:  On the day when, Chrism still wet on his hands, all he wanted to do was give his life to Christ and to his Church. But then, slowly, something happened, and now he no longer sees so clearly.

I like that analogy, if I do say so myself, as last fall I had cataracts quite literally removed from my eyes. The lenses in both of my eyes had slowly yellowed and calcified through the years, to the point where glasses could no longer compensate for my deteriorating vision. And, you know, it happened so slowly, that I was barely able to detect that I could no longer see as once I could.

The same happens in life, and even in the priesthood, as little compromises degrade our ability to see.  Priests, even priests, stop praying the Liturgy of the Hours, stop going to confession and stop spending time before the Blessed Sacrament. 

And before you know it, their hearts become calcified by the refusal to find the Lord in prayer, in the Mass or in the poor. His first pure love has become clouded by his desire for worldly gain, reputation, or comfort, until life becomes no longer about the giving of his heart, but compensation for past sacrifices and rewarding himself for how good he is.

Which is why, in every age, God, in his mercy, raises up prophetic voices to lead us out of the shadow of death and confusion into the light of his truth. Men like the pastor of Ars, whose heart we sit and pray before this night.

And, fortunate for us, the blessed little Curé offers us three prescriptions for every Priest who is tempted or who has lost his way. Three ways to remove cataracts that keep him from seeing with the same crystal clear vision which he knew so many years ago.

First, the Curé tells us: Teach Christ by being Christ for others. Be an alter Christus, imitate and reflect him in all that you do. For evangelization is always better accomplished by example than by even the most eloquent exhortation. Or, in the words of Pope Saint Paul VI, “modern man listens more willingly to witnesses than to teachers, and if he does listen to teachers, it is because they are witnesses.” (5)

Like the old priest I was fascinated by when I was a child.  I remember how every time he would come into Church before Mass, he would kneel in front of the tabernacle and put his head in his hands for a good long time. And I would wonder: what is he doing? and what is he saying to Jesus?  I marveled at the intimate relationship he seemed to have with God, and I knew, way down deep inside that I too wanted that same kind of relationship, that familiarity, that same kind of being in love with God.

Like the young Father Rueger, the new curate at Our Lady of Lourdes in Millbury. In second grade I can still remember my mother and father commenting on how earnest this young Priest was to be when he celebrated the Mass, and how happy he seemed whenever he would give out Holy Communion. And as I look back, I wonder whether maybe he had once read the Cure’s words: “How good it is for a priest each morning to offer himself to God in sacrifice!” (6)

And when he offered himself in Sacrifice, he became one with the great High Priest, who offered the perfect Sacrifice upon the Cross for our salvation, and when they looked at the new curate they saw Christ crucified out of love for them.  And that, in a post-revolutionary secularized French Society, is how John Vianney turned even empty confessionals into “great hospitals of souls." (7)

Secondly, the Curé tells us: Never take the credit.  All the credit belongs to God.  For it is neither the confessor nor the penitent who deserves the credit for getting someone to go to confession, “but God himself who runs after the sinner and makes him return to him.” (8) It is God who does the work, and we, often reluctantly and imperfectly, play our very small part.

Such a confessor, who knows that he is but the unworthy channel of God’s mercy, acts with humility, compassion and understanding.  He is the kind of confessor that makes it easy for every penitent to confess eagerly and without fear.  

Such a confessor calls the lukewarm and indifferent to authentic contrition by hjs own sorrow, for he demonstrates that he is one of them. “I weep,” (9) the Curé would tell penitents, “because you don’t weep.”  And he had but one recipe for being a good confessor: “I give sinners a small penance,” he says, “and the rest I do in their place.” (10)

Which leads us to the last lesson the Curé has for Priests today: Sacrifice yourselves for your flock the way Christ sacrificed himself for you.  “Souls have been won at the price of Jesus’ own blood,” he advises, “and a priest cannot devote himself to their salvation if he refuses to share personally in the precious cost of redemption.” (11)

Here too, I think of our beloved and recently departed brother, Bishop Rueger, who more than anything else is remembered as a good Priest. A good Priest who, upon receiving a gift, would in the next moment give it away. Who never had much money, because he gave it to those who needed it more. But who spent something more than cash. He spent himself for all those whom God would send to him.

Bishop George Rueger and the Curé of Ars would have understood Father Otto Neururer, a timid priest from a small Austrian farm town, who became famous for baptizing babies in Dachau, where he was first sent, but even more so in Buchenwald, where he was explicitly forbidden to administer any of the sacraments. But the child had been born in the camp and needed to be baptized before she died and he was a priest. So he baptized her, and was sent to the punishment block, where they hung him by barbed wire, upside down, until he died at the age of 49.

As they would have understood Father Ragheed Ganni, who refused to close his Church in Mosul, despite threats from Islamic extremists a few years ago. He was just seven years ordained when they stopped his car after Mass and asked him why he did not respond to their threats. He looked the gunman in the eye and asked him "How can I close the house of God?” So they shot him and tried to burn his body.

And they all would have understood Father Thomas Byles, when he refused to get into the lifeboat. He was leading the people from steerage up onto the decks of the Titanic, when, as a survivor later wrote, ‘One sailor warned the priest of the danger and begged him to board a boat. Father Byles refused [to] leave while even one was left.” Wrote another woman: ”After I got in the boat, which was the last one to leave, and we were slowly going further away from the ship, I could hear distinctly the voice of the priest and the responses to his prayers. Then they became fainter and fainter, until I could only hear the strains of 'Nearer My God, to Thee' and the screams of the people left behind.”

That’s why the priest who first inspired you, probably a lot like the Curé of Ars, gets up to pray for the dying man at 2:30 in the morning and why he takes the assignment no one else wants, because that’s what the Church needs him to do. It’s why he gives away his last dollar and last coat to the one who shivers. It’s why he loves them so much that he continues to patiently speak the truth, even while they scream in his face. It’s why he forgoes the world for the Cross. It’s why when others look forward to retirement at the beach, his only ambition is to give his final breath in service to the Lord whom he has promised to love unto death.

And that’s why we pray before that heart tonight.  A priest’s heart.  Which looks a lot like the Sacred Heart, which is our hope and our salvation.

_______________

1 - "Jean-Marie Vianney, cure d'Ars, sa pensee, son coeur presentes par l'Abbe Bernard Nodet, editions Xavier Mappus, LePuy, 1958, page 97.

2 - Ibid., page 101.

3 - Ibid., pages 98-99.

4 - Ibid., page 102.

5 - Pope Saint Paul VI, Evangelii nuntiandi, 41.

6 - Ibid., page 104.

7 - MONNIN, A., op. cit., II, page 293.

8 - NODET, page 128.

9 - Ibid., page 27.

10 - Ibid., page 189

11 - Pope Benedict XVI, Letter Proclaiming a Year for Priests on the 150th Anniversary of the Dies Natalis of the Curé of Ars. 16 June 2009.

Pope Benedict XVI on the Curé of Ars

This evening we welcome the Incorrupt Hear of Saint John Mary Vianney to our Cathedral Church with a Mass at 6:00pm, and veneration follow until 9:00pm.  Here is a beautiful reflection on the ministry of this good priest by our beloved Pope emeritus, offered at a Genral audience on 5 August 2009.

In today's Catechesis I would like briefly to review the life of the Holy Curé of Ars. I shall stress several features that can also serve as an example for priests in our day, different of course from the time in which he lived, yet marked in many ways by the same fundamental human and spiritual challenges. Precisely yesterday was the 150th anniversary of his birth in Heaven. Indeed it was at two o'clock in the morning on 4 August 1859 that St John Baptist Mary Vianney, having come to the end of his earthly life, went to meet the heavenly Father to inherit the Kingdom, prepared since the world's creation for those who faithfully follow his teachings (cf. Mt 25: 34). What great festivities there must have been in Heaven at the entry of such a zealous pastor! What a welcome he must have been given by the multitude of sons and daughters reconciled with the Father through his work as parish priest and confessor! I wanted to use this anniversary as an inspiration to inaugurate the Year for Priests, whose theme, as is well known, is "Faithfulness of Christ, Faithfulness of Priests". The credibility of witness depends on holiness and, once and for all, on the actual effectiveness of the mission of every priest.

John Mary Vianney was born into a peasant family in the small town of Dardilly on 8 May 1786. His family was poor in material possessions but rich in humanity and in faith. Baptized on the day of his birth, as was the good custom in those days, he spent so many years of his childhood and adolescence working in the fields and tending the flocks that at the age of 17 he was still illiterate. 

Nonetheless he knew by heart the prayers his devout mother had taught him and was nourished by the sense of religion in the atmosphere he breathed at home. His biographers say that since his earthly youth he sought to conform himself to God's will, even in the humblest offices. He pondered on his desire to become a priest but it was far from easy for him to achieve it. Indeed, he arrived at priestly ordination only after many ordeals and misunderstandings, with the help of far-sighted priests who did not stop at considering his human limitations but looked beyond them and glimpsed the horizon of holiness that shone out in that truly unusual young man. So it was that on 23 June 1815 he was ordained a deacon and on the following 13 August, he was ordained a priest. At last, at the age of 29, after numerous uncertainties, quite a few failures and many tears, he was able to walk up to the Lord's altar and make the dream of his life come true.

The Holy Curé of Ars always expressed the highest esteem for the gift he had received. He would say: “Oh! How great is the Priesthood! It can be properly understood only in Heaven... if one were to understand it on this earth one would die, not of fright but of love!.” (Abbé Monnin, Esprit du Curé d'Ars, p. 113) Moreover, as a little boy he had confided to his mother: “If I were to become a priest, I would like to win many souls.” And so he did. Indeed, in his pastoral service, as simple as it was extraordinarily fertile, this unknown parish priest of a forgotten village in the south of France was so successful in identifying with his ministry that he became, even in a visibly and universally recognizable manner, an alter Christus, an image of the Good Shepherd who, unlike the hired hand, lays down his life for his sheep. (cf. Jn 10: 11) After the example of the Good Shepherd, he gave his life in the decades of his priestly service. His existence was a living catechesis that acquired a very special effectiveness when people saw him celebrating Mass, pausing before the tabernacle in adoration or spending hour after hour in the confessional.

Therefore the centre of his entire life was the Eucharist, which he celebrated and adored with devotion and respect. Another fundamental characteristic of this extraordinary priestly figure was his diligent ministry of confession. He recognized in the practice of the sacrament of penance the logical and natural fulfillment of the priestly apostolate, in obedience to Christ's mandate: “if you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” (cf. Jn 20: 23) St John Mary Vianney thus distinguished himself as an excellent, tireless confessor and spiritual director. Passing “with a single inner impulse from the altar to the confessional,” where he spent a large part of the day, he did his utmost with preaching and persuasive advice to help his parishioners rediscover the meaning and beauty of the sacrament of Penance, presenting it as an inherent demand of the Eucharistic presence. (cf. Letter to Priests for the Inauguration of the Year for Priests)

The pastoral methods of St John Mary Vianney might hardly appear suited to the social and cultural conditions of the present day. Indeed, how could a priest today imitate him in a world so radically changed? Although it is true that times change and many charisms are characteristic of the person, hence unrepeatable, there is nevertheless a lifestyle and a basic desire that we are all called to cultivate. At a close look, what made the Curé of Ars holy was his humble faithfulness to the mission to which God had called him; it was his constant abandonment, full of trust, to the hands of divine Providence. It was not by virtue of his own human gifts that he succeeded in moving peoples' hearts nor even by relying on a praiseworthy commitment of his will; he won over even the most refractory souls by communicating to them what he himself lived deeply, namely, his friendship with Christ. He was "in love" with Christ and the true secret of his pastoral success was the fervor of his love for the Eucharistic Mystery, celebrated and lived, which became love for Christ's flock, for Christians and for all who were seeking God. His testimony reminds us, dear brothers and sisters, that for every baptized person and especially for every priest the Eucharist is not merely an event with two protagonists, a dialogue between God and me. Eucharistic Communion aspires to a total transformation of one's life and forcefully flings open the whole human "I" of man and creates a new “we.” (cf. Joseph Ratzinger, La Comunione nella Chiesa, p. 80)

Thus, far from reducing the figure of St John Mary Vianney to an example albeit an admirable one of 18-century devotional spirituality, on the contrary one should understand the prophetic power that marked his human and priestly personality that is extremely timely. In post-revolutionary France which was experiencing a sort of "dictatorship of rationalism" that aimed at obliterating from society the very existence of priests and of the Church, he lived first in the years of his youth a heroic secrecy, walking kilometers at night to attend Holy Mass. Then later as a priest Vianney distinguished himself by an unusual and fruitful pastoral creativity, geared to showing that the then prevalent rationalism was in fact far from satisfying authentic human needs, hence definitively unlivable.

Dear brothers and sisters, 150 years after the death of the Holy Curé of Ars, contemporary society is facing challenges that are just as demanding and may have become even more complex. If in his time the "dictatorship of rationalism" existed, in the current epoch a sort of "dictatorship of relativism" is evident in many contexts. Both seem inadequate responses to the human being's justifiable request to use his reason as a distinctive and constitutive element of his own identity. Rationalism was inadequate because it failed to take into account human limitations and claims to make reason alone the criterion of all things, transforming it into a goddess; contemporary relativism humiliates reason because it arrives de facto at affirming that the human being can know nothing with certainty outside the positive scientific field. Today however, as in that time, man, ‘a beggar for meaning and fulfillment,’ is constantly in quest of exhaustive answers to the basic questions that he never ceases to ask himself.

The Fathers of the Second Vatican Council had very clearly in mind this ‘thirst for the truth’ that burns in every human heart when they said that it is the task of priests "as instructors of the people in the faith" to see to the ‘formation of a genuine Christian community,’ that can ‘smooth the path to Christ for all men” and exercise “a truly motherly function” for them, “showing or smoothing the path towards Christ and his Church” for non-believers and for believers, while also “encouraging, supporting and strengthening believers for their spiritual struggles.” (cf. Presbyterorum Ordinis, n. 6) The teaching which in this regard the Holy Curé of Ars continues to pass on to us is that the priest must create an intimate personal union with Christ that he must cultivate and increase, day after day. 

Only if he is in love with Christ will the priest be able to teach his union, this intimate friendship with the divine Teacher to all, and be able to move people's hearts and open them to the Lord's merciful love. Only in this way, consequently, will he be able to instill enthusiasm and spiritual vitality in the communities the Lord entrusts to him. Let us pray that through the intercession of St John Mary Vianney, God will give holy priests to his Church and will increase in the faithful the desire to sustain and help them in their ministry. Let us entrust this intention to Mary, whom on this very day we invoke as Our Lady of the Snow.

Woman, why are you weeping?

   

With the Help of Saint Paul

I wrote this letter to the parishioners of Saint Paul's Cathedral today, and share it with you, dear reader, with deep thanks to Bishop McManus and to God.

My Dear Brothers and Sisters,

This week Bishop McManus has, once again, appointed me as Rector of Saint Paul's Cathedral here in Worcester. I am thrilled to be back home in our Cathedral Church and my prayer is that God might make me worthy of of the great example of faith and love which makes this Cathedral parish such a rich and vibrant place to be.

I know you share with me a deep sense of gratitude for all that Monsignor Johnson has done to build up the Cathedral Parish in the past seven years. It is my hope that we will have the opportunity to express our gratitude in a more concrete way in the coming weeks, following his return from a well-deserved sabbatical. Monsignor Johnson will be returning as Director of the Office for Divine Worship and Master of Ceremonies on Easter Monday.

As many of you know, this is my second time as Rector of our beloved Cathedral, having served for two years before beginning my seven years as Rector of Saint John’s Seminary in Boston. I return sharing with you a deep love of this Cathedral, which has served the Church in Worcester for one hundred and fifty three years.

When Father John J. Power (say a prayer for him in front of the bronze plaque in the vestibule) founded this Church in 1866, Worcester had been a city for only eighteen years. President Lincoln had been killed by an assassin’s bullet just a year before and Saint John’s Church was celebrating its thirtieth anniversary. The “new immigrants” were predominantly from Ireland and Sweden, including my great-grandparents, Honorah Lynch and Stephen Loughlin, who would be married in the Cathedral eighteen years later.

So now God has chosen you and me to be a part of this history. 

Today we are so very different and so very much the same. Our “new immigrants” are now predominantly from Latin America and West Africa and their energy, spirit and faith help us to evangelize an increasingly secularized American culture. While 38% of our city self-identifies as Catholic, close to 50% describe themselves as having no religion at all. 

We, admittedly, have our work cut out for us. But the challenges we face are no greater than the ones which faced those who have gone before us, and like them, we rely on the inspiration of the Holy Spirit and seek only the will of God.  For ours is a holy work and it been chosen for us by God, who loves us so much that he makes us a part of the rich tapestry which is the Cathedral Church of Worcester.

I am, of course, deeply grateful to Bishop McManus for the confidence he has placed in me by naming me as your shepherd and the Rector of his Cathedral Church. Through the intercession of Saint Paul may God work through this imperfect instrument to do great things at the corner of Chatham and High Streets!

In the Lord,

Monsignor James P. Moroney

Rector

On the death of Bishop Rueger and the resurrection of Lazarus

We lost a good priest last night. A good and gentle shepherd with a pastors heart, formed after the model of Christ, the Good Shepherd. And our hearts broke when he died.

For in Bishop George Rueger we met Christ. In his paternal care for us we caught a glimpse of the love which flows from the heart of God. He was an alter Christus for us and for me.

Nearly sixty years ago, in the old Church of our Lady of Lourdes, the young father Rueger, in his first assignment as a curate, gave me my First Holy Communion. A couple of years ago, just a few feet from where I stand, I handed the chalice with the Precious Blood to this good priest, who looked up at me and said "Pal, I gave you your First Communion, now you're giving me one of my last!” 

Yesterday we buried Father Kelly, the last of four priests to die since the first of the year. It’s as if God understood that we needed to hear today’s Gospel, where we heard about the family of Lazarus, with whom Jesus was a friend. Now we don’t often think about Jesus as having friends. We thing of him as teacher or miracle worker, but remember that he was fully human and fully divine, and an indispensable part of being fully human is to love and be loved, which is why Saint John tells us simply that “Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus.”

So his good friend Lazarus is dying, and Jesus hears about it while he is a long way off proclaiming the Kingdom of God and he cannot get there until four days after the burial. When he arrives he is met on the road by Lazarus’ sister.

Now there’s something poignant in those six little words we heard a couple minutes ago: “she went out to meet him.” I suppose that lacking a “Find my Friends” app on her IPhone, that means that Martha must have been staring down the road, longing for Jesus to arrive for four days! After burying her brother she just stands there, waiting for Jesus to arrive, and figuring out what she is going to say to him.

And when she runs out to him, she does not cry, or greet or embrace Jesus or even tell him about her brothers last minutes. No, she boldly looks into his eyes and says, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” And even though she quickly follows this with a profession of faith, her first words are stark and fearsome and can be read in an angry frame: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

Any one of us who has buried someone we love knows the feeling. Why Lord? Where were you when I needed you? Why one so young or so good or whom I needed so much. Where were you? 

But Martha is not the only one experiencing deep emotions, for in two remarkable phrases we gain a singular insight into the inner life of the Lord. Jesus, we are told became “perturbed and deeply troubled,” and then when he sees the grave of Lazarus his friend, John uses just two words: “Jesus wept.” Not cried, wept. That gasping, choking, overpowering cry from a broken heart. He wept.

But then Jesus does something that made no sense. He commanded them to take away the stone from the front of his tomb. Martha objects that “there will be a stench,” his rotting flesh will smell. But Jesus asks Martha and me and you and every living person infected with thanatophobia a simple question: "Did I not tell you that if you believe you will see the glory of God?”

So they took away the stone and Jesus calls Lazarus by name. And Lazarus rises from the dead.

 Simple as that. Through the fog of fear and pain and sickness unto death, by the bedside of everyone you have ever loved, in the face of every death that has made you weep, before every deadly fear there stands Jesus, tears running down his very human face, calling out the name of the one he loved, calling him out from death to life. As he will one day, when he calls out everyone whom you have loved, calls them by name, calls them out from death to life.

“Do you believe this?” he asked Martha. Do you believe that I am the Son of the Living God through whom all things were made, the Resurrection and the life who will come to judge the living and the dead and call them out from their graves?

Yes, Lord, she responds, “I do believe.” And so do we.