All Saints Day Sermon
The Rev. Sara Warfield
Scripture: John 11:32-33
I’m almost positive that we’ve all heard the story of Lazarus. The seventh and greatest sign in the Gospel of John of God’s power working through the human Jesus and his earthly ministry. The foreshadowing of his own death and resurrection. After all, this is the last thing that happens before he makes his final trip to Jerusalem.
But today I begin not with Jesus’ miracle, but with what came before.
When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."
Can you hear the sadness, the ambivalence, the frustration in Mary’s words. In just that one sentence, she both professes her faith in Jesus and also bitterly questions that faith. I know you could have healed Lazarus, she says, not doubting him at all. But you didn’t. Why not? Where were you? Can I trust you anymore?
Where were you, God? I imagine most of us have asked this question at a particularly devastating point in our lives. It’s not that you stopped believing in that moment. You still had enough faith to call out to God. But something had been shaken. In your despair, in your fear, in your anger, you wondered, Can I trust you anymore?
—
This week in my sermon research I learned that, in all the Gospel of John, the word “belief” only occurs in its verb form: to believe. That stuck with me. A verb is a word in motion, a word that acts, a word that impacts something outside itself.
In contrast to a noun, which is simply an indication that a thing exists. When I say bird, your brain might automatically assign a verb to it, like “flying” or “chirping.” But take the verb away, what do you have? A concept of a bird? The archetype of a bird? Or maybe you’re picturing a still image of a bird, but it’s always still doing something. Standing or flying or perching.
Even if you try to picture an object like a chair or a book, do they have any meaning without the verbs “sit” or “read”?
Trying to imagine a noun without a verb kind of breaks my brain. The opposite is true, too. There is no verb that has any meaning without a subject, or noun. There is no running without an Olympic sprinter or a cheetah. There is no flowing without a river or music.
And there is no believing without a person, without a life, without experiences, without changes to inform that belief.
But so many of us were taught that belief is a noun, one thing in and of itself, and we must conform ourselves to that single belief.
But belief isn’t something that you find out about, then grab and hold onto for dear life. It’s not something you arrive at and then do your best to stay with and not wander away from. Because it’s not static. It’s not a noun without a verb that exists in some ethereal place that we’ll see when we achieve that perfect belief.
Belief is a process. The world around you is constantly shaping and reshaping it. Like when I finally came to terms with the fact that I’m gay, I could no longer believe in the God of my childhood who rejected gay people, who rejected me. My belief evolved with the experiences of my life—and continues to. And I’m pretty sure that each and every one of you have had belief-changing experiences.
So we don’t have belief, we’re constantly in the shifting act of believing. And there’s a tension in that.
That’s what I hear in Mary’s words today: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." I believe in you, she says, and this devastating thing that happened has shaken my belief.
It’s an uncomfortable place to be.
I think a lot of us are in an uncomfortable place right now, in this place, in this season, on this day. First, some of us might be uncomfortable in this resurrected sanctuary. It doesn’t feel like church without the pews. Where are you, God? It’s also two days before an election that feels existential for many of us, for our country. Where are you, God? And it’s All Saints, when we remember those people we have lost, some whose absence has left a wound in our lives that we’re not sure will heal. Where are you, God?
“I know you could have healed us,” we say, not doubting God’s power at all. “But, you didn’t, God. Why not? Where were you? Can I trust you anymore?”
But I think we sometimes overlook another verse in this pericope: “Jesus began to weep.” I think we overlook that Jesus was shaken by Lazarus’ death, too. “He was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved.” It sounds to me like Jesus’ own belief shifted, that he felt the tension of that.
But our faith isn’t anchored in everything staying comfortable and the same. Our faith is anchored in hope, in resurrection. And we all know there is no hope without hardship, there is no resurrection without death. It’s something we have to learn over and over again. It’s something even Jesus had to learn when he experienced firsthand the despair of his friend’s death.
Jesus does show up. And he weeps with Mary, with Martha.
It tells me that death is rough on Jesus, too. That change isn’t something Jesus navigates easily, either.
God does show up. And God weeps with us in our devastation.
—
If you look closely at our new altar, font, and lectern, you’ll see a cross on each of them. Those crosses were taken from the sides of our pews and built into these new pieces. Little bits of beautifully carved wood that have held our song, our joy, our struggles, our despair for nearly 70 years, built into the newness of this space.
That’s what belief looks like.
God weeps with us, but then God also guides us to resurrection. My faith teaches me that all suffering is redeemed. Sometimes in ways we can see. A devastating injury that forces you to learn how to navigate the world differently, to see the world differently. A divorce that eventually teaches you how much of yourself you had been silencing within that marriage. The death of a loved one who had been suffering a long time, and whose last breath gives them and you deep relief.
But just as often we don’t see the redemption of our suffering, at least not in this life. There’s no understanding this kind of suffering, at least not in this life. The illnesses for which there is no cure. Natural disasters that wipe out entire cities, even countries. Death and violence that seem utterly senseless.
Faith doesn’t seem to make sense in the shadow of these happenings.
But these are the happenings that truly shape our believing. The tension of the tightrope that keeps our faith moving. Knowing that we can be angry and in the depths of despair and know that God is angry and despairing with us. But also knowing that Jesus shows up and, after weeping for his friend, after breathing in a stench that told everyone else that this death was beyond redeeming, he calls Lazarus forth, and Lazarus is resurrected.
Our work of faith is to flow with the changes of this life, the little and big deaths that we encounter, and to allow them to shape us, to change us, to open us up. It’s not always or even often easy or pleasant. Often, we need to let ourselves weep as Jesus did.
But like the crosses built into our new altar, font, and lectern, these are the experiences that help us to believe that resurrection does indeed come. And that is the work of faith: to trust that resurrection is coming. Perhaps beyond the horizon of this life, but it is coming.
Amen.
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