Jesus Began to Weep

Sermon — March 22, 2026
The Rev. Greg Johnston
Lectionary Readings

Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life.” (John 11:25)

I have to admit that I find some parts of this story unsatisfying. Jesus speaks to the disciples in a confusing and misleading way, telling them at first that “this illness does not lead to death,” (John 11:4) only to act like they’re slow on the uptake moments later when he tells them metaphorically that Lazarus is “sleeping,” and then “plainly,” that  “Lazarus is dead.” (11:11, 14) Jesus waits two days before setting out for Bethany, (11:6) delaying while Lazarus suffers, putting Mary and Martha through grief and pain—seemingly so that he can prove a point to the disciples about his own power. “I was glad that I was not there,” Jesus says, “so that you may believe.” (11:15) He was glad that he was not there?

Alongside these details, there’s the larger discrepancy between what Jesus promises and what he delivers in this story, and in our lives. “Everyone who lives and believes in me will never die,” Jesus tells Martha. (11:26) But Lazarus does die. Not just once, but twice. Because what Jesus does for Lazarus is not so much a resurrection as a resuscitation. Resurrection is what happens to Jesus, who will be raised from the dead, never to die again. But Lazarus is not still with us today. This respite from the power of death is only temporary. “Everyone who lives and believes in me will never die,” Jesus says. But here we are, after two thousand years, and every Christian who has ever lived has, in fact, died.

Now, Jesus himself recognizes that this is true. The first half of the sentence acknowledges reality, when Jesus says that “Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live.” (11:25) The Resurrection that Jesus promises us is one that comes after death, not instead of it. And we can tweak the rest of his words to help explain. “This illness does not lead to death,” Jesus says, and he really means—at least not forever. Lazarus really is dead, but in another sense, he’s “sleeping,” and will wake. This metaphorical or theological sense of the words is fine, and it aligns perfectly with what Martha already believes. Like many faithful Jews of the time, Martha believed what would come to be the default view of Christians and Jews alike: that her brother, and her sister, and she and everyone else would “rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” (11:24) This was a matter of some debate—the Sadducees would be on one side of the argument, the Pharisees and the Christians on the other. But this idea of a resurrection at the end of time was an ordinary and common belief at the time. And so, for Mary and Martha, the frustration remains. Yes, of course, there will be a resurrection on the last day. But that’s a long way away, and Jesus could have come and done a miracle to spare them the pain.

But of course, the story doesn’t end there. Jesus gives them something more than the hope of a far-off future resurrection. You believe in the resurrection? he asks. Well, “I am the Resurrection and the Life,” he says. (11:25) And then he raises Lazarus from the dead. It’s as if there is an aura around Jesus that suffuses the life of this world with the essence of the life of the world to come. It’s as if his very presence makes the kingdom of heaven manifest on earth. Yes, we will all be raised on the last day. But in the presence of Christ, Lazarus will be raised on this day. And we can dismiss this as a temporary miracle, a resuscitation and nothing more. Or we can recognize it as the sign that Jesus intends: a sign that in his presence, we can begin experiencing that eternal life now. With this sign, Jesus invites us to inhabit a slice of the kingdom of heaven on earth. While we may never experience a fraction of the miracle that Lazarus and his sisters saw, from time to time we do experience a taste of the abundant life that Jesus offers every one of us. And we can choose to dwell more deeply in that life: to seek God’s presence in the world around us, and to return, again and again, to the places where we find it. And that invitation into abundant life now is an important amendment to our understanding of eternal life in the future.

But there’s something else that’s important about how Jesus responds. Because Jesus is not a distant god, who promises new life in the future but lets us suffer alone in the present. And Jesus is not a spiritual teacher, who gives us instructions on how to transcend the trials of the present time, and to live our best lives now. Jesus is the incarnation of a compassionate God, who comes to be with us in our suffering, and not only to witness it from afar.

At the beginning of the story, to be fair, it doesn’t seem this way. Jesus has been calm and collected all along. He’s plotted out his itinerary in a way that feels cold and calculating. He’s delayed those two days in order to set up the circumstances for his sign.

But there’s something Mary says to Jesus that seems to break his heart. Martha engages him in a theological discourse about the resurrection, but Mary confronts him with her pain: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” (11:32)

And “when Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved.” (11:33) He asks him where they’ve laid him, and they say, “Lord, come and see.” “And Jesus began to weep.” (11:35)

And that is a remarkable thing. After all, this is the Gospel of John, and John has told us from the very start that Jesus is the Word made flesh, the incarnate Logos of God—the pre-existent, underlying reason of the universe walking among us as a human being. But this isn’t how a god is supposed to act. At least according to the classical world of theology and philosophy, Gods cannot be made to suffer by human beings. Gods cannot be moved this intensely by human pain. Gods might be able to sympathize, but they cannot empathize with human suffering or be moved by human pain. The God who becomes flesh in Jesus Christ shows a level of compassion for humankind that shocked ancient minds.

Com-passion comes from a Latin word that means “suffering with,” and Jesus is certainly compassionate here, in this final scene. He’s touched in a profound way by his friends’ pain, and he’s moved deeply by Mary’s words.

But in the weeks ahead, Jesus will show still deeper compassion. There’s a reason that we read this story on the final Sunday before Palm Sunday. It’s not only because the resuscitation of Lazarus points us toward the Resurrection of Christ. It’s because the compassion of Christ points us toward the Passion of Christ; the way in which we comes alongside and suffers with Mary and Martha points us toward the ultimate act in which he suffers and dies with and for us all.

The story of Jesus and Lazarus is not only the story of a God who offers us the comfort of an eventual eternal life, even if it’s far away. It’s not only the story of a God who makes unsatisfying promises that don’t take away our pain. It’s the story of a God who weeps with us. A God who sees our pain and is deeply moved. A God who hears our questions, who hears our angry prayers—“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died”—and whose heart breaks in response.

We live in a world that is full of beauty, and friendship, and love, a world in which we often rejoice to spend time, as Mary and Martha and Lazarus did, with family or with friends. It’s a world in which we sometimes really do encounter the sense of beauty and stillness and awe that lets us get a taste of eternal life now. And this very same world is full of suffering, and loss, and pain; and at times, every one of us cries out with the Psalmist, “Out of the depths have I called to you, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice!” (Psalm 130:1)

And sometimes in those moments what we need to hear is the promise of the Resurrection—the bold claim that “even though [we] die, [we] will live.” And sometimes what we need is someone who understands, a friend who can listen to what we’re carrying and to help us bear the load. Sometimes, when we cry out in our prayers, what we need is not a miracle; what we need is the love of God made known to us in Christ: a God who is so moved by human pain that he takes on the worst that human beings have to offer, and carries it in his own body, and his own heart; and then transforms it, and transcends it, and uses it to set us free.