"Lord, if You Had Been Here..." by Rev. Jillian Hankamer, 5/11/2025

A Sermon for Northminster Church

John 11: 17-44

            Learning what not to say or when not to say anything at all is the most underrated lesson in seminary. I’ve told several of you about my seminary professor in a third year class that dealt with the logistics of church work – baptisms, serving communion, weddings – who told us if in helping a family prepare for a funeral we said anything along the lines of “heaven needed another angel” or “she’s in a better place now” he would know, he would track us down, and he would smack us with our own Bibles.

            Triteness has no place in times of loss; grieving families deserve more from their ministers than the insides of Hallmark cards. He would be darned if we weren’t going to give God’s people our very best. This same professor taught us energy is better spent in offering a hug, a shoulder to cry on, being willing to fetch hot beverages even if they aren’t drunk, or simply sitting quietly, holding space with people as they grieve.

We were also under strict orders to never forget that grief is as unique as the person standing in front of you and can range from glib denial – “What’s everybody so sad about? – to profound pathos – “Why didn’t God save my child?” – to openly hostile – “How could God let this happen to a good person?” – and everything in between. As commentator Cynthia A. Jarvis points out, conversations about grief and death in our society are often reminiscent of the chorus from W.H. Auden’s long poem For The Time Being, in which he writes, “We who must die demand a miracle.”^[1] As Jarvis says, “or if not a miracle, we demand a reason. From the perspective of our denial, our pathos, and our hostility, we think the reason is beyond our ken and the miracle has been delayed.”^[2]

This demanding of a reason is certainly Mary and Martha’s response in this

morning’s story from John. Greeting Jesus, who returns to Bethany after hearing of Lazarus’ death, both sisters say, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would have died.”

            Black letters on a white page are too stark to do these words justice because viewed in the light of grief, this shared statement from the sisters becomes an angry indictment, a heartbroken realization, a shocking hurt. This belief that Lazarus would still be alive had Jesus been present is the kind of thing the sisters would have said safely to each other and then agreed was best not to share with Jesus. Surely they understand that Jesus’ life is at risk in Judea, and they don’t want to place guilt at the feet of this man they love, though don’t fully comprehend. So they agree to say nothing, to keep the peace, to tamp down their grief and welcome their friend.

            But seeing Jesus is more emotional and overwhelming than either sister anticipates. Their grief overtakes them, and spilling out of their mouths at their first sight of Jesus is, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” They speak their truth, they speak from the heart, and in doing so, both receive a remarkable response from Jesus.

Martha meets Jesus first, and even as she’s pouring out her heart, she responds to Jesus' statement, “Your brother will rise again,” with eyes to the future. “Yes,” says Martha,”[he will rise] when everyone else rises on the resurrection day.” Which is how most of us would likely respond to Jesus telling us our recently departed loved one is to be resurrected – with practicality, understanding death and its separation as something to be endured hopefully, understanding that reunion with those we love is yet to come. Martha’s reaction is as faithful and patient as we’ve come to expect from her, and in any other situation, she would be absolutely right.

            Except that Jesus isn’t planning to wait for the day of resurrection. His focus is on the present, his intentions are immediate, and he subtly shifts the conversation to reflect this. Through Jesus’ glorious response to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die…will live again,” he removes the future tense from her words and puts her in a position to name him as “the one who has come into the world from God.”

            Following after Mary, who leaves her home suddenly, the gathered mourners are in perfect position to hear Mary greet Jesus with the same pained words, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” And though these are the same words her sister speaks, though she repeats, “word for word, the speech of her sister, it is Mary’s grief that renders God’s Word silent,”^[3] and makes clear that God is not unaffected by humanity, by the suffering and loss of the world. Despite centuries of church fathers who’ve offered a plethora of reasons for Jesus’ tears, I find it difficult to believe that Jesus’ weeping is a consequence of weakness from his human nature or from sheer frustration with the inability of those around him to understand the nature of death and his ability to be life-giving.

            I find it much more likely that Jesus weeps out of his own grief, from his connection with Mary, which has been different from that with Martha from the beginning, and his sadness over her heartbreak. Jesus’ display of emotion isn’t a negative consequence of his weak human half but a gift from God that his humanity gives Jesus the capacity for empathy and vulnerability. And it seems implausible that of all the times people have misunderstood Jesus’ identity, abilities, and message that this would be the situation to send him over the edge. Surely nothing is lost to us as Christ-followers if we allow Jesus to be a Savior who has emotions.

            And in fact, Jesus' willingness to freely enter into suffering is the first part of the Good News this morning. Though it might sound antithetical that a deity might be willing to suffer, might open themselves up to pain and grief, what better way is there to understand someone than to join them in the places that are the most difficult? What better argument can be made for Jesus' ability to understand us, even at our most desperate, when he has felt what we feel? What better argument is there for the unfathomable love of God than to understand our Creator was willing to hurt in all the ways we hurt simply to maintain a relationship with us?

            And what better story is there for All Saints Day than one that allows us to talk about grief and that gives us permission to ask questions of God.  For though we live with the assurance that there is eternal life in Christ, we still grieve those who’ve gone before us. Though we declare Jesus Christ as Lord, we don’t stop having questions about what such a declaration means.

            And on this All Saints Day, when it seems the world might well be coming apart at the seams, the first thing out of our mouths might be, “Lord, if you had been here…” or even “Lord, where are you?” Lord, if only you’d been here to prevent our Jewish brothers and sisters from being murdered in their sacred place of worship? Lord, where are you as we argue about what it means to be a citizen rather than extending your hospitality and care to everyone we meet? Lord, where are you when our children and youth must add active shooter drills to their tornado and fire drills? Lord, where are you in the midst of a country that has rarely felt as divided or angry?

            Remember how I said the first part of the Good News for today is that God “freely enters into suffering?”^[4] What this means is that Christ weeps for the people of Tree of Life Congregation. God mourns that we live in a world in which school shootings are so common they no longer startle us. The Creator of the Universe holds space with us on this day as we celebrate, remember, and grieve those loved ones we miss.

            But the other half of the Good News for today, the half that brings redemption and hope, is how the story from John 11 ends. Despite Lazarus being dead for four days, Jesus shouts, “Lazarus, come out!” and Lazarus walks out of his tomb, still wrapped in his burial shroud. Our story ends with Jesus’ command to “Unwrap him and let him go!” but more importantly, our story ends with the last vestiges of death being removed, with God, not death, having the last word.

            As people of faith, this should fill us with hope even in the darkest of moments, because if God gets the last word over something as final as death, surely God is present and active through everything else life has in store for us. So go ahead, ask questions of Jesus, rant and rail, and be angry at the injustice of our world. Grieve those loved ones you miss while celebrating their memories. Hold those you love close and be comforted. The Lord is always here.

^[1] W.H. Auden quoted by Cynthia A. Jarvis in “All Saints: John 11: 32-44, Pastoral Perspective,” from Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary Year B, Volume 4. Westminster John Knox Press, Louisville, 2009. Pg 236.

^[2] Ibid.

^[3] Ibid.

^[4] Victor McCracken, “All Saints: John 11: 32-44, Theological Perspective,” from Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary Year B, Volume 4. Westminster John Knox Press, Louisville, 2009. Pg 238.