Jesus, Lazarus and the Existential Plight of the Suffering Man

I was asked to read a passage of Scripture at a service in New York some time ago and doing so pushed me to think about it a fair bit. The story was of Lazarus, from John 11 (here's a link:  http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=John%2011&version=NIV). If you're not familiar with the story, or need a refresher, I recommend you read through it before we continue.

Now, if I were to write a paper on this passage, I would probably start by looking at its context. I would try to figure out how it relates to the chapters surrounding it, the Gospel of John as a whole, and what message the authour was trying to send by including this story. But I'm not going to do any of that, because instead of the main narrative of the passage (which I would say ties in to the idea of death and resurrection through Christ), I want to look at something else. A back alley, if you will. I don't believe that what I'm going to say is the central intended message, but it's something I find very interesting, and something the passage speaks to quite remarkably nonetheless.

What I want to remark on is the incredible humanity we see exhibited in the reaction of those who interact with Jesus. What is of specific interest to me is verse 37, where some of the onlooking Jews scoff at the presence of Jesus, saying: "Could not He who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?" I find this striking because of its rather pointed honesty - it is real. Similar is Martha's accusation of Jesus, echoed by her sister Mary: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."

These accusations, these confessions of hesitation, of doubt (even though Martha's was followed up by an expression of faith) appeal to me so much because they seem very much the sort of statement you or I might make in this sort of situation - and though we as the readers can see that Jesus already knows what will happen, it is still all too easy to put ourselves into the shoes of the questioning onlookers (and note that Jesus does not rebuke them for asking these questions). This story, in other words, has buried within it a reflection of the interaction between the divine and the human during times of great trauma and sadness.

Consider how one might respond to tragedy today. We, too, would level these same accusations. We too would say "God, had You desired, You could have stopped that hurricane," or "God, You are capable of great power, could You not have healed that dying child?" Ultimately, we challenge God's goodness, for we see it as contradictory to our own idea of how a good God ought to act. This is addressed in the Bible itself, in the book of Job (and elsewhere), where in response to the titular character's questioning of the evil that has fallen upon him, God's answer essentially boils down to: "I am God. I am in control. I know what I'm doing. You do not need to know why these things have happened the way they did. Just trust in me." This is something that is logical to us: The concept of information being on a need-to-know basis is something that most of us understand. If someone is fired from their job, would it be right for their co-worker to write the CEO and demand to know the reason why this person is dismissed, or how much they received in their severance package? I think fundamentally, we all know deep down that "Tell me because I'm curious" isn't exactly an authoritative imperative, no matter how much angst our externally-imposed ignorance might cause us.

Yet as much as it might be logical, that doesn't mean we have to like it, and that is the true problem that intrigues me. The unfortunate reality is that as much as the statement "Shut up, don't ask questions and trust God" might have some small metaphysical validity to it, it completely violates who we are as human beings. We may not have the right to question God, but question Him we shall regardless. It is who we are. In fact, if we as humans are truly imago dei (that is to say, in the image of God), then it seems logical that this questioning is not only something He expects, but something He designed - this is preferable, at least, to the alternative, which suggests that man's tendency to ask questions is a product of his sinfulness and that his natural state is to gaze apathetically at the world around him, bereft of anything resembling wonder or curiosity. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it is far better to question God in the face of tragedy - there is little more disturbing than one who would regard a traumatic event with complete placidity, and to give such an empty and unperturbed platitude as "It doesn't bother me because God's got it under control" in response to death and destruction is, in my view, evidence of a heart that is calloused and blasé, rather than faithful and rooted in love. A proclamation of faith is one thing. For that faith to give birth to apathy is quite another.

Yet, despite all of this, a thirst for knowledge and an innate curiosity do not necessarily equate to the right to the answers. That God created us as questioning beings does not mean for a second that He is bound to give us all the answers. And so this leaves us left trapped in a tension: There are questions which we may not be able to find the answers to, yet which when left unanswered fill us with angst and doubt. And this is the second part of why this story so deeply intrigues me, as it shows Christ's response to this. Let us examine a couple of the more interesting points.

A Loving God Is A Mourning God

This story is notorious for containing the shortest verse in the English Bible: "Jesus wept." These two words are so loaded with meaning that one could easily fill a library attempting to understand them, so I will try to keep things concise. The basic meaning we can take from this is that even with the full knowledge of what will happen, with the complete understanding that Lazarus will be raised from the dead, Christ, the Messiah, the Son of God, was still so overwhelmed that He broke into tears. Tears of sorrow over the the tragedy that might have led to Lazarus' death, tears of sympathy for the despair that might be overwhelming his loved ones, perhaps even tears for death in general, and the tyranny it holds over mankind - we do not know for sure, but the context makes these likely. Some commentators have suggested that they are tears over the ignorance of the onlookers, that they would dare to question Him, but as this is incongruent with His lack of rebuke and His decidedly non-weepy approach to the many religious leaders who verbally assaulted Him, this seems highly unlikely.

The point of all this is that Christ shares in our sufferings. He is not an aloof God who watches without caring, nor is He a stern taskmaster who harshly reprimands us should our faith falter. Instead, He is a God who weeps, who mourns. Even though He knows the happy ending, knows how every smidgen of evil will be redeemed for good, how every tear will be dried and every wound healed, He still weeps, that the evil happened at all - or perhaps for other reasons, for what man could know the mind of a deity?

Through all this, we know that we are not alone in our sufferings, that though our spirit rails against the dark void of tragedy, divinity is united in us with this. It is also a stark reminder that the future redemption of tragedy does not negate the present suffering felt by it. It emphasizes the hollowness of such platitudes as "Don't cry, things will get better;" if Christ Himself wept at Lazarus' grave, in the full knowledge that Lazarus would shortly be among the living once again, who are we to reprimand our brothers and sisters for their grief? With such divine precedent established, one cannot ever hope to link sorrow or mourning with a lack of faith in God's goodness. Do not become ruled by grief, but do not fear it, either, for in it, we experience a glimpse of the divine.

To Know the Divine Is To Question the Divine

It is imperative to note in this passage that at no point does Jesus rebuke those who question him. I touched on this above, but here we shall go into greater detail, exploring what, precisely, it might mean. First, it is important to underscore the fact that Jesus did not take offence to their questioning. This is encouraging in one way, since, as I pointed out above, these are often the questions we ask. It is helpful to know that God understands the bafflement and anger we can feel in the face of darkness, and that these are not always items to be rebuked. The experience many may have with the church is that it is an environment in which questions are not tolerated, yet this seems to run contradictory to the actions of Christ. Consider the follow passage, taken from early in the same Gospel:

⁴⁴ Philip, like Andrew and Peter, was from the town of Bethsaida. ⁴⁵ Philip found Nathanael and told him, “We have found the one Moses wrote about in the Law, and about whom the prophets also wrote —Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph.”

⁴⁶ “Nazareth! Can anything good come from there?” Nathanael asked.

“Come and see,” said Philip.

⁴⁷ When Jesus saw Nathanael approaching, he said of him, “Here truly is an Israelite in whom there is no deceit.”

(John 1:44-47)

Notice that Nathanael, upon hearing the Good News of Jesus, is skeptical - he does not believe. He offers an expression of disbelief (that may or may not double as a minor witticism). What is important, however, is Jesus' response: He praises Nathanael. He does not offer the response that some of us might expect; that is to say, He does not condemn Nathanael for his disbelief. Instead, we see a fascinating and revolutionary scene: Jesus commending the skeptic.

I believe that within these two scenarios there lies a deep, fundamental truth with regards to man's relationship with God: Questioning God is a necessary step in knowing God. Consider the interaction between Philip, Nathanael, and Christ. Philip brings the Good News, Nathanael hears it but does not believe it until an encounter with Christ Himself. This points to a large flaw, I believe, in the modern method of evangelism, in which one (the Philip) simply pushes the Good News upon the other (the Nathanael), refusing to cease until the latter yields and accepts. Compare this to the story above, in which the actual Philip merely tells Nathanael of Christ. Nathanael's conversion does not come from persuasive methods or from winsome argumentation, but from his meeting with Christ. It is true that there are many instances in Scripture of individuals being won over as soon as they hear the message, but this is not always the case. In fact, we need to understand that in attempting to force someone to accept the Good News, we are not doing them a favour, even if they end up agreeing, for we rob them of any existential wrestling with Christ. Small wonder that there are so many Christians whose commitment is marginal, who are bereft of Love! For they have not truly encountered Christ, but rather have only known Him vicariously through those well-meaning souls who have pushed their knowledge of Him upon others.

Philip merely informed Nathanael of the Good News; the rest was between Nathanael and Christ. It is my opinion that this is what our evangelistic paradigms are lacking: The opportunity for the man as an individual to wrestle with the Divine. Instead we expect - nay, we demand a decision, as soon as possible, denying the process of the individual's coming to reckoning with Christ, and as such hamstringing his faith.

These two stories outline one truth: Questioning God is an integral part of knowing Him. We see it from both camps; from Mary and Martha, who already knew Christ, and from Nathanael, who did not. If one is a Christian who does not question, one's knowledge of Christ will always be curtailed. If one is an unbeliever who does not question, one's conversion, should it happen, will be similarly lacking.


These two principles - the divine validity of grief and the existential imperative of questioning - are foundational to the development of authentic relationship with God. As such, what I am proposing is for us as a faith community to seriously examine and consider our vocabulary and ideals when it comes to suffering and uncertainty. Too often we dismiss both of these, offering superficial platitudes with a side order of insincere sentimentalism; instead, however, we must recognize that the faith that does not mourn and that does not question is no faith at all.