We know the story of Lazarus, the friend Jesus raised from the dead. Because it comes near the end of Jesus’ ministry, and involves death and resurrection, we usually associate it with Easter, not Christmas. But, like Advent, uncomfortable waiting is central to this miraculous event.
Let’s review the story: Lazarus gets sick and is close to death. His sisters, Mary and Martha, send word to their dear friend Jesus, knowing that he can heal their brother. Upon receiving the news, Jesus seems to dismiss the urgency, declaring that the sickness will not end in death, and that it is for God’s glory. Inexplicably, Jesus delays. He waits. He seems to procrastinate for a couple of days. And then Lazarus dies.
Finally, Jesus goes to Bethany. When he arrives, Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days. It’s been at least four days since Jesus got word that his friend was dying, and Martha and Mary both confront Jesus with this fact. They’re convinced that if Jesus had not delayed, things would have turned out differently. Jesus then goes to the tomb and orders the stone removed. Martha raises the concern, in KJV: “He stinketh.”
Jewish burial customs did not include any form of embalming. The next of kin simply washed the body with perfume and ointments, wrapped it in linen, and buried it before sunset the same day. The wealthy, rather than being buried under the earth, were entombed for a year before their bones were removed to an ossuary. Sometimes several bodies would occupy the same tomb concurrently.
Martha’s warning suggests that the body of Lazarus had not yet been properly prepared for burial. Perhaps he had died late on a Friday afternoon, or his sisters had been too distraught to carry out their postmortem responsibilities, or his disease was contagious. For some unknown reason, the perfuming of the body had been postponed.
So in a sense, though Lazarus had died in the biological sense, his death was not yet complete. He was not done dying. Until his remains were washed and wrapped and shut into the tomb, the life of Lazarus would not be over. But what could Lazarus do? He could not raise himself up, nor finish the burial rituals himself. Lazarus could only wait in darkness, silent, waiting in timeless nothingness for the Savior to arrive.
Mary and Martha could not raise him up either, of course. Common sense told them that the chance to save Lazarus had gone. As four days passed in agonizing languor, the sisters must have dwelt on the certainty that Jesus could have prevented the terrible loss. Despite the joy that followed the surprise resurrection twist, I can’t help wonder if they were still haunted by the question: why did Jesus wait so long to come?
We typically stop reading when Lazarus emerges from the tomb. But I don’t think John intends the story to end with the resurrection of Lazarus. In a few verses, we find Jesus attending dinner at his friends’ home in Bethany. Martha is serving, while Mary enters with a ludicrously expensive perfume called spikenard and anoints the feet of Jesus.
Judas objects. The perfume should have been sold and the money given to the poor. Notice that Judas doesn’t say Mary shouldn’t have purchased such expensive perfume; he says she should have sold it. He knew she already had it.
Spikenard is no ordinary perfume for any use. It’s for burial. Its powerful aroma could mask the unpleasant smells of decomposition for months. The perfume that Mary poured on the feet of Jesus was the very perfume intended for the body of Lazarus.
A few days later, Jesus will be crucified. The story of the death of Lazarus does not end with the resurrection of Lazarus, but with the death of Jesus in his place. The anointing perfume planned for Lazarus was poured out on Jesus instead.
In this season of waiting—waiting for Christmas, the arrival of God in a manger, and waiting for God to mend this broken and death-ridden Creation, I’m thinking about Lazarus’s story in a little different light.
I’m sometimes Martha, frustrated by Jesus’ delay but hanging on to hope in his power.
I’m sometimes Mary, despair blinding me to the potential of God’s power.
I’m also Lazarus, waiting silently and helplessly for God to come and raise me up into new life.
I’m the grieving crowds, questioning Jesus’ dedication to providing help and comfort in a world of sickness and death.
And still, God is God, awaiting the right moment, weaving together a much bigger and better story in which the best is yet to come.