Graveclothes
I am posting one of these stories every 2-3 days over a fortnight. This is the second of seven in all. They do not directly relate to one another - there are inconsistencies, as I wrote each one as a stand-alone, and even the voice of Lazarus in my head varied from story to story. In this one he is questioning and a little bit mopey. Jesus, however, is unchanging.
When
everyone had left – which did not take as long as you might think, as after a
while everyone clearly felt that saying ‘So…you’re still alive, then?’ had
become a bit tiresome – Jesus and I sat on a wall together, swinging our legs, not
saying much. Time passed.
“So…what
happens now?” I asked.
“What
do you want to happen?”
“Well,
I don’t know. I just thought you might have a plan.”
“I
do.”
“And
I thought you would tell me what it is…?”
“I
already have.”
I
thought about it for a while, but I could not remember Jesus saying at any
point what I should do after folding up my own graveclothes. In fact, I don’t
think the word ‘graveclothes’ had ever been mentioned.
After
a few minutes had passed – all spent with me frowning and thinking – Jesus
intervened. “Love God. Be kind to one another. Feed the hungry, look after the
sick, love the loveless, visit the prisoner. Forgive. Give. And be joyful.”
Then
he looked at me. “Be joyful, Lazarus. Your graveclothes do not define you.”
There
was silence for a while. I looked back at the tomb. Its mouth gaped, slack and
toothless.
“But…I
died.” My voice was unexpectedly strangled in my throat. “I’m the only one.
Surely that means…something?” My speech had dwindled to a whisper. It wasn’t
that I wanted some sort of special status: I wasn’t seeking personal promotion.
But to die – and be called back – what did it mean? How could I pick up my old
life again, as if nothing had happened?
The
sun was low in the sky, burnishing the fields. Our shadows lay long before us.
“Walk with me, Lazarus”, he said.
We
left the tomb behind and set off down the road out of Bethany, the one that led
to the Sea of Salt. Our footsteps fell into rhythm as we followed the river
down the valley. After a few minutes he spoke again. “Why do you think I am
here, Lazarus? What is my purpose?”
I
hesitated. “To show us…the way to God?”
“Yes.
Yes, but so much more. You see, you cannot know the way - ” he gestured at the
road ahead; “ - unless you understand where you have come from.” And he bent
down and scooped up a handful of dust from the path. “Men and women come from
dust, Lazarus. Just dust, with the breath of God within. Fragile, but with so
much potential. Death is the end of all that; the end of all that life, all
that hope.” The dust trickled through his fingers to the earth beneath, and he
ground it underfoot.
We
walked further as the sun sank, casting bars of sun and shadow across the path.
The road had climbed a little, and we could look over the Salt Sea, white in
the distance.
“Why
is there no life in that sea, when the lake of Galilee teems with it?” he
asked.
“Because
it is the place where the river ends”, I replied. “There is nowhere for the
water to go; so everything dies, at the mercy of the sun.”
“Quite
right! And so it is with men and women. If they do not journey, if they
stagnate, they die. And knowing that death is coming is in itself something
that takes the life from them, the joy, and the hope.” He stopped suddenly,
grabbed my arms and looked urgently into my eyes. “Lazarus! I called you out of
that tomb to show people that there is another way! That God is not defeated by
death, so neither will they be! The river runs on!”
“But
I will still die – like everyone else?”
He
sighed. “Yes. For now, that is the truth. But it is only part of the truth.
Lazarus, I am Life, I am Truth. And I am Living Water, clean, bubbling,
flowing, teeming with life. Do not be dry dust. Become saturated in my river.”
We
had paused, and now our feet began to turn towards home as the darkness
threatened to encroach once more. I tried to make sense of all that I had
heard, the many metaphors rattling around my head.
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