When someone tells us a story of pains or accomplishments, most of us are tempted to try to top it. In the Disciples of Christ in Community Program, we call that "me-more-ism." "Really? You had a knee replaced? I had both knees replaced." "Really? You won the local prize? I won the regional prize." You get the idea. It’s one of the ways we shift the agenda and don’t really listen to one another.

So, with that in mind, I recall that last week Liz preached about a story of Jesus healing Blind Bartimaeus. Really? Healing a blind man. I’m preaching about Jesus raising a dead man! [To Liz] Nanny, nanny boo boo!

Let’s get a little background. Jesus has just healed Bartimaeus and, in a move that is sure not to get him elected, he kindly points out that the religious leaders of his day are the ones who are really blind. Then he helpfully comments that not only are they blind, they are also deaf to God’s voice. The recipients of these accolades show their appreciation by trying to stone him, but he skedaddles.

Then he gets word that Lazarus is dying. Jesus is a close friend of the family. He knows the sisters well — Mary, the introvert, and Martha, the extrovert. Lazarus is a good friend. Jesus loves these people. So when he gets word that Lazarus is very sick, naturally . . . he does not budge for two days, saying that this illness does not lead to death, but is for God’s glory.

After the two days, he says to his disciples, "OK, time to go back." They helpfully point out that he’s proposing to go back to the place from which he very recently had to skedaddle to avoid being stoned. He says, "Lazarus is dead; let’s go." And to give him his due, because he is usually remembered only for being a doubter, it is Thomas who says, "Let us also go, that we may die with him."

They get close to the house, and Martha, the extrovert, runs out to meet Jesus. She greets him with these angry words: "If you had been here, my brother would not have died." She loves him and believes in him, but I can’t imagine that scene without an edge in her voice. Martha, the extrovert, is the one who blurts things out. And, after all, who wouldn’t be ticked?

Then, while still on his way to the house, Jesus sends for Mary, and, in her gentile way, quite Mary comes and falls at his feet, weeping, weeping, weeping. And she says the same thing [sadly]: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."

Now, Mary is not like Martha. She is the one who will wash his feet with her tears. So I don’t hear the edge in her voice. She’s not accusing. She’s making a faith statement. And she is grieving, so heartbreakingly grieving. Weeping, weeping.

Then, in one of the relatively rare glimpses of Jesus’ humanity that we find in John’s Gospel, we are told that Jesus is "greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved." And he begins to weep.

That’s a pretty significant thing. The Son of God weeps.

I used to think that Jesus wept because his friend had died. I used to think that he wept for the same reason that Mary and the others were weeping — out of grief for Lazarus. But that doesn’t really make any sense in the context of the story. He has said from the beginning that Lazarus’s death was for the glory of God. He (maddeningly) waited to come. In keeping with the tone of John’s Gospel, he has known all along that he will raise Lazarus. Why is he weeping?

I think he is weeping, his spirit is "greatly disturbed," because Martha is so hurt, as evidenced by her anger, and Mary is so full of grief, as evidenced by her weeping. Jesus knows he will raise Lazarus; he’s not weeping for Lazarus. He is weeping because he loves these people, and the death of their loved one is so hard on them. Grieving, whether through tears or anger, is so painful. He breaks down and weeps because he so loves, so feels for, those who are grieving.

And then he goes to the tomb and says, "Take away the stone." Martha says, pointedly, "It’ll stink; he’s been dead four days." Four days. Four days. Now he’s stinking, and you waited two days to come. She’s mad. Who wouldn’t be?

Jesus says, "Believe, and you will see the glory of God." So they move the stone; Jesus says a prayer, then he yells, "Lazarus, come out!" Lazarus comes out, wrapped pretty much like a mummy in the burial cloth. And Jesus says, "Unbind him, and let him go." Unbind him, and let him go.

Let’s talk about death. Maybe we don’t talk about death enough on Sunday. I don’t know, maybe we think it’s too morbid. But it’s really important. And I want you to know that I know that I probably won’t tell you anything you haven’t heard before. But these are the kind of things that we hear and think about, and then they so easily dissipate in our lives. So we need to gather and rehearse, reaffirm, renew. It’s important. So, please, stick with me while we deal with a topic a lot of people would rather pretend they won’t have to deal with.

This is All Saints’ Sunday, and in a few minutes we’ll read the names of our dead for the last year. I don’t have to tell you that it has been a hard year at St. John’s. We’ve had a lot of death, a lot of very painful grieving.

From this story of the raising of Lazarus, I want us to take two lessons. First, note that Jesus has great compassion for those who grieve. We see examples of two kinds of grieving in the story: Martha, who is faithful but angry, and Mary, who is faithful but overcome with grief. When we grieve, I suspect that most of us have some of both of them in us. Martha is upset with Jesus, and who, when they lose a loved one, especially if it seems untimely, does not have some of Martha in them? And Mary, just weeping and weeping. Jesus loves them both, and weeps for both of them. The first lesson this story has to tell us is that when we grieve, however we grieve, Jesus weeps for our pain.

The second lesson is that we must not allow death to bind us. As Christians, we believe that death is not the ultimate enemy. The ultimate enemy is separation, isolation, loss of love, failure of relationship, embracing hatred. So today we sing of and celebrate the Communion of Saints. We affirm that through the gates of death we find new life, that God has knit us together in "one communion and fellowship" in the mystical body Christ, a communion that transcends death. That is our faith and our proclamation on this All Saints’ Sunday.

And yet, don’t we so often live as if death is the absolute ultimate enemy, the very worst thing that could befall us? We Christians respect life; we are grateful for life; we struggle, as we should, to maintain life. But I can tell you that when death comes knocking, there is a huge difference between people who are filled with absolute fear, and people who can say, as a friend of mine said upon receiving news of a terminal diagnosis, "I’ll fight to stay alive, but however this turns out, all will be well." Or as my father said without a hint of fear as he was dying, "This is all very interesting."

Living is not about avoiding dying. If you live to avoid dying, you have allowed death to wrap you up, to bind you. Living is about getting ready to die. I don’t know when or how you or I will die. But I know this about our deaths— they are inevitable. I know this: one day our names will be on the list. Jesus died. And have you seen Lazarus around lately? No. Jesus raised him from the dead, but later, Lazarus died too. My name will be on the list. Your name will be on the list.

Sometimes we so want to deny the reality of our mortality because we think that getting ready to die will fill us with fear and damage our lives. Quite the opposite is true. If we accept that we will die, death is free to give us a wonderful gift — the gift of how to live. If we live knowing that we will die and preparing to die, we won’t be morbid people! We’ll be joyous, grateful, generous, loving people who value our time, cherish our relationships, and put things in the kind of perspective that can come only with the realization that our time is limited.

One of my tricks when I have a hard decision is to ask myself, "What will I think of this when I’m on my deathbed?" It is a helpful perspective, and a gift that my mortality gives me.

So, I want to challenge you. And I want you to know that this is a challenge for me too. (I hate it when I preach to myself!) This isn’t easy for anybody, myself included. But I want to challenge you and me to live each day as if we are going to die. Don’t let that be fearful, or morbid, or sad. Let that be inspiring. Let that free you to be grateful, and loving, and to cherish, and embrace, and say what needs to be said today , and do what needs to be done today.

Remember that you have the Communion of Saints cheering for you. Remember that you will someday join their number. And remember that, when we feel our selves getting wrapped in fear, we can listen for Jesus’ voice shouting, "Unbind him! Let him go!"

The Rev. James H. Pritchett, Jr. St. John’s Episcopal Church, College Park, GA. If you would like to comment on this sermon or receive these sermons by email, contact me at rector@stjohnscollegepark.com.