“If Only”
Text: John 11:1-53
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
If only. Two words that describe an essential ingredient of tragedy. If only Romeo and Juliet had gotten their messages to each other. If only there had been more lifeboats on the Titanic. And you personally know the sharp pain of “if only.” If only I had invested in that company when I had the chance. If only I had tried harder for that life goal when I was younger. Sometimes “if only” cuts a little deeper. If only they had caught the cancer sooner. If only he had left a little earlier, or a little later, and avoided that traffic accident. If only we had known that was the last time we’d talk. You have your own version of “if only,” and it haunts you in those moments when it creeps back into your mind, into your heart.
The two sisters in our Gospel reading today have their own “if only”. They actually use the same words, independent of each other. St. John wants you to notice that. First it’s Martha, who goes out to intercept Jesus when He’s finally on His way to their home, days after she had sent word that Lazarus was sick. She sees Him and the first thing she says to Him is “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” And then later, when Martha tells Mary that Jesus has arrived, Mary runs out to find Jesus for herself, in the same place where Martha had confronted Him. She says the same thing. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” What they say to Jesus is what we all say to Him. It’s more than just individual grief. It’s what we all hold to be true—if God had done what we thought He should have done, when we thought He should have done it, things would have turned out fine. If you had been here. If you had healed Him. If you had answered. If, if, if; if only.
Notice that Martha and Mary both assume that the best possible outcome was simply prevention. The best thing Jesus could have done what show up in time and stop something bad from happening. There’s an accusation in there, even if we don’t directly say who we’re blaming. We can call it bad luck, circumstance, fate, disaster, tragedy. But as soon as we say, “If only…” there’s a complaint against the One who controls all those little details, who could have done something, could have done what we wanted, on our timeline.
But notice Jesus’ reaction. He doesn’t offer an explanation. He doesn’t defend His delay when He stayed where He was two days after getting word that Lazarus was sick. He doesn’t provide cliches or truisms or high-minded philosophical answers. His answer to Mary is “Where have you laid him?” Jesus enters into their situation. And there, confronted with the sisters’ weeping, with the grief of the Jews who were with them, confronted with the reality of the death of someone He loved, Jesus Himself wept. Jesus is not above the grief. He isn’t interested in dealing with it from afar. The One who is the eternal Son of the Father, who knows and sees all things, is also man, and as a man, He comes into our tragedies and heartbreak. He stands at the tomb and weeps with those who weep. He knows what He’s come to do, but first He acknowledges the reality of it. More than that, He enters that reality with us.
Your Lord does not arrive as a calculating problem solver. He doesn’t just parachute in, give an answer, and then walk out, clean and unscathed. Your God is in it with you. That’s why He took on flesh and blood. That’s why He bound Himself to you in Holy Baptism. That’s why He unites Himself to you in body and blood in the Holy Supper. It’s so that He can go with you into these dark places that inevitably arrive. It’s so He can stand with you and weep with you when the time for that comes. Your God meets you in the tomb before He empties it. Jesus will not answer the “if only” of our lives on its own terms. He has something even more powerful.
We’ve been talking a lot about resurrection this Lent. In our midweek services we’ve heard about so many times that the people in the middle of it assumed that if only the right person had been there, if only the circumstances had been different, if only God had ordered things differently, that things would have been better. We’ve heard the widow of Zarephath cry out to Elijah, “What have you against me, man of God? Did you come to remind me of my sin and kill my son?” If only Elijah had never come to her, her son would be alive. If only God had done things differently, or treated her differently, then this nightmare never would have happened.
But notice that this is where the Lord’s salvation shines the brightest. It’s not in reformulating the circumstances, and it’s certainly not in just preventing something bad from happening. It comes when things are at their worst. Elijah doesn’t try to defend God or point the widow to some greater plan or some trite answer. He simply takes the dead boy and cries out to the Lord. And in Lazarus’ situation, Jesus deliberately waited. By the time Jesus arrives at Lazarus’ tomb, the stone has been there four days. Lazarus is decomposing. Things had gone from bad to worse. But that doesn’t matter to Jesus. He shows up when things are at their lowest, when it looks like there’s absolutely nothing more to be done. And then He speaks, but it’s not any of the answers we’re used to hearing from other people. There are no defenses or rebuttals against the accusation of “If only.” He simply speaks with the voice of One who has authority over all things: “Lazarus, come out.”
In all of these resurrections we’ve heard about this Lent, including Lazarus’ resurrection today, God has a much greater solution than just rearranging circumstances, or getting the timing right. The solution is much more radical than that. It’s new life. It’s new creation. It’s completely remaking things so that they’re even better than they were before. He takes our “if only” and turns it into a “Here’s something greater.”
This can be hard for us to fully take in. We’re mortal creatures and what we know, what we understand best is what we see, the experiences we’ve had, the conditions we can grasp and even somewhat control. But resurrection is not for controlling or grasping. It’s not for our old ways of understanding. It’s held only by faith. That’s why Jesus says, “Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die.” And then He asks, “Do you believe this?” Not “Do you perfectly understand this?” or “Do you feel this way?” Resurrection is for faith to grasp.
Because Lazarus did die again, as did the widow of Zarephath’s son, as did all those resurrections we’ve heard about this Lent. And if we simply go by what we see, it looks like the same old thing, the same old sorrows and death over and over again. But those resurrection are pledges. They’re tokens of something greater on the way. It’s more than a “Things will look up again,” or “Look on the bright side,” or “Everything will turn out OK.” Jesus offers much more than that. He offers more than coming back into this fallen world. The One who raises the dead has walked out of His own tomb. After His own death, He showed what He does with death—what He will do to death forever. He will raise Lazarus and all those who have gone before, this time for eternity. He will raise your loved ones who have believed in Him. He will raise you and give you new life in the new, re-created heavens and earth.
And until then, in this time of waiting, He weeps with you. He knows your hurt, your sorrow. He grieves alongside you. But the voice who called Lazarus out of the tomb is the same voice that will have the last word over death, over pain, over everything that you carry with you until that day. Your Lord is at the grave with you, and He is pointing to what lies just beyond it. In the name of Jesus, the Resurrection and the Life. Amen.
