NOTES for Joh 11:1-57

Death puts many things in their place. It cannot be deceived, it cannot be laughed off, before it all are equal, and no one can escape it. Therefore it is not surprising that a person compares the most serious and important things in strength with death - a worthy comparison: "love is strong as death" (Song 8:6). Religious faith, as the most serious content of many people's lives, has more than once been set alongside death; thousands of martyrs chose to die rather than renounce their faith.

So death is a kind of boundary at which the final testing of faith takes place. This is not necessarily one's own death - Lazarus's sisters faced this test just as he himself did. They kept faith, but not to the end. There will be a resurrection of the dead, but not now, Martha thinks.

That is why these words sound strange to her: "I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in Me, though he die, yet shall he live." And victory over death takes place, even before the final triumph of Pascha, and before we ourselves can be convinced by experience that love is stronger than death.

"Today Bethany, rejoicing in the rising of Lazarus, foretells the Resurrection of Christ the Giver of Life..." It is often said that there is, so to speak, this "artistry" in the Gospel: spokesman-figures like John the Baptist, and paired events such as the raising of Lazarus, meant to set off the main event; in other words, everything follows the laws of literary texts. But this is deeply wrong. It can be seen fully only with the eyes of the heart, but still let us try to notice some very concrete details. Christ rose on the third day. The Lord raised Lazarus on the fourth.

Why is the fourth day mentioned? It turns out that there is a reason quite concretely conditioned by culture. Let us turn to David Stern's book, "Jewish New Testament Commentary," p. 269: "Before medicine learned to distinguish coma from death, people were sometimes mistakenly buried alive. Jewish burial customs tried to rule out every possibility of such a terrible mistake. According to a post-Talmudic tractate compiled in the eighth century (by the Jewish calendar, our note), 'we go out to the cemetery and check the dead for three days, and we do not fear being suspected of walking in the ways of the Amorites (that is, in superstitious rites). Once a buried man was checked and found to be alive; he lived another 25 years and then died. Another such man lived, and five children were born to him before he died' (Semachot 8:1)."

And the fact that four days had passed means something very simple: the time for the prescribed ritual checking had already expired. Lazarus was truly dead. Whether the Lord could have been in Bethany before that time or not, whether He deliberately waited or not, is not a question for our mind. That is how it was. There is not a trace here of artistry, symbolism of numbers, coincidences, multiples, and so on, the kind always found in "mystagogical" literature. There is only the living fabric of life.

The Savior's reaction to the news of Lazarus's illness and death shows well what the Way is. But not only the Way with a capital letter, the Way of the Messiah; every spiritual path of an ordinary person is subject to the same laws. And the first condition of the way is the quality of life. Of existence. Of being. The Savior's words about Lazarus's illness, which is "not unto death, but for the glory of God," at first glance seem strange at the very least: after all, Lazarus did die.

Of course, one could say: Jesus knew in advance that He would raise His dead friend. But that would be only part of the answer. The point is not that He knows the past and future in all fullness. The point is how He knows them. How He sees. And this, in turn, is determined precisely by that same quality of existence.

Where do we live: in the fallen world, where space, time, and chains of cause and effect are absolute reality? Or in the Kingdom, where all this is relative, where even causal links are reversible, and where the past can therefore become as if it had never existed at all? This determines the quality of our life. And the possibility of the way as well. Jesus stands on the Way from His very birth: after all, the fullness of His communion with His Heavenly Father was absolute from the very beginning of His Way. We ordinary people still need to set out on the way, if, of course, we want to reach that Kingdom which the Savior promises us and enter it.

But the very possibility of the way is connected with our spiritual state. It is this state that determines the quality of our life. And what we are able to see. The glory of God can be seen only from the Kingdom. If we have no relation to the Kingdom, all we will see is death. Christianity is the life of the Kingdom. But in our earthly life, life in a world where the Kingdom has not yet opened to the end and in fullness, abiding in the Kingdom becomes the way of the Kingdom. That very way on which, if one walks it to the end, one can see the glory of God. And meet Christ returning in glory.

Martha went out to meet Christ, while Mary remained at home. When Martha and Mary are compared, they are often contrasted as embodiments of practicality and spirituality, although Martha too is open to the Teacher’s words, and Mary is capable of being active. This time, Martha’s qualities were manifested not only in household cares, but also in the steps she took toward Christ, which cannot be separated from her ability to listen to Him and assimilate what she heard.

Christ does not even enter the house; He goes straight to the tomb. Here the Gospel has preserved a unique testimony for us: Jesus wept. This alone is enough to understand how incompatible His image is with that of a celestial being capable of sending Lazarus to his death in order to demonstrate His own power. No, He does not want people to die; He grieves over their fate and therefore intends to free us from enslavement to evil.

He asks the people gathered at the tomb to roll away the stone. Christ, who is able to raise the dead, could have managed it Himself, but that would not have benefited the people: we cannot raise the dead, but He is not obliged to do for us what lies within our power. Genuine hope in God must not be confused with the mentality of Emelya lying on his stove.

Lazarus was a friend of Christ, and He loved him very much. Yet Jesus allowed him to pass through the experience of death. He allowed it deliberately, because, of course, He could have come while Lazarus was still ill. The experience of death is something very important. In the story of Lazarus's family we see his sisters more, while Lazarus is as if silent, but we know the main thing about him: Jesus loved him and allowed him to die.

Very often, when we love someone who is seriously ill, we pray fiercely for his healing. Once a young woman had a father she loved beyond memory who was very seriously ill. She spoke about him with a very wise person, saying that she was asking for a cross for herself, since the Lord had not heard her prayers, which had already gone on for almost two years, so that at least from the cross she could pray for him and then He would hear and heal the sufferer. And the wise person answered her: what are you praying for, surely for healing; pray instead that God's will be done.

This is exactly what the story of the raising of Lazarus is about. Even the one He loves, perhaps such people in a special way, the Lord leads through the hardest experience: sometimes it is the experience of actual physical death, sometimes simply a particular cross, so that God's grace and God's glory may be revealed in them, for in them it is revealed with astonishing radiance.

Many of us know this situation: someone close to us has died, and friends come to express their condolences. They say, “We grieve with you,” or “We will all end up there,” in one way or another acquiescing to death and accepting its finality. Jesus' words are strikingly different. He speaks of resurrection, of victory over death. He speaks of Himself as the bearer of a life for which death is not the end. More than that, He can give such life to others.

Then comes the most important question: “Believest thou this?” For each person to whom this question is addressed, the moment of decisive choice now arrives—the choice of faith. Reason cannot help, because it has nothing to do where there is no information. An adventurous temperament cannot help, because both answers are equally risky. This choice can be made only by the human heart, the center of a person's free will and his capacity for love and trust without any proof. This question is now put to every one of us: “Believest thou this?”

Such situation is familiar to many of us: one of our close relations dies, and friends come to express their condolences. They say: we "sorrow", - or "we shall all be there ", - somehow or other we accept death, admitting its finality. The words of Jesus distinguish themselves in a striking way. He speaks about resurrection, about victory on death; He speaks about Himself as being the bearer of life, of which death is not the end. Moreover, He says He can grant such a life to others. And after comes the main question: "do you believe this?" And here, for everyone, to whom this question is given, comes a moment of decisive choice - the choice to believe, in which reason can help in nothing, because it has nothing to do where there is no information, and in which an adventurous character can't help, because both answers have identical risks. This choice can be made only in man's heart, the center of his free will and in the faculties to love and with confidence without any proofs. And right now, this question is given to each of us: "do you believe this?".

Such situation is familiar to many of us: one of our close relations dies, and friends come to express their condolences. They say: we "sorrow", - or "we shall all be there ", - somehow or other we accept death, admitting its finality. The words of Jesus distinguish themselves in a striking way. He speaks about resurrection, about victory on death; He speaks about Himself as being the bearer of life, of which death is not the end. Moreover, He says He can grant such a life to others. And after comes the main question: "do you believe this?" And here, for everyone, to whom this question is given, comes a moment of decisive choice - the choice to believe, in which reason can help in nothing, because it has nothing to do where there is no information, and in which an adventurous character can't help, because both answers have identical risks. This choice can be made only in man's heart, the center of his free will and in the faculties to love and with confidence without any proofs. And right now, this question is given to each of us: "do you believe this?".

Jesus' raising of Lazarus is described in unusual detail. The evangelist seems deliberately to set it apart from other miraculous events like it, whether healings or raisings. What is described here is indeed something extraordinary. Even the raising of Jairus's daughter was not like the raising of Lazarus. There, death had still only just touched a person. Here, its complete and obvious triumph has already occurred. So complete that people even want to stop Jesus when He is about to enter the tomb, because it is already too late and useless. Nothing can be done anymore, and entering the tomb means becoming unclean, in this case with no need at all.

But He knows what He is doing. He knows what He lives by and what He carries within Himself. And He knows that the Kingdom is stronger than death, that there in the Kingdom there is simply no place for death. And Lazarus, coming into contact with the Kingdom, rises. Death retreats, just as it will in due time retreat from Him Himself on the day of His Resurrection. Here everything depends on the life by which a person lives. If it is the life of the Kingdom, to the end and in fullness, then there is no death for that person. If it is the life of the old world, not yet transformed by the breath of God, then death is inevitable. So it is with Lazarus: he lost the life of this world that he had. Death conquered, as it always conquers what this world calls life but what in fact turns out to be something between life in its fullness and death. But Jesus brought him another life, the life by which He Himself lives. In this life there is no place for death, and Lazarus rises. He returns to life.

Of course, not to the fullness of the life of the Kingdom that the Savior carries within Himself. Death retreats before the Kingdom, but a person contains only as much life as he is able to contain. Lazarus returned to that relative fullness of earthly life that was accessible to him, and in that sense he remained the same. Even contact with the Kingdom does not change a person by itself, without that person's participation. But the experience of such contact remains with a person forever. In this sense, Lazarus certainly changed and could no longer become what he had been before. The evangelist tells us nothing about this man's later fate. What happened to him afterward, after the Resurrection and after Pentecost, can only be wondered about. But what is said is enough to understand: the Kingdom truly entered the world. Not yet in all its fullness, but finally and irreversibly.

The raising of Lazarus is for us first of all an "assurance of the coming general resurrection." Raising Lazarus, the Lord gives us proof that the terrible lot of mortal humanity is changed as a result of His victory on the Cross. And we can believe that the gift of His grace from the Cross of Golgotha is given to all and to each, that our death loses its irrevocability before the face of Christ. Reading Isaiah's prophecy in Nazareth, the Lord says that He has come "to set the oppressed free." Today we see that this is not a metaphor, that He truly frees the age-old prisoners of hell: us. Therefore Christians, meeting Christ who has come for us into this terrible world, sing Him a song of praise.

Jesus performs an unprecedented miracle: the raising of Lazarus. This event, however, is perceived by people very differently: for some it becomes a sign of God's blessing, and for others, a dangerous manifestation of extremism. The Pharisees fear that this strange preacher from Judea, by His miracles, will attract the people to Himself and start an uprising that will be suppressed by the Romans, thereby putting an end to political freedom and religious life. Their earthly logic is entirely understandable: common sense suggests acting exactly as they did, sacrificing one person in the interests of the majority.

At times the Lord proposes that we do something that does not fit within generally accepted frameworks. His plan can appear insane to us, contradicting our ideas about the order of the world. It is hard for us to accept that His will can involve the disruption of familiar peace and quiet, the loss of what was achieved with hard labor, even death - and death on a cross. But precisely this "final" fall of Jesus, from the Pharisees' point of view, became salvation for the whole universe, because divine arithmetic differs from earthly arithmetic.

How comforting it is to hear the words of the prophet Ezekiel, especially when you realize that your heart is full of evil thoughts and your life of evil deeds. Through the prophet, the Lord says that the people will have one King, and therefore one will uniting a multitude of people. Finding a place in every heart, this will shall renew it, heal it, and cleanse it of sin. That heart will no longer defile itself with idols, abominations, and every kind of vice. The Lord also says that He will gather His people from everywhere, while in the Gospel of John we read that the sacrifice is offered not only for God's people, that is, for the Jews, but also for all of us, the scattered children of God. Jesus dies on the cross and rises again in order to gather into one all who live on earth and to widen the bounds of the "people of God." Moreover, the Lord promises to be our God forever; all that remains for us is to desire to become His sons, to cross the threshold into the "people of God," and to remain there forever.

When one reads the Gospel, it becomes completely clear that the Synagogue and the Temple leadership treated Jesus in entirely different ways. For representatives of the Pharisaic brotherhood, which in those days was the core of the Synagogue, Jesus was, on the one hand, a Teacher, a Prophet, and perhaps even the Messiah; on the other hand, depending on how His activity was assessed by representatives of particular Pharisaic circles, He was a deceiver, an impostor, and a false prophet. But one way or another, the issue was an assessment of Him and His activity in essence, in a spiritual and religious context. Such an assessment could evoke respectful reverence or hatred toward Him, but His words and deeds left no one in the Synagogue indifferent.

The Temple's reaction was different. There, a miracle was considered not from the standpoint of its authenticity or falseness, but from the standpoint of whether it was appropriate or inappropriate, expedient or inexpedient; and both appropriateness and expediency were considered exclusively in political terms. The Pharisees said: He performs miracles that can be explained only by the fact that He is from God, but He does not meet our criteria for a man of God. How are we to explain this? The high priest frames the question differently: He performs miracles that are inappropriate because this may lead to an uprising, a revolt, whose consequence will be a punitive expedition by the Romans that will put an end to the very existence of Jerusalem and the Temple.

The Pharisees respond to the situation as consistently and thoroughly religious people. They ask themselves: how should we relate to Him and to what He is doing? Is He right, or not? The high priest's reaction, despite the religious duties laid on him, is the reaction of a secular politician, who asks himself and others: is what He is doing useful for us? Is this Man dangerous to us? And if He is dangerous, how can we stop Him? In one case, before us is a question about the meaning of what is happening, even if the answers are not always adequate. In the second, there is a purely pragmatic approach to the matter.

This is why, no doubt, Jesus still found supporters and followers among the Pharisees, but not among the representatives of the Temple leadership. The question of meaning, even when answered incorrectly, always opens a spiritual perspective for the one who asks it, although of course this still does not guarantee that the questioner will manage to make the right spiritual choice. Pragmatism, however, opens no perspectives except those that do not go beyond the bounds of the untransformed world. These perspectives have no relation to spiritual life. None at all.

We are used to thinking that prophets can, for the most part, only be "good people." After all, one must listen to the Spirit of the Lord; one must be God's person in order to be able to convey His will, His words, to the world. But sometimes people who resist God also become prophets "against their will." A person, regardless of whether he is directed toward God or in some other direction, still somehow comes into contact with the spiritual world. Something is revealed to him, although he himself may not notice it. And with his own words, as a result, he testifies in favor of the one he may even be fighting.

Today before our eyes there are even two descriptions of such people: the high priest Caiaphas and the persecutors of Christians in Thessalonica. The first, without knowing it, conveyed the very essence of why Christ came: to save everyone by His death. The second call Paul and the disciples "worldwide troublemakers," that is, in modern language, those who turned the whole world upside down. In both situations the persecutors put an exclusively negative meaning into their formulations.

But that is exactly the point: both Christ and His disciples are not of this world (see John 8:23, 17:14). And often the positions of the world completely contradict the position of Christ. Therefore what for the world is evil, madness, and offense (see 1 Cor. 1:23) may turn out to be the very thing that is most important and saving for it.

The high priest's words that it is better for one man to die than for the whole people to perish are interpreted by the evangelist as a kind of prophecy that slipped from the lips of a person who meant something quite different. Indeed, Isaiah's prophecies know the image of the Messiah suffering because of the people's sins. Isaiah, however, does not speak of the Messiah's death. Here John interprets the high priest's statement in the spirit of a new, specifically Christian revelation and experience.

But his interpretation can hardly be considered only his own guess. Indeed, before his eyes was the story of Lazarus's resurrection. And the people's reaction to it. The high priest's words are only an assessment of the situation connected with this popular reaction. From the religious and political point of view everything is clear here.

The high priest and the whole temple elite wanted problems with any messianic movements least of all. Previously Jesus' activity had not attracted their attention because it was still comparatively not very noticeable, although the leaders of the Pharisaic movement had noticed it long before. But now, after an unprecedented miracle that drew equally unprecedented attention from a huge number of people by local standards, the matter was taking on an openly and vividly religious-political character.

Jesus was becoming noticeable enough that He could now be feared as the potential leader of a mass messianic movement. And such a movement threatened serious reprisals from Roman power. The high priest was no messianist and treated prophecy rather skeptically, but he was an experienced enough politician to understand the danger of political messianism.

Yet this was only the external side of the situation. There was another side, a spiritual one. During the whole time of the Savior's earthly ministry the Kingdom had never appeared to the world in such fullness and power as at the moment of Lazarus's resurrection. This event was truly absolutely unique in a world that did not yet know either the Resurrection or Pentecost. And the fallen world reacted. It rose up against the Kingdom entering it. It rose up in the person of earthly power, both secular and religious. But religious power began it. For religion is closer to spiritual life than anything else in the world.

But precisely it can also become spiritual life's chief enemy. The more human there is in religion, the more strongly it opposes spiritual life as such. And it is perhaps impossible to imagine a more obvious triumph of the human in religion than religious power, regardless of place, time, or religion. Therefore the temple elite inevitably had to be the first to challenge Christ and the Kingdom; otherwise it would have ceased to be itself. And then, of course, came the decision: let one man die for the people. That is what happened. True, in another sense. And not for one people, but for all humanity. For all and for each.