Today I’m thinking through this story in John 11 from the perspective of Lazarus.

When this chapter is busted out in church, we typically think about what Mary and Martha are thinking. Sometimes, we think about the disciples and their feelings. We may even think and talk about Jesus and his experience here.

But we don’t often take the time to ponder what’s going on with Lazarus.

After all, he was Jesus’ friend. He’s referred to as one of Jesus’ loved ones. They’d spent time together, hanging out, eating, talking, laughing. They had history, and I’m pretty sure Lazarus figured Jesus had his back. He got sick, but probably thought he’d get better like usual. But he actually started getting worse. Eventually, he’s in bed and it must have occurred to him that he might not get better.

Did it ever cross his mind to ask Jesus for help? Did he think Jesus may be too busy? Did he assume, once his sisters had sent a message to Jesus, that the one who’d walked the countryside healing total strangers would certainly come rescue a close friend?

What must it feel like to know your life is ebbing away and one of your best friends has the power to fix it? What must it feel like to have that friend not show up?

It’s probably not that hard for you to imagine what Lazarus must have felt. You’ve probably felt it at some point in your life. You believe God could fix things, but he delays his arrival. While you wait and wait and wait, well-intentioned people say things like, “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” Or, “I’m sure he’d be here if he could. Something must have come up.”

But he said he was your friend. Was he just saying that? Did he say that to everyone? Why would he help people he didn’t even know but not help you now?

And then you die….

Something’s not right about that. Something about it rubs us the wrong way. Sure, we may pretend it doesn’t bother us, or we may pretend like we’re not supposed to ask questions like this. The Psalmist didn’t carry any of those illusions. In fact, the psalms can be divided into several categories — different kinds of psalms — and the largest category of psalms are the psalms of lament (which is a fancy theological way of saying “psalms of complaint”).

Maybe Lazarus quoted some of those psalms on his deathbed. Jesus sure did.

Regardless, Jesus didn’t show up to help Lazarus until it was (from our perspective) too late. Lazarus was dead for four days. He closed his eyes and stopped breathing.

Then the next thing he knew he heard a familiar voice. It was Jesus telling him to come out. Did Lazarus know where he was or why he was all wrapped up? Was he consciously aware of being dead?

I don’t know about you, but I’ve got lots of questions about this.

At some point in time, the dots must have gotten connected. Lazarus either figured it out or was told that he’d been dead and brought back to life. But did he realize that it was just temporary? That he’d have to go through death all over again at sometime in the not too distant future? I wonder how that would make you feel.

How would you live if you knew you’d already died and been brought back to life on this earth for a finite period of time?

In some ways, that’s the challenge to all of us. Those of us who have died to self and been brought back to a new kind of life know that our remaining time on earth is short. So, as much as I’m called to live like Jesus, I’m also busy being Lazarus over here — wondering why Jesus didn’t show up when and how I wanted him to but thankful for another chance — brief though it may be — to really live before I die.

The other day I began telling you a story about Jesus. A good friend of his (Lazarus) is sick — really sick — like about to die sick. Lazarus’ sisters (Mary and Martha) send word to Jesus in the hopes that he’ll come see Lazarus and heal him.

But Jesus doesn’t do that. Jesus stays where he is. Jesus does nothing.

Or so it seems.

Then, after two days of staying put, Jesus announces to his disciples that he’s going to Judea.

His disciples, however, are not keen on the idea. The last time they were there, some folks tried to kill Jesus. As if he’d forgotten that episode, his disciples remind him and suggest that they stay where they are until the heat blows over.

“No,” says Jesus, “Lazarus has fallen asleep, and I should go wake him up.”

They think Jesus means literally “asleep” instead of dead, so they say, “Let Lazarus wake up on his own. Let’s stay here where there’s no trouble.”

Jesus says, “Did I say ‘asleep’? I meant ‘dead’ — Lazarus is dead, so let’s go.”

And Jesus leaves.

Thomas looks around the room and says, “Well, come on, let’s go die with him.”

This is where the story I told you the other day comes in. Martha sees Jesus and runs out to him, dropping a guilt trip on him. “If only you’d been here, maybe he wouldn’t have died.”

Then her sister Mary comes to Jesus and says the exact same thing (Jewish women…oy vey…the drama!).

Jesus gets emotional seeing his friends in pain, but he’s got a little surprise for them.

At this point, the sequence of the story is really important. Jesus and his followers, along with the two sisters and several other people from the village, are standing there at the grave-site (which was most likely a cave with a large stone blocking the entryway (to keep animals out). Jesus tells them to remove the stone. They object. He’s been dead for four days now, and, in that climate, there’s going to be a smell. A bad smell. In the King James vernacular, “Lord, by this time he stinketh.”

Jesus insists. The stone is moved. And then Jesus prays an odd little prayer. He says, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me” (emphasis mine).

Have heard — as in past tense.

Then he shouts, “Lazarus, you can come out now!”

And, in what must have been a sight that was at least a little bit funny, Lazarus shuffles (or maybe hops) out, bound tightly from head-to-toe in his burial cloth.

Lots of stuff to talk about here, but this is what struck me today: Jesus uses the past tense in that little prayer — indicating that he had prayed about this earlier — probably while everyone else thought he was doing nothing. Everyone — Mary, Martha, Lazarus, the disciples — assumed Jesus was just staying put, laying low, doing nothing.

But Jesus was praying. For what we’re not exactly sure. But it probably had something to do with asking his Father to preserve Lazarus’ body — maybe keep it from beginning to decompose so he could come out of the tomb intact. After all, it’s after the stone is rolled away that Jesus seems to know for sure that his prayer had been heard (no stink?).

Here’s the point (and this is extremely relevant to me given the 100 days of silence from which I am just now beginning to emerge): Jesus does some of his best work immediately after it would appear he has been doing nothing. Buckle up, folks, I believe we’re in for the ride of our lives, because miracles start to happen when Jesus does “nothing”.

From what I understand this happens to people from time to time. My facebook account has been disabled for no reason whatsoever. None. No warning. No reason. Nothing. I was on there. I changed my status. I refreshed the page, and I was locked out.

I’ve emailed them three times since it happened last night, but I haven’t heard anything from them. It’s very unsettling — perhaps more than it should be.

So, if you really are dying to know my status, you’ll just have to wait until this whole mess gets sorted out.

I could simply start over and create a new account, but I really don’t want to do that. It took me quite a while to amass 800 “friends”, and nearly 400 people read this blog via the networked blog feed on facebook. Not quite Scot McKnight numbers, but this is one of the more popular Christian blogs on facebook.

Or it was.

Anyway, I’m headed out of town for the weekend — taking the family and visiting some good folks in Sulphur Springs, TX. Let’s hope this is all worked out by the time I return on Monday. Until then, my status will have to remain unknown.

It’s been said that the two saddest words in the English language are the words “if only…”.

If only it hadn’t been raining.

If only they had said that.

If only she’d stayed.

If only you’d been here.

If only….

We’ve probably all felt the longing that prompts those words at least once. It’s a strange kind of nostalgia — not just for a different past but for a different present. This is what prompts stories about time travel. We’ve all wondered what it might be like to go back and undo some things we did or do some things differently. What kind of present could we engineer if we could change the past?

If only….

Jesus heard these words. One time he went to visit his friends Mary and Martha. It was just after their brother Lazarus had died, and Martha — busybody and strident and loudmouthed — saw Jesus coming down the walk and ran to him with these words. “If only you’d been here, my brother wouldn’t have died.”

Mary — the quiet one who liked to sit and listen — came at Jesus with these same words, too. Perhaps they’d repeated these words to each other over the course of the past few days. Perhaps they’d each taken a turn saying, “If only Jesus had been here, he could have done something to help.”

If only….

Jesus’ response to Martha is familiar to anyone who has read the Bible or heard a few sermons. He says, “Your brother will live again.”

Martha, being a good Jewish girl, believed that a resurrection would take place one day in the distant future. She says, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”

But Jesus knows that dreams of a far-off future can be cold comfort to those who suffer in the present. Still, he also knows that the present can never be changed by going to the past.

He tells Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life.”

Now think about this. Jesus didn’t just come from heaven to earth. In a sense, he came from the future to the present. He didn’t just come from God’s presence to ours; he came from God’s present to ours. In God’s present, the resurrection has already occurred. The old is gone; the new is now. Rather than trying to bring an altered past to bear on our current situation, Jesus wants us to know that he’s come to bring the future back to the present.

Jesus says the way to change the present is not to go back in time but to go forward in time and realize that — in him — the future is breaking into the now. The kingdom of God is at hand. Life has come to life. The Resurrection is among us.

So, the next time you’re tempted to say, “If only…”, force yourself to say, “If Jesus…”.

If Jesus is who he says he is….

If Jesus is here….

If Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever….

“If only” may be the saddest words in the English language. The two most hopeful words may be “If Jesus”.

So, I’m a couple of days behind on this post, but I’m still interested in it. Monday, January 25 was the dreaded “Blue Monday” — the official most depressing day of the year — at least according to Dr. Cliff Arnalls. He’s been doing research on seasonal affective disorders (aka S.A.D. — I’m not making that up — it’s a real clinical diagnosis) and has determined — through an extremely complex formula — that the Monday that begins the last full week of January is likely to be the most depressing day of the year. Here are some of the factors he takes into consideration:

Weather. Interestingly, SAD is extremely rare within 30 degrees of the equator — where days are long and skies are bright all year round. Cold, damp, grey skies make many of us more introspective and melancholy. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but if left unchecked (and added to the other factors in the equation) it can lead to a full-blown bout of depression.

Debt minus monthly income. Anyone gotten the credit card bills from Christmas yet? Anyone thinking about paying the minimum? Anyone noticed that your minimum payment might not even cover the interest on your outstanding debt? That’s right — many of us will make the minimum payment and our balance will increase. Depressing indeed!

Time since Christmas. All that holiday cheer can pack quite a hangover. All the build up of Christmas — it starts earlier every year — leads inevitably to a let-down as we forget about all the peace-on-earth-good-will-to-men stuff and get back to the dog-eat-dog reality of life.

Quitting. Most people break their New Year’s Resolutions within the first week of January. However, most of the most tenacious have also broken down by the end of the third week. You may have noticed that the gym isn’t as crowded these days.

There are other factors, and I’m not a mathematician. I tried to figure out my depression quotient but couldn’t. However, I do know that most years I experience something like SAD in early February. It usually lasts about a week or so and then evaporates. I always attributed it to the fact that my birthday comes at the end of that month. I thought I was just mourning the passing of another year, but Dr. Arnalls’ theory probably makes more sense.

I also know that I’ve recently started to pull out of a 90-day funk that has had me bogged down in the worst writer’s block I’ve ever experienced. I told a friend of mine that finishing the book felt like lifting something really heavy without bending your knees. It was the worst I have ever felt. Prayer has been a chore. Reading the Bible is like eating stale bread. I’ve been irritable and have found little or no pleasure in the things that normally bring me joy. It’s felt like a dark night of the soul, and I don’t use those words casually.

But it feels like it’s lifting somewhat. Maybe I’m ahead of the curve this year.

How about you? Are you feeling the winter blues? What do you do to counter them? Do you suppose there’s some sort of spiritual component Dr. Analls is overlooking?

So, Pat Robertson has pretty much been hoisted on the petard of his own words. Suggesting the Haitians were somehow to blame for their current state because of some pact made with the devil more than two centuries ago was, regardless of its historicity, terribly timed and insensitive. I want to quickly applaud all the relief efforts of Operation Blessing (the humanitarian organization founded by Pat back in the late 70s). Through Operation Blessing, Robertson has distributed millions of dollars’ worth of medical supplies and other aid to Haiti in just the past couple of weeks.

The reason I mention Operation Blessing is because Pat Robertson gets skewered in the media for saying foolish things, but he doesn’t get much credit for the good he has done and continues to do.

Still, it was a pretty dumb thing to say. Not that he’s the only one to say dumb things in the aftermath of disasters. Actor and activist Danny Glover said this earthquake was the result of global warming. Actually, he said it was the response (from Mother Nature?) to global leaders’ failure to respond to global warming at the recent climate summit in Copenhagen.

European liberals suggested that Hurricane Katrina was God’s judgment on American foreign policy. Islamic fundamentalists believed it was Allah’s vengeance on the Great Satan that is American decadence.

I’ll admit that it’s hard not to wonder about this kind of thing sometimes. Voodoo and occultic practices are embedded in the Haitian culture. Political corruption is a way of life. Poverty and lack of education are certainly evils in their society that few seem overly concerned to eradicate. New Orleans is certainly known more for its vice than for its virtue. American foreign policy has sometimes been meddlesome and self-serving.

And yet….

In the midst of all this I find myself wondering if we really want to start playing this game.

We should exercise caution as we sit comfortably in our easy chairs in our air-conditioned, suburban castles. If God is ready to start handing out punishments, he might start with the obvious places: New Orleans, New York, Haiti.

But how long until he really gets rolling and tears through the suburbs with a holy fire unlike any other? How long until he decides to take on the real evils: pride, arrogance, complacency, apathy? If this is judgment, maybe he’s just getting warmed up. Maybe this is just a preview of what is to come.

Personally, I do not believe that’s what is going on. But if you’re going to start with the blaming and the passing of judgment, you better be consistent. Until you’re ready to be the target of his righteous anger, you don’t want to get him started!

As we continue to consider how to respond to the tragedy in Haiti, let’s remember that Christianity is less about what and why — and more about who. Christianity is an invitation to a relationship, and relationships are personal in nature — not merely propositional. Thus, Christianity is not about what you know — it’s about who you know, who you’re becoming and who you love.

Also, please think and pray about how you can give generously to an organization like World Vision. Better yet, explore options to get involved personally. Gifts of money are great and will help the victims. Gifts of time and personal involvement will help the victims and change you forever as well.

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The more I think about it, the more I realize that most of our false assumptions about God’s character and nature arise out of our imagining what we would be like if we were God and had access to his resources. It’s no wonder that we’re scared and confused by him; we’ve been so heavily influenced by the Greek philosophers that their assumptions have become ours.

Case in point: Most people today — if they believe in God at all — believe that his highest attribute is power. He is nothing if not all-powerful. And he uses that power to dominate others. It’s really Nietzsche’s Will to Power with a thin veneer of theology.

Love was a lower virtue than power, the Greeks thought, because love implies some sort of need. Power, on the other hand, could be absolute — not lacking anything. This kind of power made the one holding it perfect and invulnerable.

Thus the Greeks imagined Zeus as the ultimate god of power. He had to break the rules every now and then — he had to be capricious — had to break his word — had to smite someone periodically just because he could. Otherwise, if he submitted to some kind of code, he would be thought to be lower than that code.

Plato came along (stick with me here) and refused to believe that the gods would be arbitrarily violent. But he still maintained this idea that they were invulnerable. They could do anything they wanted to anyone they wanted and no one was allowed to take offense at that. No one could affect them or cause them pain.

Obviously, this painted Plato in an interesting corner. To get out of his dilemma, Plato argued that the gods must be emotionless beings. In fact, if they were tied emotionally in any sense to anyone or anything that would unravel all their power.

Aristotle further developed this idea and gave it a name: Divine Impassibility. This is the belief that the gods cannot be affected by any outside source. The gods are unaware of the joy and sadness experienced by mere mortals. The gods not only do not know how we feel, they don’t care. They have their agenda, and that’s all they’re focused on.

Is this an accurate reflection of the God we find in the Bible? If so, what do we do with passages like, “Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love” (1 John 4:8)? If not, why do we wonder whether or not God might actually hear us when we talk to him and do something in response?

As a systematic theologian (almost anathema in these postmodern days), I know it’s somewhat futile to consider a taxonomy of God’s attributes. None of them is more important than another. Still, is it possible that love is greater than power?

This morning a large aftershock again shook the city of Port-au-Prince, Haiti. As we all read the reports of damage and deprivation, I encourage you to think deeply about what you know about God’s character and nature. I also challenge you to sit down with friends and family and think about what you can do to reflect that character in your own lives.

I also encourage you to contribute financially to an organization like World Vision.

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A few years back I read a controversial, little book called The Lost Message of Jesus by Steve Chalke and Alan Mann. For the most part, it was just a restating of the central argument of Dallas Willard’s The Divine Conspiracy. (For the record, I think both books are worth reading, but Willard’s is vastly superior. I found Steve and Allen’s take on the atonement to be unnecessarily inflammatory.)

There is a story Steve tells that really made me stop and think. Years later now I believe it may have shifted something fundamentally in my thinking.

Like many of us who grew up going to Sunday school, Steve had an array of teachers who tried to make the hard parts of the Bible easy to understand for kids. One difficult portion is the story found in Exodus 33 where Moses is allowed to see God’s backside — seeing something of his glory. But Moses isn’t allowed to see God’s face because, as the text says, “Anyone who sees [God's] face will die” (v. 20).

What’s up with that?

Well, Steve’s Sunday school teacher did what a lot of our Sunday school teachers did. He took a kleenex and lit a candle. Moving that tissue slowly closer to the candle’s flame, it ignited before the two even touched. God is like that! God is an all-consuming fire, and we are thin and sinful — like tissue paper. No one can get close to God without being burned up. That’s why no one can see his face and live.

Well, that’s scary. That’s the premise behind Jonathan Edwards’ famous sermon: Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God. But is it accurate? I suppose in one sense it may be. And yet….

I remember a friend whose mother was gradually losing her battle with Alzheimer’s while his father was going blind. I saw how hard this was on my friend. He looked miserable sometimes and felt helpless. I have another friend who suffers chronic pain — everything he does hurts. There is no comfortable position for him to sit or stand. I am afraid the pain will drive him mad. I know a couple who cannot have children biologically. Sometimes I catch them watching me with my kids, and I see the confusion and sadness.

These are not the most horrific sights. Certainly, none of my friends would compare their situation with those who are suffering in Haiti or Rwanda or even the ghettos of Brazil — where it’s a miracle if you live to be my age. My friends live in relative comfort compared with those whose lives are wracked with the torture of AIDS and abject poverty. And yet the pain of my friends is most acutely felt because…well…because they’re my friends. I’m emotionally attached to them. The people in other parts of the world are easier for me to ignore. All I have to do is turn off the TV.

I sometimes look at the suffering of my friends, and it reminds me of just how deep the reservoir of pain is in this world. In those moments, when I stare deep into the well of human suffering, I just want to die. I don’t want to live with the pain of what I’ve seen. Going on with the knowledge that such suffering exists in the world is difficult.

Now, imagine how God feels.

If he is who the Bible would have us believe he is, he has witnessed every act of suffering, every time innocence has ever been lost, every example of depravity. He has heard every cry, every agonized silent scream.

Perhaps it is this, rather than our sinfulness, that explains why we cannot look at God’s face and live. If God is love — it says that in the Bible, you know — then it makes sense for the one who loves most to also be the one who suffers most. I imagine all that suffering etched on his face. I also imagine that no one could bear to see a face marked with that much pain and live.

If you want to help the Haitian relief efforts, please consider giving to World Vision. An independent audit showed that 87% of their funds actually get into the hands of people they’re helping. That’s a remarkably low overhead (13%), and they have my full support.

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When something like the earthquake in Haiti (or the tsunami in Sri Lanka or Hurricane Katrina) happens, it can be disorienting. We claim to serve a God of love and power. It only makes sense for us to believe that our God could have used some of his power to stop the disaster — if he really loves us. Some are claiming that God (who is also a God of justice) uses events like these to balance the books, to pay groups of people back for the way they’ve treated him and others. I do not believe them.

Now, let me go on record here and say that I disagree with Pat Robertson’s theological take on this situation (as I disagreed with him over Katrina and 911). However, Pat and his organization are doing a lot of good — raising lots of money and sending tons of medical supplies to Haiti. And he is not alone in his views. Actor Danny Glover said just the other day that this earthquake was payback (from Mother Earth?) for the way the governments of the world responded at the recent global climate change conference in Copenhagen. I remember hearing Muslim religious leaders say that Hurricane Katrina had been a soldier for Allah. Pat’s in the crosshairs now, but he’s far from the only one with wacky ideas about the cause-and-effect of natural disasters.

My goal here is for us to work towards understanding what has happened, how it happened and how we are to live in light of such tragic events.

Something too many Christians fail to acknowledge is that there must be a distinction made between what we can call God’s causative will and God’s permissive will. Not everything that happens was caused by God, though it was clearly allowed by God.

I hear a lot of people say things like, “Well, it happened, so, clearly, it was God’s will.” Let’s be clear about what we’re saying, okay? Just because something happened, that doesn’t mean God caused it to happen or desired it. He may have simply allowed it because of some principle he sovereingly established.

For example, God doesn’t cause temptation, but he allows it. And he doesn’t always block temptation from us (like an internet filter that won’t even allow you to visit a provocative website) because God established your freedom to choose and refuses to violate that freedom.

Likewise, we know that God doesn’t want anyone to live outside of a personal relationship with him, but billions of people do. We could ask, “If God wants everyone saved, why doesn’t he just save everyone?” Well, as Chuck Swindoll has written, “He predetermined the plan of salvation, knowing that many would refuse it. The plan is set. Fixed. Unchanged and unchanging. But some prefer darkness to light, so they willfully refuse to turn to Christ for salvation.”

And — get this — God allows them to do this. I do not believe he causes them to do this, though.

This is a knotty problem, and people smarter than I have spent years trying to untangle it. I don’t mean to give you the impression that this is a simple matter. Still, our faith seeks understanding — so, we grope around for answers.

If you want to help the Haitian relief efforts, you might want to consider World Vision. They were already in place in Haiti helping people, and they have my full support.

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I guess my biggest problem with the theology we hear about from guys like Pat Robertson is the notion that everything has a rational explanation. I used to believe that, but I’m less certain now. The Bible itself affirms that for now we only know in part — we can only see things dimly, like in a fogged-up mirror. None of us knows completely why things like the earthquake in Haiti happen. Sure, you can draw a direct line from a drunk driver to a fatal car accident. But connecting the dots between occult practices and this disaster is more than a little presumptuous.

In fact, to use the words of Jewish philosopher Abraham Heschel, “Religion begins with wonder and mystery.” I fear that the modern church’s attempt to dispel all the mystery from Christianity has robbed us of a way of dealing with evil. Whether it is “natural evil” like an earthquake or “personal evil” like genocide in the Sudan — saying, “Well, it must be God’s will” just doesn’t cut it. That is an insufficient answer for a suffering world.

The world (and the events of the world) is a mystery, a question, not an answer. Perhaps even a rhetorical question at that. Any attempt to answer a rhetorical question is really an exercise in both redundancy and futility. The mystery of a Creative Genius rather than the aloof concept of power — the God of mystery rather than the Master Mind who stands apart — in other words, the God of the Incarnation, the God who became the Suffering Servant, the God in relation to Whom the here-and-now world derives meaning — this is the only idea adequate.

Our admission that we do not completely understand this mystery is more honest and compelling than outlining the abstract concept of a Grand Designer. Our willingness to emulate this God by entering into the suffering of others with a firm commitment and resolve to roll up our sleeves and respond to evil with goodness (with holiness, even) — this is the righteous response.

May it be ours.