Lazarus

          Jesus, once more deeply moved, came to the tomb. It was a cave with a stone laid across the entrance.  “Take away the stone,” he said.
         “But, Lord,” said Martha, the sister of the dead man, “by this time there is a bad odor, for he has been there four days.”
               Then Jesus said, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?”
               So they took away the stone. Then Jesus looked up and said, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me.”
               When he had said this, Jesus called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face.
        Jesus said to them, “Take off the grave clothes and let him go.” (John 11:38-44)

                Have you heard the claim that Victorians strung a line from a coffin to a bell above ground, in case the deceased woke from a coma and needed to be extricated? That assumed that they didn’t die of a heart attack or stroke at waking in a coffin after some days of starvation before they thought to find and pull on the string. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s an example of some of the strange ideas people get about death and burial. The Jews of Jesus’ day had one, too. For the first three days after someone dies, their souls supposedly stick around. That means that for the first three days, you were “mostly dead.” Lazarus was on day four. He was as dead, dead, deader than dead, and as dead could be. The swoon theory would have been a laughing matter for the Jews at this point.
         They were not as stupid as some moderns think. Practical Martha knew the reality. By day four, Lazarus would have started decomposing and that smell would have marinated among those of the spices with which the body was prepared for burial. Pungent. Ripe. Nauseating. I’ve generally assumed that Martha mentioned the bad odor because she didn’t believe Lazarus was going to rise from the dead. This morning, I’m not so such. I suspect the believed there would be a bad odor in spite of Lazarus’ resurrection. He’d been in that closed in space for four days, dead and covered with spices. Coming back to life wouldn’t change the air in the cave.
         Did some of the people leave? I know, they wanted to see what was going to happen, but … that smell. Maybe they’d go back to the house, have a glass of wine and wait for Lazarus to get cleaned up. I don’t know. But I think Martha prepared them for the obvious, and, at Jesus’ direction, they moved the stone. I think of another stone that would be moved from another tomb before very long. This tomb was opened to let Lazarus out. The other was opened to let people in to see that it was empty.
          As I took my walk this morning, an obvious parallel tromped into my mind. We are less than three weeks from a semi-annual death and resurrection of sorts. Later this month, Dad and I will “die” to Zephyrhills and “resurrect” to Erie. I already feel the tug of both death (as I try to use stuff up, figure stuff out, list the phone calls I have to make and start making them) and the resurrection (some of which involves those same activities.) Yesterday, I realized that it’s time to start making plans. What do I hope to accomplish during the summer in Erie? I’m not sure but if I’m going to accomplish anything, I’d better start thinking about it.
          These six-month death/resurrection cycles are a little tough. They can result in stinky attitudes. And right now is the worst – it’s the time of sickness, in which there’s not much I can do yet, but so much that needs to be done. Right now, the “tomb” looks a little small to fit all the stuff that needs to go north. I’m feeling like Martha – wanting to do the practical, but what can I do except note that “there is a bad odor.” I’m feeling like Lazarus. I can’t say that either of my homes is heaven, but they both hold big pieces of my heart at this point. I don’t want to leave here, but I want desperately to return there.