Grief is an elusive emotion. When we grieve, we never know when the tears might come. We can never really predict what might open the floodgates of our eyes. I recall attending the Requiem Mass of a friend some years ago. He was a wonderful singer in my spouse’s church choir, and he died of cancer when he was far too young. He was always the life of the party, always smiling, always eliciting laughs with his buoyant humor. He was a gem of a person.
At his Requiem, the tears came at an unexpected moment. The choir was singing Gabriel Fauré’s setting of the Requiem Mass, which we’ll hear tomorrow. And my spouse, eyes full of tears, leaned over to me and explained that our friend had auditioned for his choir with that very piece. And the floodgates of my eyes opened.
The unspoken thought was this isn’t the way it was supposed be. A man who was only in his fifties, gifted in so many ways and loved by so many, shouldn’t be dead. We shouldn’t have been there at his funeral so soon, listening to a piece of music that he’d once sung so beautifully. A portion of the Requiem Mass in live time brought back a poignant memory of that same Mass sung in an audition years ago. And the tears came.
There’s a moment like this in John’s Gospel when the tears come for Jesus. It’s a striking moment because nowhere else in the Gospels do we read that Jesus weeps. It’s a profound reminder of our Lord sharing a human emotion that we all know so well. But what is it that elicits Jesus’s tears? Why does he cry at this moment rather than before? Remember that he had known for several days that Lazarus was ill, and he delayed his departure for Bethany. So, why does he cry when he finally arrives? What opens the floodgates of Jesus’s eyes?
Three words do: come and see. Have you heard these words before? They’re the words Jesus himself says to those first disciples who decide to follow him. Rabbi, where are you staying? Come and see, Jesus says. And when Philip finds Nathanael and tells him that he has found the Messiah, and when Nathanael crudely asks whether anything good can come out of Nazareth, Philip says, Come and see. And when the Samaritan woman at the well has encountered the compassionate love of Jesus and runs into the city to tell others about him, she says, Come, see a man who told me all that I ever did. Come and see.
Is it any wonder, then, that Jesus weeps at these words? It’s not the way things are supposed to be. When Jesus asks where they have laid Lazarus’s dead body, they invite him to come and see. No, this isn’t the way things are supposed to be. Jesus’s beautiful words have been stolen by death. Come and see is supposed to be the invitation to life. Come and see the one who is life. Come and see the one who is the light of the world. Come and see the one who knows all his sheep by name and whose voice the sheep will follow away from death. Come and see the one who knows everything about us and gives his life to draw the whole world to the Father. Come and see the one who is the way, the truth, and the life. Come and see the one who is the bread of life and who feeds us with life. Come and see.
But in Bethany, Jesus is invited to come and see death. It’s not the way things are supposed to be. In this cruel distortion of circumstances and dastardly coopting of words, the One who has come to bring life to the world must go and stare death in the face. Death has stolen his words. This isn’t the way things are supposed to be.
We know this perverse invitation, too. We’re not supposed to have to watch our loved ones suffer or die. We’re not supposed to watch the violence of death take them away from us. We’re not supposed to be taunted with a mocking invitation, come and see, come and see the violence, the mass shootings, the hateful political rhetoric, the loss of innocence in our children, the betrayals of the Church, the never-ending war in the Middle East, the starving faces of the poor. But this, alas, is the perpetual summons as we live here and now in this broken, sinful world.
It’s not the way things are supposed to be. So, on All Saints’ Day, for a time, the veil between this world and the next parts briefly, especially in this Eucharistic feast, and another invitation is issued from beyond the veil by the beloved saints in Christ, who are in the nearer presence of God. Come and see, that there’s something else. Come and see that the heart of God, seen vividly in Jesus’s presence before Lazarus’s tomb, breaks at the reality of death. Death and all its enslaving powers are impostors. Even though we will die one day, we’re, nevertheless, made for life. And on this day, the saints call us to life. Come and see.
In the sign performed by Jesus at Lazarus’s tomb, Lazarus is raised, not resurrected. He will one day die again, but for a moment, Jesus parts the veil between earth and heaven and shows how things should be. Lazarus, come out! Walk out of your tomb. Be set free from the grip of death, which is not how things are supposed to be. And to his friends, Jesus says, Unbind him and let him go. Let him cross the Red Sea. Let him walk from death to life. Let him come and see life itself. Let him walk towards the resurrection and the life.
Tonight, we don’t run from death. Despite the world’s attempts to the contrary, we can’t escape it. Tonight, we acknowledge that another invitation greets us with a truth that death can’t take away. The saints are witnesses to this. They have journeyed through the gates of death. They have experienced its ugliness. And yet, they are still alive—truly alive—at this very moment, rejoicing and singing and worshiping with us.
They beckon to us from the nearer presence of God. Come and see that all pain and suffering are gone. Come and see that true life is nothing but ceaseless worship. Come and see that what seems like death in the present–all the world’s troubles, the searing divisions among us, the hatred, the egregious individualism–all those are put to rest in heaven, where it’s unceasing, united praise. Come and see. Unbind yourself and be set free.
So, beloved in Christ, come and see. Come with me to the altar. Come with me and raise your voices in song with the great cloud of witnesses who sing forever. Unbind yourself and let go of all that is holding you back from life. And should your eyes shed a tear, know that something far greater awaits us, and that in our true home, God will wipe every tear from our eyes.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
All Saints’ Day
November 1, 2024