Awake, O sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you: Lenten drama

Last updated on: March 20, 2018 at 5:44 pm by Kathleen Mulhern

Awake, O sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you: Lenten drama 2018-03-20T17:44:45-06:00 Kathleen Mulhern

LOGO Patheos Explore the world's faith through different perspectives on religion and spirituality! Patheos has the views of the prevalent religions and spiritualities of the world.

“Now Lazarus was sick.” I doubt there is a one of us who has not experienced the sickness, even to death, of one we love. There’s a unique agony that goes with watching someone you love suffer and know that he or she is slipping from your grasp. That agony was Martha’s and Mary’s. And, of course, it was Jesus’ agony, too. We like to think that, knowing what he had in mind, knowing he could speak a word and erase the whole nightmare, knowing that Lazarus’ story wasn’t going to end here, he could shrug off the loss, even perhaps anticipate with some glee the act of restoring him to health and family.

“Lazarus is dead.” So Jesus speaks plainly to the disciples. And how did he know this? A message had reached him about Lazarus’ illness, but Jesus dilly-dallied, letting two more days go by. And then, he knew. Somehow, he knew. But he returned with the same feelings of dread, of desperate horror and grief that seize us all when we face the great, gaping abyss of death. We see Jesus seized with anguish as he enters into the sisters’ weeping and follows them to the tomb.

And here we enter the scene so powerfully painted in the 1870s by Carl Bloch, a Danish artist. Everyone in the painting is fixated on that rift of darkness where only memories have any meaning. Martha crouches at Jesus’ knees; Mary peers from behind him. Strong men pull off the door; a pious elder stands a bit back, leaning on his left foot as though prepared for a quick retreat; a small child, terrified, hides behind him.

Jesus speaks, and stretches out his hand to the corpse within. Light shines out from Jesus, fading into all the edges of the painting. The red of his robe foretells of his blood, so soon to be shed after this event; Lazarus’ death is the beginning of Jesus’ own journey to the tomb for, according to John’s gospel, the living-dead-living Lazarus was the last straw for his enemies. “If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him…” (Indeed; would that they did.) The white of Jesus’ robe foretells his victory over his own tomb and over all tombs.

Bloch paints the scene in twilight; the darkening blue of the sky and the shadowed hills in the background leave the viewer with the feeling that it has been a long day, full of the exhausted sobbing that comes with great grief, when hope has dwindled to a barely remembered glimmer, a crushed wish. We know that feeling, even when it hasn’t involved physical death—our deepest longings abandoned, a dreary future, compounded anxieties, dreams dead, hard realities accepted with a battered heart.

But here, in this scene, we’re frozen in the moment Jesus speaks: “Lazarus, come out!” We can barely see the dead man, just a dark hint of his shadowed face. It’s as though Bloch is forcing us to wait, breathless, on the man’s response. Will he? Won’t he?

We are Mary and Martha in their stupefied loss, certainly. We are the pious elder, doubtful and jaded in our disbelief. We are the frightened child, hiding behind our religious leaders. We are the laborers, just doing as we’re told. But mostly, of course, we are Lazarus, truly dead, without a flicker of life. And then comes the voice of Jesus. His word both invites and commands. Without it, we remain behind the stone, cold and dark. Until Jesus calls us by name, we are indeed dead in sin, buried in the darkness of this world, wrapped tightly with the shrouds of this world’s corruption and sin’s deceitfulness. And we stupidly think the tomb is life.

“Come out!” Jesus is standing there, hand outstretched. It is your name he calls. The light is blinding—our drowsy eyes are used to the dark; the fresh air hits our faces—we’ve long breathed the staleness of our unrepentant ways; that Voice, saying our name, echoes in our waking dreams—in the warmth of the sun, in the song of praise, in the flicker of prayer in our hearts, in the kind word, in every good meal, in acts of gentleness, in twinges of holy guilt, in the unexpected grace, in the pastor’s Amen.

Come, come into the day; come out of the cold, dank, dark nothingness into real life and light. Breathe. Be free. Awake, oh sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you. Will you? Won’t you?

Image public domain

Previous Post

March 6, 2018

Elven Bread, English Asceticism, and the Homely Factor

Next Post

April 3, 2018 The Art of Co-operating with Grace

Browse Our Archives

Select a Category Advent Ascetical Theology Book Reviews Children and Parenting Easter Epiphany Friends of God Lent Life in the Spirit Ludolph Pascalian Spirituality: a series Politics Prayers Six Neo-Christian Myths Spiritual Formation Tales from My Father Trinitarian Spirituality: a series Uncategorized

Select a Month October 2026 July 2024 June 2024 December 2023 August 2023 July 2023 June 2023 January 2023 October 2022 September 2022 August 2022 July 2022 April 2022 November 2021 October 2021 September 2021 August 2021 July 2021 June 2020 January 2020 December 2019 November 2019 October 2019 September 2019 June 2019 May 2019 April 2019 October 2018 August 2018 July 2018 June 2018 May 2018 April 2018 March 2018 February 2018 May 2017 April 2017 March 2017 February 2017 November 2016 June 2016 April 2016 February 2016 January 2016 December 2015 November 2015 October 2015 September 2015 August 2015 March 2015 October 2014 September 2014 August 2014 April 2014 March 2014 February 2014 September 2013 August 2013 July 2013 June 2013 May 2013 April 2013 March 2013 February 2013 January 2013 December 2012 November 2012 October 2012 September 2012 August 2012 July 2012 June 2012 May 2012 April 2012 March 2012 February 2012 October 2011 August 2011 July 2011 February 2011 October 2010 September 2010 July 2010 May 2010 April 2010 March 2010 February 2010 January 2010 November 2009 September 2009 August 2009 July 2009 June 2009

TAKE THE

Religious Wisdom Quiz

I am the final plague that caused Pharaoh to finally let the Israelites go. What am I?

Select your answer to see how you score.

The plague of locusts Death of the firstborn The plague of blood The plague of darkness