bring lazarus back.

The preacher stood and told us stories about the ones that had fallen away. He told it broken, as he felt. But he did not leave us without an explanation.

“They just couldn’t,” he paused. It was hard. He looked right at our souls, “they couldn’t reconcile their pain with who Jesus is.”*

Neither can we.

The Father turns His face away, and how deep we don’t feel Him. Or His love for us.

We meander out the doors, leaving as soon as it is not obvious that we want to. And it is not that we don’t daily seek Him. It is that in knowing more, we aren’t necessarily awed. Driving through hills and city, there is beauty. We are not blind to it, for we rose when He called, “Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead.” (Eph. 5:14 AMPC)

Yet we are living as this—“O wretched man that I am!”(Rom. 7:24 NKJV)—a flock of chief sinners who get a lot farther along than a lot of others, but it doesn’t eradicate guilt. And we understand He sacrificed for that. For us. Thanks.

Mostly it is impossible to love Him the height and depth we want to. I won’t admit it if you don’t, but it is for a lot of the classic reasons. Primarily, He could have rescued in places that are now dead. We wail, like Mary, “Lord, if You had been there…” Does He groan for us? Would the Jews say, “See how He loved…” while looking upon His face looking upon our sorrow? Because He isn’t bringing Lazarus back (John 11:32-27 NKJV). And we know it is wrong, but we demand “rights.” Of which we have none. Thanks.

Who are You, Jesus?

The problem is memory—being so happy. If we hadn’t been so happy, we wouldn’t be so miserable now. We should say thanks and mean it, but the prince of the power of the air has some kind of a nasty hold on our thoughts. We want to sleep. Want to stop thinking how happy we were. We are okay and we get things done and then someone mentions something or we view memory, like pictures near unbelievable, and we ache and we cry and we hate once more. We read about gifts, all the things we do not see nor express gratitude for. Would we mean it if we did? We serve the Church again, again, and think, “God loves a cheerful giver” (2 Cor. 9:7 NKJV). But we do not muster cheer, and so we wonder if He does not love us.

Do You love us?

We are sure there is fullness of joy in this life with Him somehow. Or at least in the hope of the life to come. We drink tea and read more and long for purpose. A friend sends a verse: “Until now you have asked nothing in My name. Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full.” (John 16:24) We have been begging Him—give Lazarus back! But what does it mean to ask in His name? Is it to say, “in the name of Yourself, O mighty Jesus Christ, please… return, restore, rebuild”? He gave so generously and beautifully before—we are sorry not to have thanked more—that all other giving looks sad next to it now.

We want nothing else but what we want. We try to forget that because it sounds and feels and is pathetic. But we remember and we scream, “WHY?” a thousand times in our heads.

How do we ask in Your name? How? Do You hate us yet? We hate ourselves.

We try pretending we just want… in general, and that is why we are lonely. But we dress up for the party and smile and detest everyone there. This is not it. Must be sinful, or sacrilegious, because we feel ashamed to think so, but we question Him ending that which brought Him glory. Because it did, didn’t it? Please, awaken Lazarus.

If what we ask for is wrong [is it?], then what do we ask for in Your name?

He gave salvation. Though, wretches that we are, we don’t deserve it. What else shall we ask for? People say we should know Him more. His word speaks of increasing our knowledge of Him.

But we smell the absent spices, and You must be a God that hates us. We feel the heat of those days and hear the heartbeat we had, and You are a God that toys with our feelings. The lost beautiful speaks up, and You are a God that breaks our hearts.

What should we ask for? Have we not blasphemed Your name yet? Are we doomed to hell?

No. Because we love Him. Still. Most. Lazarus or not. We recognize that He can withhold the rain, He can use sorrow to speak. May we not hear Him say, “Yet they have not returned to Me” (Amos 4:7-8 NKJV). And You are a God that wants us. When we praise, when we do nothing, when we call out among the scoffers. Shame, hear your mocking voice. But grace, hear what saves. It is not, now, 

in the raising of the dead, it is in the making of all things new.

Make all things new? Please. It would reconcile the pain with who You are, wouldn’t it, Jesus?

Questions answer questions. Though comfort isn’t so much in asking, as in having someone to ask. And You are a God that is here.

So we go back to listen to the preacher, knowing the small distance between us and those that have fallen away. As we listen, it is good, because that is what He is, and that is what He will make us.

“It will not, it will never be enough
Just to know about You, Jesus, but never call You my own …

Draw to me, Jesus.
I’ve made my heart a home.”(Home - Bethel Music)

*Matt Rose