God helps those who help themselves. That’s in the Bible, right?
75% of Americans think so, according to Christian demographer and pollster George Barna. Among those of us who ought to know the Bible a bit better than average, 68% of evangelical Christians and 81% of non “born-again” Christians said that “God helps those who help themselves” is indeed in the Bible. 75% of American teenagers said they believe that it is the central message of the Bible. In fact, the phrase topped a poll of the most widely known verses in the Bible. Despite the fact that its not actually there.
But God does help. Lest we forget that fundamental truth, today’s Gospel is intended to remind us: the name Lazarus is a shortened form of Eleazar, which is Hebrew for “God helps.” And Lazarus is from a village whose name, Bethany, means “House of Affliction.” So God helps the one who suffers from affliction. Get it? Names like this are characteristic of John’s highly symbolic gospel. The narrative matters, but its importance is never merely about the characters in their own time and place. Instead, we should read John’s stories of Jesus as cosmological tales—unconstrained by time and space—about the human dilemma and the persistent love of God.
So when the gospel tells us that Lazarus—the suffering one whom God helps—is also the “one Jesus loves,” we’re supposed to understand that he represents all those whom Jesus loves. Which includes you and me and all humankind. Have no doubt that this story is a story about us: about our suffering, our dying, the potential for our coming again to life again, and—when we’re stuck—the need to trust our friends to roll away the stone and unwind our stinking bandages.
Accusations, tears, dead men walking and that four-day stench: what a dramatic—and slightly weird—story the raising of Lazarus is. Last night’s Halloween shenanigans have nothing on this Sunday morning’s Gospel! But if I were to try to summarize in one nonexistent verse what really is a central message of the Bible, it might be this. God does help. God helps those
who help each other. God helps us when we help each other.
Between last week’s Gospel—the healing of blind Bartimaeus—and this one, I find myself surprised anew by the degree to which Jesus asks his followers to cooperate in his miracles. It almost seems fair to say that Jesus asks other people do most of the work in the miracles that he himself is credited for. Maybe you’ll recall how—in the healing of Bartimaeus—Jesus asked the crowd to call the blind man to him. For some reason he chose not to make the call himself.
And today we hear that someone other than Jesus took away the stone at his command, and the whole community of Bethany—which you’ll recall means House of Suffering—was asked to unbind risen Lazarus. Against all odds, the dead man lived, he walked, and he was freed from all sorts of bondage. But none of that happened without the community playing the parts that Jesus asked them to. So we might say that God helps the community that helps each other.
Which brings me to the annual pledge drive for Holy Trinity, which I am quite happy to preach about because I have skin in this game. Even though I am serving on Bishop Marc’s staff and spend most Sundays at St. Stephen’s Orinda, this is where John and I pledge. Because we believe in the ministry of this congregation. Because we see in you a community committed to helping each other, and also to helping people—immigrants and day laborers and incarcerated people—far beyond the doors of this building. That’s the work of Christian people, and lest there be any doubt about it, there are lots and lots of verses in the Bible about that kind of helping. Look it up: its right there in the Sermon on the Mount: blessed are the merciful, the peacemakers, and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.
We are people who can do great things. And we are also people of great need. I’m speaking in cosmological terms like John, now: all human beings in all times and places need places to gather and worship and dream. We all also need skilled and compassionate pastors to guide and encourage and comfort us as people called to do the work of Jesus. And we need money to pay for all of this, which is where your pledges come in.
Like Lazarus’ sisters, and like every other Biblical character who ever asked for God’s help, we have to start by being honest about our actual needs. Whether its restored sight or renewed life or enough money to continue the ministry, we have to be humble enough to name what we need and ask for it. Which is what your Bishop’s Committee and stewardship team has done for you.
God has done, is doing and will do miracles—we know this—and we also know that God will ask us to participate in the miracles. Sometimes by rolling away the stone, sometimes by unbinding the friend, and sometimes even by filling out a pledge card. What we can learn anew from Lazarus and the village of Bethany is that when we acknowledge our need, God supplies it. But God also gives us a job to do. Jesus’ way of doing miracles returns the agency to us: we must take away the stone, we must unbind the living, we must write the checks that pay our pastor and keep up our buildings and support our ministries.
Maybe you’ve never pledged before, maybe you are afraid you won’t be able to fulfill your pledge, maybe you are looking for God to do a miracle that doesn’t require you to do anything. News flash; it doesn’t work that way! But I’m going to assume John’s cosmological perspective again, and remind us that—even though we do have to participate in God’s miracles—we never have to do it alone. We are here to help each other, and our capacity to help each other is not limited by time and space. So on this All Saints Day, let us take courage by looking to the witness of generous souls who have gone before us. They were setting an example for us then, but our tradition assures us that—in some mysterious way—they are still with us now. They are part of Jesus’ eternal miracle-making team, rolling away the stones of our doubts and unbinding us from fear. So that we can live fully and give generously in the here and now.
Is there a saint or a soul who inspires you to greater courage and generosity? Mine is John’s sister Janet, who in her short life was utterly relentless in her pursuit of justice. Sometimes to the point of annoyance. She died more than a decade ago, but she’ll be with me when I make my pledge this year, because—like all saints—she was driven by a vision of something great and beautiful. Which was nothing less than a new heaven and a new earth; holy city where God dwells among mortals, and wipes every tear from their eyes. And where death will be no more—Jesus’ raising of Lazarus gives is a preview—and where mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things will have passed away. And where God is making all things new… with our help.
