Article
Creed
Death & life
Weirdness
3 min read

Why we project ourselves on Lazarus

Lean into the weird around the ‘unreveal'd’.

Jamie is Vicar of St Michael's Chester Square, London.

A Vincen Van Gogh painting of Lazarus rising from his bed as his astonished sisters lean toward him.
The Raising of Lazarus (after Rembrandt).
Vincent van Gogh, CC BY 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Tennyson's poem In Memoriam contains a section about the man Jesus famously raised from the dead, Lazarus, and in it he writes: 

Behold a man raised up by Christ! 

The rest remaineth unreveal'd 

He told it not; or something seal'd 

The lips of that Evangelist 

That evangelist, St John, writes precious little about Lazarus himself. Lazarus is supposedly the main character in the story, but we see far more about his sisters Mary, and Martha, and most of all, Jesus himself. But because Lazarus is a largely anonymous figure, intriguing all sorts of people like Tennyson, we can project ourselves onto him. He emerges from the tomb with graveclothes, and it seems we don't fully see him, but we see ourselves on those graveclothes. His endless capacity to capture something of the human condition is evidenced by appearing in Moby Dick, Crime and Punishment, and Mark Twain writes about him, right through to Nick Cave and David Bowie, with a song written when he was terminally ill. 

It's definitely an account that falls into the 'weird' category. Not only does Jesus raise someone from the grave, but at first his response to Lazarus' grieving sisters seems inexplicable. Regardless, Lazarus is perhaps a good match for us because of our own fears of death. 

It's also why the words of comfort that Jesus offers Martha after Lazarus' death are used in Christian funerals. As a priest, as I process in with the coffin, I read: 

'I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die.’ 

Just as these words were a great comfort to Martha, these words are a huge comfort to people as they come to the funerals of their loved ones. 

But just like Lazarus isn't actually the main character in this story, at someone's funeral, they are also not the main character in the story. They've died. Funerals aren't just for dead people. Funerals are for the people coming to the funeral. Because Jesus doesn't just say, 'whoever lives by believing in me will never die.' He doesn't just leave that there hanging in the air. He explicitly asks Martha the question: 'Do you believe this?' We are confronted with the same question, non-rhetorically. 

Jesus is asking us to believe something quite extraordinary about the nature of life that is worth considering in the assisted dying debate: that resurrection is not pie-in-the-sky, but a quality and quantity of spiritual life that can begin today, only interrupted by physical death and the bodily resurrection. As someone who lives with disability said to me recently about the debate on assisted dying, 'I'm interested in assisted living'. We could all do with a little assistance. 

Bizarrely, Jesus identifies himself as the resurrection and the life. And so even more intriguing than placing ourselves in the tomb of Lazarus, can be placing ourselves in the death and resurrection of Jesus. The anguish, desperation, exasperation of the sisters toward Jesus (helpful for us to recognise our own ability, and need, to grieve honestly) is met with not only grand declarations about Jesus' divinity, but demonstration of his humanity. Twice in this sequence we see Jesus deeply moved and troubled, most pithily and famously encapsulated in the shortest verse in the Bible: 'Jesus wept.'  

His emotion here, much more raw in the Greek, is appropriate not only to Lazarus' death, but also his own death that is about to come on the cross. Amidst the compassion that drives people to different conclusions in ethical debates, it is worth us considering an even deeper compassion that drove Jesus to raise Lazarus and to go to the cross. 

Although there is much in our lives and in faith which is mystery and 'unreveal'd' as Tennyson would say, our own inability to control our own lives and deaths is met by Jesus in all his humanity and divinity. 

All great artists lean into - rather than avoid - the weird. They also seek to honestly address the human condition in all its suffering, mortality and hope. No wonder so many over the centuries have projected themselves and their characters onto Lazarus as his grave clothes unravel. 

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Article
Belief
Creed
4 min read

Why news of the ‘Quiet Revival’ needs taking with a pinch of salt

When Christianity becomes cool, it has a tendency to lose its soul.

Graham is the Director of the Centre for Cultural Witness and a former Bishop of Kensington.

An ancient salt shaker sits next to a pile of crushed rock salt.
Out of the salt shaker.
Jonathan Tame on Unsplash.

Mark Twain, that purveyor of slanted wisdom, was wary of data. "Figures often beguile me," he wrote, "particularly when I have the arranging of them myself; in which case the remark attributed to Disraeli would often apply with justice and force: 'There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics.'" 

Now whether Disraeli ever said this is a moot point. The quotation has been attributed to figures as various as Walther Bagehot, Arthur Balfour and the Duke of Wellington. Either way it has gone down in history as expressing a certain strand of suspicion when it comes to statistical analysis of the future. 

This phrase came to mind this past week when reading The Quiet Revival, a study conducted by the Bible Society that suggests that the long story of church decline in England and Wales is over. It claims that church attendance has risen by 50 per cent over the last six years and particularly young adult men are increasingly turning to the Church, especially to the Roman Catholic and Pentecostal versions of it. 

The report been hailed and celebrated by Christian commentators, perhaps in a spirit of relief, thankful for some good news against the background of months of dreary and gloomy news of resigning Archbishops, looming splits in the church over sexuality and the ongoing seemingly inevitable process of decline. 

Now I don't for a moment mean to doubt the results of the survey. Or to get all Scrooge-like at the findings. For those of us who have been part of the church for years it is indeed welcome news and a cause for some cautious optimism. It always lifts the spirits a little to feel that others see what you see, and you're not whistling in the dark when it comes to continuing to believe. ‘Revival’ is perhaps too ambitious a word to use right now. It would need a lot more hard evidence from bigger surveys and more observable results to deserve such a designation. But there do seem to be straws blowing in the wind, perhaps the first signs of a refreshing breeze which might yet sweep away some of the shadows of sceptical unbelief. 

The appeal of Christian faith is precisely the fact that it's not based on how many people believe it. 

Yet forgive me if I take all this with a pinch of salt. The popularity of Christianity has always waxed and waned throughout the last two thousand years. There are times when it has been the flavour of the month - or the century - such as when it started to become the official religion of the Roman Empire 300 years or so after the time of Jesus. Yet popularity brings its dangers. When Christianity becomes cool, it has a tendency to lose its soul, its radical nature diluted by the flocks of people drawn to the cross as a kind of fashion accessory. At other times it has dwindled to a few hardy souls braving it out, like the eleven fearful disciples huddling together in Jerusalem, looking for an escape route after the execution of Jesus, or the tough, rugged Christians who carried on praying during years of persecution, often paying for their faith with their lives.  

Christianity’s claims to truth are not dependent on a referendum. For us Christians, our faith remains true whether or not people believe it. The fact that more people may be going to church now than a few years ago doesn't make the Christian faith any more or less true. I've never taken the predictions of the church's demise too seriously. Which is why I'm not one for putting out the bunting when the predictions go the other way.  

This why it seems to me that, like Mark Twain, believers in Jesus ought also to be a little sceptical of statistics. Numerical projections and probability theory have their uses in trying to spot social trends, but they don't have much bearing on questions of truth. After all, statistical analysis of what tends to happen to dead people would never have predicted the Resurrection. 

The appeal of Christian faith is precisely the fact that it's not based on how many people believe it. It centres on an event where the eternal became temporal, where God entered into human history in the shape of a Galilean rabbi. It therefore transcends time and space, opinion polls and surveys. It gives a confidence rooted not in the swinging mood of public opinion, up one minute and down the next, but instead something lasting, permanent and reliable.  

So be glad, if you want, at the prospect of a coming renewed wave of faith. But don’t be fooled into thinking this proves anything. As Jesus once said: “Do not rejoice at this, that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.” 

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