On the day that Lazarus died, he was buried. On noticing that her brother's chest no longer rose and fell in its irregular spasms, Mary released his hand and stood. Her paralyzing grief did not hit her right away. She went to find her sister. It was Martha, who upon learning that her brother had died ran into the room wailing. Mary, too, wept in her heart, a solitary tear rolling down her lovely cheek. To weep for loss is one thing; to weep for the loss of intimacy is quite another. This was a close family. The two sisters and brother loved each other deeply. None of them had married. They lived together and they lived for each other. They had been inseparable since they were children. No one breached or came between this triad. Only One was allowed to penetrate their bond, and he was miles away.

Not far from Bethany, the family owned a parcel of land of about half an acre in size. It was part of a rugged landscape of hills and valleys where the wealthy often purchased land to bury their dead. It wasn't a cemetery. That was closer to town (although, according to law, never closer than 75 feet) and occupied by those who could not afford the luxury of their own family property. Plots of land like the one belonging to Lazarus were often converted into lovely gardens, gaily decorated with shrubs and colorful white and yellow daisies, myrtle, rose and mandrake. This land was one of the loveliest of these. Within its lines lay a small hill out of which was hewn a family crypt. The House of Silence it was called, or the House of Stone. In its crypts lay the bones of Lazarus' mother and father.

In Galilee the custom was for mourners to precede the body as it was taken in procession to the burial garden. Here in Judea, instead, they followed. Every mark of sympathy and respect was shown to Lazarus and his sisters, as he had been an enthusiastic participant and supporter of the Synagogue. And, as is the case with all distinguished persons, as he lay on the bier before the opening of the tomb an oration was made, an obituary extolling a life well lived and that there shall never be another to take his stead and that his place in heaven was sure and certain. His body, heavily embalmed with wrapping cloths and spices, was placed in one of thirteen crypts in a hewn out vault of nine by twelve feet in area. After the goodbyes of loved ones and friends, a large circular stone, chiseled to the exact correct proportions was rolled across the opening to the vault and sealed. The funeral concluded on Sunday night, the mourners sent home. The next day, Monday, Jarud had reached Jesus.

It occurred to none of us to doubt that Jesus was correct that the illness was not life threatening. Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. Yet when he heard that Lazarus was sick, amazingly he continued to teach and preach for two more days. I could not help but consider the callousness of it. The sisters would not have sent the servant had the illness not been grave; but Jesus had sent him back with the promise, "We will follow soon."

"Soon" turned out to be two whole days! It was now Wednesday. We were stunned at first, and then just confused. After this time had passed, he said, "Now is the time to return to Judea." We had waited for two days, and now he wanted to go? What was going on? I was thoroughly puzzled. It appeared as though he deliberately stayed the extra time for a rationale that escaped my simple mind. And why did he say "Judea," as our destination instead of the home of Lazarus--as though we were returning to minister to the people of the region instead of the specific purpose of caring for Lazarus? I had nothing but the message of Jarud on my mind for this seemingly interminable time that we waited. I didn't know if Jesus would really make the trip or not. Thoughts of his missing his father's funeral probed my mind. And now he said that we return to Judea?

John seemed to have forgotten about Lazarus, too. Ever the cautious one, he pointed out that "a short while ago the Jews tried to stone you, and now you are going back there?"

Jesus responded with one of his insufferable, enigmatic epithets, "There are twelve hours in the day. A man who walks by day will not stumble, because he sees by the light of the day. It is when he walks by night that he stumbles. He has no light to see. So, while it is yet day, I will walk."

Why does he do that? I wondered to myself. Why doesn't he just say what he means? Anyone could speculate what he means. My speculation was that he viewed his life and ministry as his "twelve hour day," and that he intended to busy himself about his work during that time, lest night come with the work unfinished. As I reflect back on the events that occurred, I am certain that he knew full well what he would do concerning Lazarus and that the delay would play directly into that series of events.

Then Jesus said, "Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to wake him up."

This was good news indeed. We were relieved and grateful. Lazarus was recovering and healing. "This is good, Lord," said Thomas. "If he sleeps, he will get better. It will do him good." All of us thought that he meant natural, healing sleep. But Jesus meant something else entirely.

"Lazarus is dead."

The shock was profound. Restrained silence. None of us knew what to say. None of us could speak. Grief had stunned all of us, but it seemed to affect Thomas the most. "How do you know that, Lord?" he asked. Jesus gave him a look that sent an inescapable and irrefutable message. Thomas quickly added, "Then let us go, that we may die with him." Dear Thomas. Everything he said was tinged with curious melodrama.

"I am glad I was not there," said Jesus evenly. "Now we will go to him, and God my Father will be honored. It will give you reason to believe."

He knew it. All this time he knew it. He knew it when Jarud came. He knew it while he was on his way. He knew all the time what was happening and exactly what he would do about it. We were kept in the dark because that is where we live anyway. Our eyes could only be opened by the event itself.