We are born, we die.

Haiku of joy and sorrow

Near Jerusalem,

Bethany, place of welcome;

Martha and Mary.

Brother Lazarus

is ill. They send for Jesus.

He doesn’t hurry.

Twelve hours of daylight,

nobody needs to stumble

if they see the light.

Lazarus is dead.

Much grieving with many tears;

Jesus weeps with them.

Your brother will rise.

I am the resurrection.

Trust in me, and live

Yes, Lord, I believe

that you are the Messiah,

the Son sent from God.

Mary comes and kneels.

If only you were here, Lord,

he would not have died.

We are born, we die.

Cycles of joy and sorrow;

we all must face death.

It’s overrated,

bodily resurrection;

there’s a time to die.

Jesus prefigures

his own dying and rising,

raises Lazarus.

© Ken Rookes 2020

The gap

Haiku for the indifferent

It’s always been big,

the gap between rich and poor.

Keeps getting larger.

The wealthy man’s scraps

could have fed the poor beggar.

They weren’t on offer.

For a peaceful life

the rich invest in awnings

that conceal the poor.

Beggars confront us,

we hide behind the question:

Are they deserving?

God does not question,

embracing the poor beggar,

deserving or not.

The wealthy protest,

if only we’d realised!

You chose not to know.

Should someone return

from the dead to give warning,

they still would not hear.

© Ken Rookes 2019

As the story goes

Haiku of unexpected life

As the story goes

Lazarus from Bethany

had been dead four days.

When Jesus arrived,

sister Martha did complain:

What kept you so long?

If you had been here!

I am the resurrection

and the life, he said.

Yes, Lord, I believe

that you are the Messiah;

God's Son, in the world.

Mary fell weeping

at Jesus' feet. Lord, she said,

If you had been here!

Had you come sooner

my brother would not have died.

Take me to his tomb.

Jesus also wept.

They removed the entrance stone

to see life triumph.

© Ken Rookes 2017

They have Moses and the prophets

Haiku for closed eyes.

Poor man Lazarus,

by the gate, covered with sores;

we walk right past him.

The unnamed rich man,

dressed in purple, fine linen,

feasting ev'ry day.

Discarded food scraps

do not reach the rich man's gate

or the beggar there.

Empathy fails us.

Please don't disturb our comfort.

Make the beggars leave.

Death comes to us all.

Rich or poor, it matters not;

was your life worthwhile?

Where are your riches;

From where will your comfort come

when your life has passed?

Send me Lazarus,

or let him warn my brothers

that they might be saved.

That's not how it works.

Let them listen to Moses,

and the prophets too.

We'd rather not know.

Even when it's God who speaks,

we do not listen.

© Ken Rookes 2016

Bruce's story

This story of lazarus and the questions that surround it remind me of a friend I had back in my days in Collingwood. Bruce was a man who had Aids and who was angry and yet creative with his anger. I had heard tales of this man who had been a ballet dancer but who now spent his days taking his old falcon into Brunswick st in Fitzroy, and dancing on the roof of the car, stopping every now and then to chat with strangers. One day, out of the blue, he showed up at our little church. He had heard that we were a little different and more accepting than your average church, and he was checking us out. We passed, and he would come whenever he could. He would sit in the circle of our church and have a go at me during my sermon when he disagreed or didn’t understand. He became more and more ill, and at last was no longer able to come to church. I kept visiting him in his Fitzroy flat and watched his body deteriorate before me.

One afternoon I received a phone call from Bruce telling me he needed my help and could I come around. I went to his place and found him in a mess on the floor hardly able to move. I helped him clean up as much as I could, and stayed with him until the ambulance arrived and they took him to hospital for the last time.

He died the next day and I helped to plan his funeral. It was one of the best funerals I have ever been to. It was full of hope and his wonderful defiant story and we carried his coffin out to the rousing song “Spirit in the sky” and I cried, which I don’t do often at funerals or any time. I’m crying as I write, not for sadness, but from the sheer gutsiness of it all. For the hope that springs in surprise from despair and pain.

His resurrection began before he died and everyone around him saw it. When he set his cup down it was empty. There was nothing wasted, nothing left over to spill or lament. He died clean as a whistle, and several of the people who travelled with him on the difficult road of his illness had their view of death forever altered. Having watched him do it, they believe they can do it too.

The mystery of Lazarus

The story of Lazarus is a mystery. Whatever Jesus did for him, he was not mentioned again in Scripture. What they witnessed failed to prepare the disciples for the rising of Jesus. If they had already witnessed a literal bringing back to life of Lazarus, why were they so surprised by Jesus?

It is much easier to look at the reading from Ezekiel. Things seen in visions are more likely to be metaphoric. We are not expected to literally believe that a great army of dried bones became alive, only that this symbolises the promise of God for the future of the people. It encourages us.

I was angry with God for not doing for me what Jesus did for Mary and Martha. People said, “You have lost your husband.” I would answer, Oh No! He is not lost. I know exactly where he is in the Naracoorte Cemetery. It is ME who am lost. I don’t know who I am. I wish I could die.” Sure, Jesus wept, but how long for? I wept for years; sometimes from sadness, sometimes from frustration or in anger.

The surprising thing was that it was me who came back to life. From being certain my life had ended with Ed’s death, it has been an extraordinary journey to life. It is my dried up bones that have had flesh put back on them and life breathed into them. The variety of things I have experienced has been immense. The journey from being the wife of a farmer in the Bangham Scrub to Bendigo has been rich and varied, immensely sad and ecstatically happy, incredibly interesting, sometimes troubling and painful but never dull.

This has in no small part, been due to coming to see God differently and as that happened I began to see others and myself differently. And It is not over yet. Romans 8:11 says, “God who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through God’s Spirit that lives in you.” It is also about seeing the Bible and stories contained in it, differently. I no longer need to cling on to it being literally true with grim death. Expanded understandings have been humbling, exciting and not always clarifying. I have learnt it is okay to say, we really don’t know what happened. We can only speculate and pray that if we have it wrong, God will help us to see it differently.

So what happened that day back there, two thousand years ago in Judea? I have no idea. What I do know is that given the opportunity, God weeps for a chance put flesh on our dried out bones and breathe life into our aching bodies. But be aware. It will be an amazing experience as I am sure, many of you already know.

Rev Julianne Parker

Lazarus

 

Unbind him,
and let him go;
release her from her bonds.
Let them be quickened,
let them be free.
Liberate them from the bands,
the baleful bands of delusion,
the cords of despair
and graveclothes of fear.
Take the stone away;
let loose the morning’s hopeful light
to chase the shadows from the cave.
Allow sweet birdsong
and the gentle sounds of spirit breeze
to find voice in the previously silent recesses;
so that we who have been dead
might hear the callings of the living,
and, glimpsing some of the possibilities of resurrection,
consider leaving our tomb.

© Ken Rookes 2014

A chalk picture of Lazarus

http://chalkpainting.com/gallery/

Lazarus colouring

reputed tomb of lazarus

Located in the former village of Bethany, the town is now known as El-Lazariyah - Arabic for "Place of Lazarus."

Lazarus

Writing some time after the other three,

gospel writer John

gives us a second resurrection story;

that of friend Lazarus, brother

of some women who made Jesus welcome

when he came to their little village.

Well, why not? If you’re going to believe

one resurrection story,

you might as well believe two.

Gospel tellers, by definition,

are custodians of an amazing yarn

which must be published abroad;

a telling of divine illumination

encompassing mysteries of compelling love

and undistinguishing grace. Of a man

who, in befriending the unlovely

utters a universe of hopeful sighings,

an ocean of bewildering embracings,

and mountains-full of wonder.

These four are artists,

ever-striving for the masterpiece

which will fulfil their kingdom calling

to cry aloud so that all may hear;

to sing their song of sad,

deep beauty that will lead the soul

to freedom and to joy. Metaphor writers;

they know the earth-bound limitations

of the clumsy words with which they paint

their eager canvases,

taking reassurance from their stories

of death and resurrection and trusting

in their strange and uncertain truth.

© 2011 Ken Rookes

Those who are rich

Those who are rich,

(we’re talking material

comforts and possessions here);

those who are rich are much practised

in the fine art of self-justification.

We are commendable and deserving,

and have every right to enjoy

our purple lifestyle.

We have worked hard,

we have invested wisely,

prudently, and with consideration

of future contingencies. Charity,

it is often conveniently said,

begins at home.

The poor, on the other hand,

are wasteful, indolent, and lacking

the diligence to avail themselves

of the myriad opportunities

that surround. If they bothered

to open their eyes they probably

would not recognise Hard Work

if it leapt up and danced a jig before them.

And so we learn to guard our surplus,

convincing ourselves that our caution

is necessary to preserve the dignity

of the poor and struggling.

So we walk unblinkingly past Lazarus,

the other beggars and the charity-rattlers;

consciously distracted, intent

upon our many worthy preoccupations,

and quietly uttering words of gratitude

for our numerous blessings.



© 2010 Ken Rookes