Written: Monday, September 27, 2004
Part 1
He was sick. His sisters called or their Dear Friend, because they knew he could do something about their brother. Hey, if he could give a man his sight and fix a rotten leg so that it could function as God intended it to, then surely he could keep Lazarus from making his bed inside of a tomb, right?
“Hurry, master,” they whispered. “The one you love is dying!’
Ring, ring, ring… why won’t he answer?
On the other side of town, about a three-day journey from where the dying man was taking his final breath, the Doctor spoke to his band of rebels. “They want me to go to Lazarus. So we should go and wake him up.”
“What are we now, a wake up service?” they mocked. “Why doesn’t the guy go to the nearest vendor and buy himself an alarm clock? We’ve got some important stuff going on here.”
But the Doctor was speaking in terms his friends had yet to understand. Their paradigm had not yet shifted to translate his code, and they were often left frustrated over his riddles.
Meanwhile, the sisters and their neighbors were preparing the body for burial, tenderly wrapping his arms and torso with strips of cloth. The professional mourners were already earning their monies’ worth and tearing their clothes in the city square.
“If only he’d come. Why didn’t he come? Doesn’t he love us?”
Martha’s eyes welled with tears, her heart welled with resentment.
Stay tuned for part deux…
christianelawrence 