3/22/26 Sermon

There aren’t many things I remember fondly about growing up with a sister who’s ten years older than me.  She mostly tortured me. And she should have.  I was her annoying younger brother. But one of the things I think my sister is really responsible for giving me is a deep love of music.

I don’t know if she knows that I credit her for that.

But I remember watching her play the piano and I was completely mesmerized by the way her fingers operated on and pushed down the keys and music came out.  It made me want to learn how to play.  And even though now I only really fiddle on the piano when I’m here at night and no one’s around to hear me play, I still love to play.  I love music.  I find something so sacred and holy in good music.  It doesn’t have to be “Christian” music. Any music, if well done, can connect me with God, I find.

Another deeply powerful memory about music with my sister comes to my mind.  She used to sing to me the song Wild World by Cat Stevens.  Mainly in the car I think.  But she’d sing it none the less.  When I was a young kid I never really thought about what that song meant.  I just remember really liking belting the chorus with her.

Oh baby baby it's a wild world

It's hard to get by just upon a smile

Oh baby baby it's a wild world

And I'll always remember you like a child, girl

The song seems to be about a guy who’s given everything to the love of his life and now she’s taking off on him and he’s kind of giving her parting words.  This one verse of the song really has gotten stuck in my head lately.  He says:

You know I've seen a lot of what the world can do

And it's breaking my heart in two

'Cause I never want to see you sad girl

Don't be a bad girl

But if you want to leave take good care

Hope you make a lot of nice friends out there

But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware

And then into that chorus

Oh baby, baby it’s a wild world and it’s hard to get by just upon a smile…

A lot of people assumed Cat Stevens wrote this song for an actress girlfriend he’d been with for two years and had recently broken up with her as he was putting together the “Tea for the Tillerman" album that this song is found on.  But, in 2009 while being interviewed by another musician, he was asked if the song was about this girl and Cat Stevens who’s now called Yusuf Islam said no.  The song’s about himself.  He was on the verge of making it big and he was afraid of losing himself and who he was in the fame and in the life of a famous folk singer. So, he wrote this song to warn himself about the journey he was heading on and disguised it as a goodbye song to a lover.  Ironically, this was the song that catapulted him into that fame.

Oh baby, baby it’s a wild world and it’s hard to get by just upon a smile…

How many of us have tried to do exactly that? How many times have we tried to get by just upon a smile? How many times have we tried to act like everything is fine when it isn’t? How many times have we tried to fake strength, fake peace, fake certainty, fake faith, fake joy — hoping that if we pretend long enough, maybe eventually it’ll become true?

I know I’ve done it. If I could just act like I had it together, maybe I really would. If I could just smile hard enough, maybe I could get through the day. If I could just pretend I wasn’t hurting, maybe the hurt would go away.

But here’s the question: do you really think God wants us to get by just upon a smile?

I want to hold onto that question for a moment.

Because in this Gospel story, something strange happens. Jesus tells them to roll away the stone, and Martha protests. She says, in effect, “Lord, you do not want to do that. It has been four days. There will be a stench.” The King James Version says it best: “he stinketh.” I’m sorry. That still makes me laugh. He stinketh.

Now we can read this story at the surface level and say it is about the power of Jesus to raise the dead, and of course it’s that. But John’s Gospel almost never works on only one level. John is full of signs and symbols, layers and meanings, earthly things pointing to deeper spiritual truths.

So let’s go one step deeper and cut right to the chase.

Sometimes in life, we stink. Not because we’re bad people. Not because God has abandoned us. Not because we’ve failed beyond redemption. But because life is hard and grief is real and pain festers and losses pile up and wounds get infected and souls get tired.

Sometimes we make a mess of things. Sometimes things happen to us that we didn’t choose and can’t fix. Sometimes we say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, lose what matters most, carry burdens too heavy for one person, and wake up one day realizing something inside us has been dying for a long, long time.

Sometimes life itself stinks.

And what do we do with that? Usually we do what Martha wanted to do with Lazarus: we seal it up. We roll the stone in front of it. We hide the hurt. Hide the grief. Hide the addiction. Hide the fear. Hide the depression. Hide the anger. Hide the doubt. Hide the loneliness. Hide the shame. Hide the rot. And then we smile.

We smile because we don’t want people to know. We smile because we don’t want to seem weak. We smile because we don’t want to be “too much.” We smile because we’re afraid that if people really saw what was going on in there — if they caught even a whiff of what’s decaying behind the stone — they might back away from us.

So we keep the tomb closed. Keep the smile on. Keep pretending.

And the terrible thing is, sometimes from the outside it works. The stone is in place. The smile looks convincing. Everything seems fine. But inside, something is dying.

And I don’t know about you, but I get tired of pretending. I get tired of acting stronger than I am. I get tired of acting happier than I am. I get tired of acting like my faith never wavers, like I never doubt, like I never hurt, like I never break.

And the good news of the Gospel is that Jesus does not ask us to get by just upon a smile.

He doesn’t ask for performance. He doesn’t ask for polish. He doesn’t ask for perfection.

In fact, the Bible is almost comically not the story of perfect people. It’s the story of flawed people, scared people, broken people, messy people, people who lie and run and doubt and rage and collapse and fail. Jacob was a cheater. Peter had a temper. David had an affair. Noah got drunk. Jonah ran from God. Paul was a murderer. So was Moses and he stuttered. Gideon was insecure. Thomas doubted. Martha worried. Sarah was impatient. Elijah was depressed. Abraham was old.

And Lazarus was dead.

That’s the story the Bible tells: not that God goes looking for shiny people who have it all together, but that God keeps showing up among real people — people who stink sometimes — and breathing life where there wasn’t any.

That’s grace.

Grace isn’t God waiting for us to become impressive. Grace is God loving us in the tomb. Grace is Christ standing outside the place where we have shut away the worst parts of ourselves and saying, “Roll the stone away.”

And that’s frightening, because stones are there for a reason. Stones keep things hidden. Stones keep things contained. Stones keep the smell from getting out. But Jesus isn’t interested in managing appearances. Jesus is interested in resurrection.

And we don’t get resurrection without first opening the tomb. We don’t get new life by pretending there is no death. We don’t get healing by denying what hurts. We don’t get free by smiling our way around what is killing you.

Sooner or later Christ says, “Roll it away.” Let the air hit it. Let the light in. Let the truth be told.

And then — only then — comes the call: “Lazarus, come out.”

That’s such a powerful image to me because Lazarus doesn’t raise himself. He’s called out. Love calls him out. Christ calls him out. Community gathers around that miracle and then Jesus says to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

Which means resurrection is’ot just about private spiritual experience. It’s also communal work. Sometimes we need other people to help unwrap what death has left on us. Sometimes we need other people to help us out of the tomb. Sometimes we need other people to believe life is still possible for us before we can believe it for ourselves.

I know that because I’ve lived it.

I know what it’s like to have something broken in you that feels like it’ll never heal. I know what it’s like to live in a tomb and try to smile your way through it. I know what it’s like to think the stink is too bad, the damage too deep, the rot too far gone.

And when I’d given up on myself, the people who loved me didn’t. When I was dying on the inside, people prayed for me. People wept for me. People kept loving me when I was not especially lovable. And through that love, through those people, through that grace I didn’t deserve and certainly couldn’t manufacture, Christ rolled away the stone and called me out.

How else does a hopeless alcoholic who blew chance after chance wind up a semi-respectable member of society with a family and a calling and a life? Love. Grace. Christ. Community. Resurrection.

That’s how.

And that, by the way, is why church matters. People ask all the time whether church is still relevant, whether it still matters, whether any of this means anything in the world we live in now. And my answer is: yes — if church is the kind of place where you don’t have to get by just upon a smile. Yes — if church is the kind of place where people don’t have to pretend. Yes — if church is the kind of place where we help roll away the stones. Yes — if church is the kind of place where the hurting, the doubting, the grieving, the addicted, the ashamed, the weary, the lonely, the ones who stink, can come and not be condemned. Yes — if church is the kind of place where resurrection isn’t just something we talk about after death, but something we practice with each other right now.

Because when I’m weak, you can help carry me. And when you’re exhausted, I can help carry you. And when one of us is locked in a tomb, the others can stand outside it long enough, faithfully enough, lovingly enough, to call that person back toward life.

That’s the ministry of the church.

Not pretending. Not polishing. Not performing holiness. But being Christ to one another. Rolling stones away. Unbinding one another. Calling life into places that have known too much death.

So no — you don’t have to get by just upon a smile. You don’t have to be perfect. And you don’t have to keep sealed away the parts of your life that hurt, that smell, that feel too far gone. Because Christ is still in the business of calling people out of tombs. And resurrection still happens. Every day.

So, May you know that what seems dead in you isn’t beyond the reach of Christ. May you know it’s okay to stop pretending. May you know that sometimes we all stink a little, and grace is still enough. And may you be ready to be Christ for someone else — to roll away a stone, to help unbind the hurting, and to call someone back toward life.

Amen.