That We May Die

Drawing by: Casey Arden

By Andrea Lingle

After saying this, he told them, “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to awaken him…” Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow-disciples, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.”

John 11:11–16

The question is: Does the idea of truth presuppose something absolute and unconditional, and, if it does, can this absolute be found in the processes of knowing?

Paul Tillich, My Search for Absolutes, p 67.

Lazarus was dead. He had gotten sick, his immune system had been unable to defend him, and he had died. Two days ago. Thomas trailed after Jesus, thinking about one word. Such an odd word for Jesus to have used in this case. Thomas had been with Jesus through so many towns and miracles. He had grown used to the healings and the crowds. Jesus would sit under the shade of a tree, talking, and broken people would gather—hardly listening, wanting to escape their wretched bodies. And he would touch their hands and faces and eyes and feet, all while murmuring about mustard seeds and love. The people would wait for hours to get a moment under his hand. Not to be awakened.

Never had anyone ever asked to be awakened.

Now Jesus was moving, walking rather quickly, as if he were regretting those two days of reticence, talking about awakening Lazarus. But oversleeping wasn’t the problem. Death was the problem. The final, unalterable problem. Thomas remembered his own words: Let us also go, that we may die with him. And, in the moment of speech, he had meant Jesus. He was willing to die with Jesus. Death certainly seemed to be closing in, even on this lonely road. Jesus had not exactly been avoiding death, and Thomas had understood that. Jesus was willing to die. Thomas was willing to die with him. This was how it worked for those who touched the broken people. Even more so if one loved the broken. Thomas had always known it was coming, and expected that the flood that took Jesus would sweep him away too.

But now. A word had trickled in and set Thomas’s thoughts afire. Awaken. Why had Jesus said that about a dead man? Heal might have been a word that could have been used, possibly. Word traveled more slowly than death. Now, comfort seemed a better word. Shiva, that septal wake, had burned away by half, but they could still go and sit with the sisters.

Awaken seemed silly. Trite. Obfuscating. Mary and Martha deserved a friend who let death be death.

Jesus’s pace did not slacken one bit through the heat of the afternoon. Thomas’s head ached and his eyes stung from the glare. He rubbed the dust and fatigue out of the corner of his eye with the heel of his palm. High above their heads, a vulture wobbled on an unseen draft.

Thomas was awake. Wasn’t he? He had said yes, left his life to follow Jesus, seen the miracles, heard the parables, passed the baskets overflowing with bread. He had been awake to it all. Hadn’t he. And he was ready to follow his teacher to the end.

Let us also go, that we may die with him.

What if Thomas were to die, instead of with Jesus, with Lazarus.

Jesus wanted to wake him up. To wake up a dead man. To wake up a living man.

In the end, waking up might prove harder.