Sermons

Learning to Pull Over

Augustine of Hippo once described faith as “faith seeking understanding.” It’s a simple phrase, but it turns our instincts upside down. We tend to think we must understand first and then decide whether to trust. Augustine suggests the opposite: sometimes we trust first and only then begin to see.

Today’s Gospel reading from John tells the story of Lazarus being raised. John doesn’t call these events miracles. He calls them signs, inviting us to notice something deeper if we are willing to pause.

I grew up in one of the most beautiful parts of the world, with the Rockies rising to the west. My family drove into the mountains often, but we rarely pulled over for those brown highway signs: Scenic Overlook Ahead. They were invitations we mostly ignored, as we continued on to another destination.

Years later, my siblings Margaret, John, and I were home with our father as he neared the end of his life. One morning, a bit gruff but very clear, he said, “You three—go. Do something. Get to know each other. ” So we took his car and drove west, following familiar roads toward the Columbia Icefields. There was no deadline and no real destination, just his instruction to be together.

And this time, we stopped. At every overlook.

We didn’t have to stop, of course. You don’t have to stop. You can keep driving, eyes fixed on what’s next. But if you do stop, if you let yourself pause, you might be surprised by what you see.

That’s how John’s Gospel works. The signs don’t force us to pay attention. They simply invite it. They point beyond themselves, but they are not the destination.

The raising of Lazarus is the seventh and final sign before Jesus turns toward the cross. It shows not only what Jesus can do, but who he is: “I am the resurrection and the life.” Not I will be. Not I can be. I am.

But the real question is not whether people see Lazarus walk out of the tomb. They do. The question is whether they understand what it means, whether they can see the glory of God shining through it.

And that’s where faith comes in.

In John’s Gospel, faith is less about certainty and more like changing your vantage point, or putting on glasses. Without them, everything looks flat. With them, suddenly, there is depth and meaning you couldn’t see before. Jesus says to Martha, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” Not: if you see, you will believe. But if you believe, you will see.

That goes against our instincts. We want clarity first. Evidence first. But life rarely works that way. We don’t wait to fully understand love before loving, or forgiveness before forgiving, or hope before choosing it. We step forward, and only later realize what we’ve stepped into. I can not speak for you all, but for me, I need that kind of hope, I need that kind of practice in my life.

Nowhere is that more true than in grief.

This story is not only about Jesus showing power, but also about him and all who mourn Lazarus ‘ s death. Jesus arrives too late, at least from everyone else’s perspective. Lazarus has been dead for four days. The loss is real, settled, and undeniable. And then something extraordinary happens.

Jesus weeps.

The one who is about to call a man out of that tomb stands in front of that tomb and cries. The God we meet here does not keep his distance from human pain. He enters into it. He stays at the tomb. He honors the grief.

At the same time, he shows that death does not have the final word.

In this gospel, we are asked to hold together what feels impossible: deep grief and defiant hope, real loss and real life, human tears and divine power. We do not rush past one to get to the other.

That is exactly what makes this sign so challenging.

Resurrection is not just comforting; it is also disruptive. If resurrection means change for you, then it is not only disruptive but also uncomfortable. If Jesus is the resurrection and the life, then fear does not get the last word. Death does not get the last word. The powers that depend on fear begin to lose their grip.

Which is why, in the story, the decision by the authorities, religious or not, is made: Jesus must be put to death.

That tension is not limited to the first century. We know what it feels like to live in a world where hope feels fragile and fear feels loud. If you look around, you don’t just feel it, you see it. It can seem as though the big stone is already rolled into place.

And yet, even there, signs appear.

We see it in small, stubborn acts of courage. In communities that refuse to let anyone disappear—think of Minneapolis, Portland, Chicago—or refuse to let compas go to court alone, like our work here at St. Mark’ s. It is ordinary people choosing love when fear would be easier. These, too, are signs. Small resurrections. Invitations to see something deeper at work.

You can dismiss them. Or you can see them through the lens of faith, and begin to recognize the kin-dom of God breaking in.

Which brings us back, in a way, to those overlooks.

Margaret, John, and I could have kept driving that day. We could have stayed focused on the destination or on the weight of what awaited us back home. But we didn’t. We stopped, again and again. And something shifted—not in the landscape, which had always been there, but in us. We saw what had been there all along, waiting to be noticed. That’s what these signs are like. That’s what faith does. That’s what sibling love does.

It teaches us when to pull over.

When to pause.

When to trust that there is more here than we first assumed.

We may not fully understand it. Not yet.

But if Augustine is right, and I believe he is, understanding comes later. For us, and why my father sent us on our way, we got a chance to do something that made memories. I cherish that trip with John and Margaret. I think of that much more than sitting at my father’ s bed. We left and could have gone to a restaurant or a mall, but I have no idea why we ended up going into the mountains. We did, and a gift was given to us.

We have to make time and create memories together.

I believe right now we are all called to move beyond what we think we need to do, beyond what we are sure is the duty, and try something anew.

First, we stop. First, we trust. And then, slowly, we begin to see.

May it be so AMEN