I Am the Resurrection and the Life

Autumn is my favourite time of year with its changing colours, crisp morning air and baking. When my children were little, we often played a game we called “scrunching”— finding leaves, jumping in them and listening to them scrunch as we jumped up and down. These leaves symbolize a sacrament of letting go while the trees prepare themselves for winter, shedding leaves for new ones to grow in the spring.

This understanding of letting go is at the heart of Jesus’ fifth “I Am” statement: “I am the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25). Jesus is drawing close to the end of his earthly ministry. For three years he has been journeying with his disciples, shaping and forming them, inviting them to move from a transactional religious experience into a transformational relationship.

John 11 opens with an awkward conversation between Jesus and his disciples. Jesus hears that his friend Lazarus is dying, but rather than rush to his side, he lingers. John 11:6 says, “When he heard that Lazarus was sick, he stayed where he was two more days.” The disciples do not want him to go back to Judea, because Jesus is walking into imminent danger and they want to keep him safe.

Jesus arrives to a tragedy. Lazarus is dead. He is in a tomb and his family is devastated, yet his sister Martha (the same sister who had been stressed out serving Jesus dinner in Luke 10) has been so transformed that she does not respond with recrimination, but says in faith, “I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask” (John 11:22).

It is to this faith response that Jesus provides his fifth relational name: “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die” (John 11:25). He takes Mary and Martha to the tomb and speaks the words, “Lazarus, come out!” (John 11:43).

The raising of Lazarus is Jesus’ final sign in John’s Gospel, but it is not the end of the story, for in John 12 we encounter an embodied response to his name. Once again, Jesus is enjoying a meal with the Bethany family. Yet this time, Mary is not simply sitting at Jesus’ feet, soaking in his teaching. Mary responds. She pours out perfume (likely her dowry, worth about $40,000) and washes Jesus’ feet. She anoints Jesus for burial. Mary understands that for Jesus to be “the resurrection and the life,” he first has to die.

Jesus receives this gift with abundant love and grace; he sees Mary’s faith and understanding. Mary’s perfume fills the home while her love foreshadows the reality of the Incarnation coming to an end.

In this beautiful, embodied response, Mary “let go.” She physically let go of her dowry as she poured out the perfume but, more importantly, Mary let go spiritually. In that moment of surrendered worship, Mary understood Jesus’ salvation ministry. She did not cling to him; she surrendered to a plan beyond her understanding. She fully embraced the depth of Jesus’ name and how being “the resurrection and the life” would come about through Jesus’ own surrender.

Each autumn, falling leaves remind me of the value of the sacrament of letting go in true surrender. There are some ways letting go feels wonderful, such as being at a high school graduation and witnessing our child transition from childhood into adulthood. However, there are times letting go is very painful—letting go of a particular dream, letting go of a well-thought-out plan, letting go of a person we love—and rather than a feeling of nostalgic celebration, we experience a tremendous sense of loss.

This year, as we watch trees “let go” of their leaves to prepare to slumber for the cold winter months, I invite us to consider what God is asking us to surrender, to “let go.”

MAJOR CORINNE CAMERON is the principal of the College for Officer Training.

PRAYER PRACTICE

A few years ago, I wrote this in my journal:

Just as a tree lets go of its leaves
and they fall to the forest floor,
So too do we need to let go in our lives:
of pain, of hurt, of unhealthy ambition and pride,
The loss of leaves brings forth a time of waiting … a time of rest
… and they hold a promise …
for through their loss …
comes the potential for new life!

Prayerfully reflect: