Who is in Charge of Life and Death?

GABBY GOODSELL

“I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live.”  - John 11:25-26a

Our family has adopted and altered a catechism to teach our kids (and really, ourselves) something good and true about who God is:

Question: “Who is in charge of life and death?”
Answer: “Only God.”

When my son is intent on massacring a colony of ants?
“Who is in charge of life and death?”
When a new cousin is born?
“Who is in charge of life and death?”
When we lose a beloved great-grandparent?
“Who is in charge of life and death?”
When we struggle to conceive and then later miscarry?
“Who is in charge of life and death?”

We cannot create life where there is none, and we cannot bring back life that has already been extinguished. It is a reminder of both our humanity and our mortality. The story of Lazarus shows us one of the most salient examples of how Jesus exists outside of these human bounds, able to do something no mere mortal can: steal life back from the grave. But this revelation comes with a cost: suffering. To teach us something about who he is, Jesus allows his friends to hurt deeply.

As the curtain opens on John chapter 11, we’re informed that “a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany.” We also discover that Lazarus and his two sisters are close friends of Jesus. Which is why it should surprise us that when Jesus hears the news of Lazarus’ illness, he doesn’t immediately begin the journey to Bethany, but “stayed two days longer in the place where he was.” We wonder: “Does Jesus even care about this friend? Does he truly love him?” 

Mary and Martha, Lazarus’ sisters, struggle with the same questions. How can the character of their friend Jesus—their good, kind friend—coexist with the seemingly apathetic person responding days late to the tragic loss of their brother? How could he love them and also allow this to happen? If he truly loved them, wouldn’t he have been there to stop it and prevent Lazarus’ death?

Separately, the two sisters say the same thing to Jesus when they first see him. 

“Martha said to Jesus, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died’” (v. 21). 

“Now when Mary came to where Jesus was and saw him, she fell at his feet, saying to him, 'Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died’” (v. 32). 

They knew Jesus was able to prevent the worst outcome, yet he didn’t. 

Truthfully, there have been times in my life when I’ve leveled the same accusations as these women: “Jesus, if you really loved me, you would have been here and prevented my suffering. Where were you? You must not have loved me enough.” 

Jesus’ words when he first heard of Lazarus’ illness can also carry their own painful sting. “It is for the glory of God, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it” (v. 4). Those words are difficult for us to receive. We wonder, “God, does your glory overshadow your love for me?” 

But Jesus’ actions show us something profound. As Mary grieves her brother’s death, Jesus also grieves. The eternal Son of God weeps (v. 35). For some of those looking on, it says one thing: “how he loved him” (v. 36). But Jesus’ tears are not just for Lazarus - they are tears over the power of death itself. It’s why Jesus does what he does next:

“Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’ Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, ‘Lord, by this time there will be an odor, for he has been dead four days.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?’ So they took away the stone” (vv. 39-41a).

“... he cried out with a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, come out.’ The man who had died came out…” (v. 43-44a).
 
God’s concern for his own glory and his love for us are not competing priorities. Instead, God is eager to reveal his glory because he loves us. Like Mary and Martha, even in our suffering we participate in a redemptive story–the story of God making wrong things right once again. God takes the brokenness of the world–the sickness, the fractured relationships, the things that cause us deep pain and grief–and he uses it. He wants to show us who he is–the good and loving God, who rightly rules over all things. He wants to show the world that he is the “resurrection and the life” (v. 25). Not just in eternity, but in the here and now too.

The story of Lazarus is a prelude to the full revelation that Jesus is not limited by death. It is a precursor to when he himself is resurrected from the grave and, in his mercy, brings us up with him. And if Jesus is Lord over even death, truly what is there that he could not possibly redeem?

Is there something in your life that feels dead? That feels like it’s been rotting for four days, in the grave and beyond repair? Maybe, like Martha, you’re saying, “Jesus, why bother? This situation stinks.” I used to think that if God redeemed something, it meant he would undo it like he undid the death of Lazarus. Then I realized–Lazarus would still die again. But Jesus’ own resurrection meant that even that future day for Lazarus would not have the last word. 

God doesn’t magically restore things exactly as they were before. Instead, he takes what is broken and dead, and gives it new life in a different way. He uses it. And he uses you. He allows you to be the one to share words of lament that uniquely resonate in shared grief. He allows you to see the ways a season of loss has made you kinder, stronger, and more humble. He takes the jagged pieces of your fractured identity and welds them into something new—something both beautiful and unexpected.

So then, who is in charge of life and death?

I will need to modify our answer:
Only a good and loving God.