The Gospel Of Lazarus

Chapter 1

A life is not remarkable until events occur to make that life remarkable.  Mine fit that definition.  I was born in a non-descript location.  I was raised by parents who were neither noteworthy nor significant in any way.  I lived my life unconscious of the events that were moving me down a path where an incident outside of my control would cascade me tumbling flying into a place in history where one moment would arise above all of the others, would forever alter the course of the world around me.

However, does anyone ever come to ask if this was what I truly desired?  Does anyone ever come to ask if it is proper for such a destiny to be laid at the feet of a man without his consent?

Does anyone ever ponder how I dealt with my exile from death?

What you have known until now is His side of the story, which is of no surprise, for it is His story, at least the one that they tell you.  However, has justice truly been served unless you also hear mine?  Can you fully appreciate the consequence of the events unless you view the aftermath that fell like a fiery comet, cascading in illumination across my mind, then to disappear into a burnt powder which covered the soil of my soul, only be washed by the rains of time and sifted into the far seas of oblivion?

Perhaps for you this will make no difference.  If you will to believe, then you shall; if you desire to not, then neither His side of the story nor mine can alter your viewpoint.

Perhaps for you this shall make no difference, but for me it may be a coming to terms with the powers that moved my life in directions that no man could ever or should have to expect.  For once my voice is heard, you may gain some understanding that after a miracle there can be consequences that not even a savior can anticipate.

But then again, maybe He can.  Only He knows the answer, and I have not talked to Him since that fateful day.

Chapter 2

How can one adequately describe death when human language is designed to avoid such concepts, is designed for the living to continue day to day through their existence, shunning the idea that someday all of it must end?

I would have to say that death is more of an absence than a presence.  However, if the absence is life or the recognition that what follows life makes one understand that it is the living who are denied true realization, I cannot say.  At the time I was very confused, torn between two worlds, truly not a part of either.

What I do remember is that there was a light.  Whether it grew closer to me or I gravitated toward it, I am not sure.  All I remember is the light and that finally for the first time I felt like I was a part of something, that for once I was not disconnected.  At the same time the illumination frightened me.  It was new, all so new.  It was not like anything that I had ever expected.

However, there was no longing to return from where I had left.  I fully understood that was not an option, and I had no desire to do so.  My back was turned to the past, and I was ready to follow the journey to its conclusion.

Then I felt His hand.  It was warm, caring, and maybe tinged with destiny.  There was no question of if I would resist its temptation.  I was overwhelmed by His touch.  I was bound to Him, a moth to the flame of his fate.

I felt His hand and heard His voice softly call to me, “Come, it is not yet your time.”

As the light faded, and I found my vision slowly forming upon his face and the anxious gazes of my sisters, I remember thinking ‘How does even He know this is not my time?  How can even an anointed one be sure when He tampers with the laws of the universe?’

The tomb was cold, so cold, numbing my body through the burial shroud that encompassed my exhausted form.  However, even deeper was the cold that I beheld flicker for that instant in His eyes.  It was not for me, the chill that produced a sadness in His vision, but for the events He had set in motion, and His awareness that He could no longer deny for Himself the fate placed before Him.

He gently squeezed my hand as He helped me to my unsteady feet.  I could sense that He was studying me closely, an attempt to discern within me some clue to answer His question of what to return would be like.  At the same time I realized that only He comprehended the doom He had set loose in my life.  I wish that He had spoken to me of it.  Perhaps then I would have been better prepared for what ensued.

Instead, He merely placed His hand upon my shoulder and said, “It is time for us both to continue.”

Chapter 3

How does one describe being the victim of a miracle?  Yes, you may note, I said victim, for when one has accepted a fate and suddenly is confronted with another, the universe is yanked out from under your feet, all moorings and bearings used to prepare oneself for what has happened suddenly no longer apply.

No, I did not want to die, but was I truly prepared to live?

All of which I am sure is that I do not know if He had any idea of what returning did to me.  I believe that I was an unwilling part in a master plan between the Father and Him.  An example was needed to foreshadow His coming events.  I was merely the pawn played upon the board.

Perhaps, I am somewhat too harsh in my appraisal.  I know that He had affection for me.  He truly cared for all of us.  He was like a brother and more much.  However, I am convinced that I was merely a subject of convenience.  If I had not died, or if one closer to His physical presence had died, then I would not be here to explain the ramifications of the story to you.

However, I digress.  What I wish to stress to you is the sense of loss that encompassed my life after I returned.  My destiny had been sealed, or so I thought, and suddenly I was confronted again with living in this world.

While He still was there, the loss did not bother me nearly as much as after He had left.  It was then that I felt the gaping hole that could not be filled by anything of this world.  After He died and did not immediately return the pain grew worse.

The faithful told me, not to worry, that He soon would return.  Time passed and He did not.  They slowly built a religion around Him to compensate for his absence.  As I watched their belief grow I wondered just how He would have reacted to their teachings.  It seemed to me that he was not concerned with creating a new faith in His name but with reforming the existing one, to recapture its inherent truths.

As for me, my life continued, but nowhere near the one I had lived previously.  I attempted to find some normalcy, but how could one ever do that when all you had recognized as real, all that you believed as true was suddenly shifted out from under you?

As I have said before, I had accepted the fact that I had died.  Now I must admit to you and to me that I never accepted fully that I lived again.  I became a parody, a shadow of my former self.

To others it might not have seemed so.  After the initial shock of my return wore off, for a while they accepted my presence, and I seemed no different to them.  On the surface I was able to act like nothing had happened, that I had always been there, but within me, within my heart and soul, there strode a sore that could not heal.

Guilt, I believe is the name for it:  guilt that I was the one chosen while so many others more worthy faded to dust in their graves and the memories of their loved ones; guilt that I who had never asked for such a gift received it; guilt in the form of an unnamed pain that stalked my every breath and step; guilt for the realization that I of all men knew how truly ephemeral our lives are.

Guilt and its cousin remorse blocked my every attempt to be the one of the living until finally I realized that I could never truly live again.  I was a ghost in exile, a mockery of the life that sprang from and breathed within the world around me.

Guilt until that one fated day when again I became aware of how little control any of us have over when the time comes for us to leave this world.

Chapter 4

You may wonder if my life was so miserable why did I not just end it and return to what lies beyond.

When a man is drowning he will cling to flimsiest of straws and even attempt to float upon a brick.  It is surprising the resiliency that is deep within in us all.  If I had been told beforehand that I could feel such remorse and guilt and yet would still desire to continue I would have doubted the veracity of the story.

However, even through the ache and the uncertainty there were times when I did enjoy life, there were times when I treasured the gift I had received.  I even could occasionally forget for a little while what had happened and pretend my existence was no different than any other.

I have no idea how I could have survived without hope, which I clung to when the storms of anguish left me little else.  The hope that tomorrow could be no worse and perhaps better than today is maybe why humanity even continues to survive.  I know of few who can live only for the present moment.

Habit is another reason.  One can become accustomed to much, even the deepest of pain.  It becomes the routine.  It becomes what we expect.  When such is then pulled from our lives a new kind of guilt and anguish arises, one that tells of the truth of our fruitless efforts to deceive ourselves with hope, but until that happens habit is one of the foundations of our existence.

Thus, through my pain I treasured life as I inhaled hope and exhaled habit.

Finally, there was the love of my sisters and the others who truly cared for me.  Although I have often wondered the effect of having accepted my death only to see me return had upon them, they offered in their affection for me a strength I could not find within myself.

In addition, if they cared for me so much, how could I allow them to suffer the pain of losing me twice.  I was bound to this world by their love.

Chapter 5