Holding Space

Meditation on John 11.1-44

The room was quiet.

I sat on a couch facing her. She was sitting with feet curled up in her chair. It was her usual sitting position. We had been seeing each other for about a year at this point. Every week, in this little office, my therapist and I talked and parsed through what was happening in my brain and my life.

There was a lot going on at the time. I was separated from my wife, struggling to find out what it meant to take charge of my life in a new way, and I was dealing with my bipolar mood swings (as always). We also had, very recently, begun exploring wounds from my childhood, my abandonment issues, and my seeming inability to value myself.

This day, I was feeling vulnerable, exposed, raw. Betsy had introduced me to Dr. Kristen Neff and the idea of self-compassion, the concept of being kind and gentle with myself, of giving myself grace rather than self-criticizing, of loving myself the way I tried to love other people. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I deserved compassion, even from myself towards myself.

Maybe I could say to myself that this was a hard thing, that I was doing the best I can with what I have, that I don’t have to be perfect to be loved. “I don’t know that I can do that,” was my flat-out honest response to Betsy’s invitation to try to think of myself in kind terms.

“I’m going to hold that for you until you can believe it for yourself.”

The statement threw me off. No one had ever said anything like this to me before.

Growing up in church, I was told that I needed to believe for myself. I needed to have my own faith, not relying on the faith of my grandparents or my pastor, but owning belief for myself. The idea that someone else could hold something for me—believe something for me—until I was able to claim it for myself was staggering.

I teared up.

Her holding onto this promise for me was an act of kindness that no one had shown me before, that I never knew was possible. I had always faced a fact, decided if it was true or not, and added it to my belief system. Now, there was someone who cared about me enough to give me space to process, to doubt, to wrestle, and not yet to believe something true.

These weren’t just words. Betsy held onto the belief that I was valuable enough to deserve self-compassion for a long while until I believed and began to learn to treat myself that way. It was a powerful act on her part.

Mary and Martha feared death. Not their own, but of their brother whom they loved. Lazarus was gravely ill. They sent word to Jesus, knowing he loved Lazarus, knowing he could heal Lazarus.

Jesus then waits. Who knows why. All Jesus tells us is that the illness would not lead to death, but that the Son of God may be glorified through it. Then he waits two more days before setting out on the journey to Lazarus, Mary, and Martha.

It’s easy for us to jump to the end of the story and think that Jesus is glorified because of some miraculous event. But let’s pause, slow down, and stay in the story. Mary and Martha experienced the death of their brother because of sickness. His health failed. They asked Jesus to come and heal their brother, to ward off death, to save him, and Jesus didn’t show up.

Let’s be honest: sometimes Jesus doesn’t show up when we think he should. We ask for healing, for financial relief, for help and salvation, and Jesus doesn’t walk our way. He stays where he is for two more days, and we are left to our sorrow and pain.

Eventually, Jesus arrives four days after Lazarus’ burial. There is weeping and mourning and sorrow and pain at the death of a loved one. Death hurts. Mary and Martha knew this felt this. They also knew that Jesus didn’t come right away; he didn’t save their brother from death. They both say to Jesus, “If you were here, you could have healed him. Lazarus didn’t have to die.”

Jesus does something special for Martha and Mary. Jesus holds space for them.

When Martha says to Jesus, “You could have healed him,” Jesus responds, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha takes this to mean the last day’s resurrection when all is made well. Jesus shakes his head. “Martha, I am the resurrection and the new life to come. If you believe in me, there is no death.”

Sounds mystical and abstract, but Martha understands. Jesus asks if she believes what he has just said. Martha speaks for us; what it is to believe in Jesus. “I believe that you are God’s anointed, the Son of God, the one who is coming to make all things right.”

Jesus held space for Martha until she could believe.

Sometimes, our unbelief is a matter of understanding. We fail to grasp what God is saying, what Jesus is telling us, what the Spirit is stirring in us. We can hear God speak to us, tell us we are beloved, that we are loved beyond measure, and still, we cannot believe it. We see our circumstances, just as Martha saw hers, and assume that God is talking in general, to everyone. God’s love covers the world after all. So yes, Jesus loves me and everyone else. I’m another faceless person in the crowd.

But Jesus is talking to us, to our situation, to our place in time and space. Jesus is speaking into our circumstances, telling us that his love is for us, telling us that he knows our face by name, and he rejoices over us.

Jesus loves you, no matter what is going on. No matter a pandemic that disrupts and brings chaos and fear, Jesus loves you. No matter the grief you feel at the loss of normalcy, Jesus loves you. No matter the anxiety you feel at getting sick, at losing a loved one, at the economy crashing, at losing your job, at any and all things that we have every right to be afraid of, in that fear, Jesus loves you.

Jesus comes to us in the fear, the grief, the anxiety and says, “I am the life to come. I am the resurrection. I am the hope for which you have waited. I am salvation. Do you believe this?” His question is not one of condemnation; it is a question of invitation. Jesus is inviting us to believe that he is our salvation. What has died may still be buried, but he is our resurrection.

We don’t quite know how to believe this. We don’t understand. After all, we still love our sick loved ones. We still get laid off the job on which we relied. We still face death all around us. This world is broken, and we fill these fault lines deep in our lives. It’s hard to believe Jesus is our salvation when things still happen that break our hearts, crush our souls, and morning grief to rest in our spirits.

Jesus knows this. So, he holds the invitation to believe out to us unceasingly, believing for us when we can’t. There will come a time when we can lean into his hope, believing he is resurrection and life, but for now, Jesus gently holds that hope for us, knowing we are hurting, sorrowful, and fearful. Jesus believes he is our salvation when we can’t.

Jesus also holds space for Mary, but in a different way.

When Mary finally comes to Jesus, she echoes Martha: “If you had been here, my brother would still be alive.” I imagine a wave of anger in her voice masking the grief with which she was consumed. Jesus doesn’t get defensive; he doesn’t offer the words he gave to Martha. With Mary, Jesus asks one question: “Where is Lazarus buried?”

Jesus sees Mary’s sorrow and the grief of the people who came out with her. He truly understands it and is moved, deeply, in his core.

They go to the tomb, and Jesus weeps.

He cries for the grief his beloved friends are feeling. He sobs for Lazarus’ death. He weeps because this is too much, too much sorrow, too much fear, too much anger, too much death.

Jesus weeps with Mary.

He sits with her, holding space for her grief, her lamentation, her sorrow. He doesn’t say it’s going to be ok. He doesn’t offer some quip that everything happens for a reason or that Lazarus is in a better place. No, Jesus sits in the ashes with Mary, weeping with her. He holds space for her feelings, knowing she can believe all will be well at another time. Now is a time for sorrow to run its course. Jesus sits with Mary and compassionately, empathetically weeps with her in front of Lazarus’ tomb.

When Betsy, my therapist, held space for me, it was liberating. I didn’t have to beat myself up for not believing something I should, nor did I have to feel like a failure. I was allowed to be where I was in the process, in the journey. She freed me to accept where I was, to believe I was doing the best I could with what I had at the time. She also planted a seed of hope in my heart, hope that things could be different. If she believed that one day I could feel this compassion I extended to others for myself, then maybe, just maybe, someday it would be true.

God holds space for us. From valleys of dry bones to the tombs of friends, God makes promise after promise of salvation, knowing that we can’t yet believe it and holding the hope for us until we can.

These promises of god can be summed up in one word: life. Resurrection from the dead is more than just some pie in the sky concept; it is our hope. See, God loves each of us—by name—so tightly that God refuses to let anything separate us from God’s self. This includes death.

Lazarus was called to come forth; Ezekiel saw the metaphorical resurrection of the house of Israel, and you and I are promised that the Holy Ghost dwells in us, and that ghost raised Jesus from the dead, and therefore we will be raised as well.

Death isn’t the end for us. All will be well, including our lives. We are destined for life, and yet we don’t believe it. We may believe in part, believe sometimes, but we don’t hold this promise in our vision very well.

So, Jesus holds it for us.

Jesus is telling us what he tells Martha: “I am the resurrection.” He is our hope whether we believe or not. He holds the promise knowing someday we will see it come true; eventually, we will believe and live in that reality. He holds hope, knowing that one day we will see the glory of God.

So, how do we, who are made in the image of Christ, hold hope for others?

When others can’t move forward, can’t believe, are consumed by sorrow, are you making space, sitting with them, holding onto hope for them until they can claim it for themselves?

Holding space is one of the holiest acts we can do for another person. We can believe for them, knowing one day they will believe for themselves. In this way, by sitting in the sorrow and holding onto hope, we are manifesting the God who remains, the God who is present, the God who is with the lowly and broken-hearted—in this way, we are making tangible the hope of salvation for someone else. We all need this hope because the world is a scary place; fear stalks us, and death comes for us all.

But that is not the final word.

Hope triumphs, and when we cannot believe it, we need each other to believe it for us.

Share faith. It is a faith that is communal. We confess in the liturgy every week what we believe by way of the creeds, acknowledging by recitation that we all believe together. So, believe for each other.

Believe for those outside the red doors of the church, those who are consumed and blinded to God’s love. Believe for those seeking Jesus. Believe for those enacting love for neighbor. Believe for each other, and in this way, embody Jesus.