The Final Resurrection of Mr. Bethany

Before Lazarus rolled out of bed, he peeked through the weave of his rough blanket to see if he was still dead. He could tell by the color of the walls.

Apr 02, 2024

Before Lazarus rolled out of bed, he peeked through the weave of his rough blanket to see if he was still dead. He could tell by the color of the walls. Gray meant he was still in the tomb; pale yellow meant the sun was out and that his friend Jesus had brought him back to life again.

Normally, Lazarus didn’t mind when he got revived. He was well known in the community for his inspiration. Be all you can be. Don’t let death get you down. That sort of thing.

But today, Lazarus was tired. He wanted to sleep in, but it wasn’t possible. Once again, death had been evicted, and Lazarus had to rub his eyes and greet the day. He threw the blanket to one side, got dressed, dug around under the bed for his sandals, and went into the kitchen.

“Good morning Mr. Bethany,” said Jonah. He was Lazarus’ manservant and housekeeper. “The hot wine is almost ready.”

“Don’t call me that,” said Lazarus. He hated that name.

“Did you sleep well?” asked Jonah.

“The usual. A little life, a little death. I dreamed I met a Galilean.”

“You did. In fact, he was looking for you about an hour ago. Said he’d come back after the crucifixion.”

“Really? I’m not in the mood for marketing.”

Jonah only nodded. He had been with Lazarus for many years, through many trials, many deaths. Mr. Bethany (as Jonah couldn’t stop thinking of him) could be a little cranky when he first arose, but he’d have a few sips, stretch his legs, and regain his customary optimism.

**

A knock arrived by fist on the door. It was Jesus. “Hi Lazarus,” he said. “I see you’re up and resurrected.”

Lazarus bobbed his head in a non-committal way. His grouchiness had mostly worn off, but he still would have preferred to be alone for a while.

“Let’s go down to the market,” said Jesus. “There’s a new guy in town and we ought to show him who’s boss.”

“I don’t know,” said Lazarus. “I might not be safe. Bunch of priests and Pharisees still plotting to kill me.”

“What good would that do?”

Lazarus sighed. “You’ve got a point,” he said.

**

Most men live and die in the same order as a bird who emerges from the egg, gains its wings, and then one day drops from a branch or flies into a wall. They put one foot in front of another day, one day in front of another year, until they reach the graveyard where they stay comfortably dead on soft pillows of dirt.

Not Lazarus. Although he at times complained, he also knew that people looked up to him for guidance. It wouldn’t do to let his uncertainties poke needles through the veil of his public persona.

His sister Martha had once taken Lazarus by the hand. “You are the hope that many cannot have on their own,” she had said. And she was right. People needed a little push to see their potential. They needed a little help to shoo the desperation from their existence.

Still, Lazarus was just a side man. He pumped some rhythm into the show, got people to move their feet toward salvation, but Jesus was the main attraction. Jesus got the gigs and drew the crowds.

**

At noon, the market was crowded. People pushed and gently shoved each other to get to the deals. Meats, breads, ceramic pots, tunics, and knives hung from the stalls by rough ropes. Merchants shouted and clapped their hands.

“Where’s this new guy?” asked Lazarus.

“Usually over by the fountain,” said Jesus. “Let’s go.”

Sure enough. After they pushed through the thicket of shoppers and popped out in the plaza, they saw a man holding court in front of about two dozen listeners. He was tall, and dressed in a dark brown robe with a stylish red scarf around his neck. His beard was neatly barbered and glistened slightly in the sun as if he had sleeked it with myrrh oil.

Jesus wasted no time. He parted the small sea of people in a masterful stride. “Hey,” he said to the new guy. “What’s that you’re selling?”

The new guy stopped in mid-sentence. “Hello friend,” he said. “Same as you.”

Jesus frowned. “But I’ve got the franchise here.”

Lazarus stepped up. It was time to display his devotion. “I rise from the dead,” he said. “All these people..” – he turned and gestured to the crowd – “know me as the miracle man.”

“With my help,” added Jesus.

The new guy nodded. “Yes, I know who you are. Both of you. It’s been my pleasure to follow in your footsteps. They call me John.”

"As in: Elijah Who Is To Come?" asked Jesus.

“Yes, but just John is fine. Look, I’m thinking we should team up, really get this thing moving.”

Jesus made snap decisions. Okay,” he said. “Finish up what you’ve got to say and then I’ll take a turn.” A good warm up act could be just the ticket.

**

In the weeks ahead, although the collaboration between Jesus and John pumped up attendance, Lazarus wasn’t convinced. This Elijah Who Is To Come or just plain John seemed to have an ulterior motive beneath his surface congeniality. Maybe he was growing cynical, but Lazarus had seen too many deaths and rebirths to blindly trust. A little verification was in order.

**

“I told you Lazarus,” said Isaiah, who was one of Lazarus’ contacts. He owned an incense shop, did a little money changing on the side. “I don’t really know the guy. He showed up a while back and started taking up slack in the story telling business.”

“And?”

“My guys say he’s legit, comes from a good family, pays his bills, writes to his mother. There’s a rumor he tried to drown a guy in a river, but nobody’s saying much. Probably just make-believe to scare the kids.”

“Okay, thanks Isaiah. Let me know if you hear anything new.” Lazarus turned toward the shop door. A small bell jingled as he left.

**

On his way home, Lazarus ran into a group of Pharisees. Even though they ranged in age from around forty to maybe sixty, they were joking and jostling like young priests just out of seminary. Lazarus tried to cross to the other side of the street before they saw him, but a burro blocked his path on the narrow walkway and he was steered into a confrontation.

When they recognized Lazarus, they encircled him, and refused to let him pass. Lazarus hated these hypocrites, with their self-righteous robes and their punctured beliefs in humanity. He knew that they hated him, too. They saw him as living proof that Jesus was more powerful than them. And if there’s one thing a sanctimonious bad apple can’t stand, it’s getting their face rubbed in their own pretense.

“Let me through,” said Lazarus.

One of the bigger ones, a broad-faced man with lumpy skin and a fat skewed nose, shook his head. “Not going to happen,” he said.

Lazarus bit his lip and looked down at the cobblestones. He’d been through this before. “Get it over with then,” he said. He was outnumbered and even so, not skilled in a physical fight. They would run a sharp stick through him or something; it would hurt like hell for a few seconds, and he would wake up in his bed again, peering through a coarse blanket at the clues that lay in the color of the walls.

“Brave little shit, aren’t you?” said the lumpy man.

No, thought Lazarus. Not brave at all. Just a guy who has seen the power of life and the power of death.

Not like these assailants. They didn’t know what he knew, didn’t have the benefit of passing back and forth between realms, and the gratitude, despite his crankiness on a death wakeup day, of having an opportunity to experience the expanse of the world.

**

Jesus was in the middle of a sermon when he got the news. An old man hobbled up to the stone where Jesus stood and told him that Lazarus was dead again.

“Okay, thanks,” said Jesus. “I’ll get to him as soon as I can.” He turned back to the crowd.

“Lazarus is dead again,” said Jesus.

That got their attention. People liked a little death in their lives, a fine reminder, but what they really wanted was assurance that their existence mattered, that they made a difference.

Jesus was good at convincing people along those lines. He had carved out his niche. His friends could, too. They were generally of meager means, but Jesus believed they were the ones likely to inherit the earth.

**

Before Lazarus rolled out of bed, he peeked through the weave of his rough blanket to see if he was still dead.

Nope. The walls were yellow. He rose, dressed, and went in search of his friend.

Jesus was once again in the plaza by the marketplace. A large crowd stood around or sat on stoops to hear him speak. When he finished up, he said thanks to everybody for coming out, and walked over to Lazarus.

“Hello Lazarus,” said Jesus. “How was it this time?”

“Not bad. I feel pretty rested.” Lazarus looked around. “Where’s John?”

“They cut off his head, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. That’s too bad. Did you arrange it?”

“No, no,” said Jesus. “Just one of those things. Look, I know you didn’t trust him, but he was on our side. Wanted to help. And he did. Look at the size of this crowd.”

Jesus was right. There were more fans than Lazarus had seen before. Maybe hoping for some specific advice, or a cure for what ailed them.

“I’m moving up in the world,” continued Jesus. “Reaching more eyes and ears. More followers. More recommendations.”

A man walked up, patting the air in front of him “I can’t see you,” he said. “I can’t see anything. I was blind, and now I’m still blind.”

Jesus reached out his hand. “Go and be blind no more,” he said. The man smiled and walked away.

“That’s it?” asked Lazarus. “All of this to play tricks and have people touch your hem?”

“It’s way bigger than that, Lazarus. It’s bigger than me or you, bigger than all of us. I’m just a conduit, a messenger. I came here to let people know that their days are without end.

“Even an old cynic like you can see that. Especially you, actually. You get up, have some wine, take a walk, take a meal, read a book, go to death, get up again. Over and over because that’s the way you learn. That’s the way you jump off the cart wheel of conformity.”

“I don’t know,” said Lazarus. “Sometimes I just want to take a break.”

“So do I, friend. And I’m going to do just that. Soon. Going to climb some spikes right out of this world and let my days bleed. You guys will be on your own.”

“But..”

“I know what you’re thinking. Who’s going to save you next time the bad boys drop by?”

That’s exactly what Lazarus was thinking. It was easy to let the chips fall when you had someone ready to pump your life back upstream again. But if that person wasn’t there, that would mean you’d have to make your own way from one end of your life to another. You’d need to steer your own ship.

“Scary, isn’t it?” asked Jesus.

“More like terrifying.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“But what if we don’t want to?”

“You need to,” said Jesus. “You can’t lean on me forever. You need to learn to walk on your own.”

“Our own?”

“Yep, independence, friend. It’s mighty pleasant. And you know, looking up to idols isn’t healthy.”

Lazarus exhaled a bit of skepticism.

“I hear you Lazarus, but don’t worry. You’ll be fine. I’ve got to go now, got a meeting with Herod. Take care.” Jesus turned and melted into the crowd.

Lazarus stood and watched the faces as the plaza cleared. They’d need to cultivate the desire to live on their own terms. They’d need to burn crutches. It might take a long time, but he supposed it could be done.

Having no choice opens your eyes, he thought. As does the prospect of everlasting gray on the morning walls.