On Second Thought
Advent is a season that trains the heart to wait, but not passively. It teaches us to wait with expectation, to sit with tension, and to trust that God’s timing carries wisdom even when it feels unkind. Few passages expose this tension more honestly than John 11, where love appears to hesitate and hope seems to arrive too late. “When he had heard therefore that he was sick, he abode two days still” (John 11:6, italics added). Those words feel almost jarring. Jesus loves Martha, Mary, and Lazarus. Love, we assume, should hurry. Love should prevent loss. Love should spare grief. Yet here, love lingers, and death enters the house anyway.
Martha’s grief is both restrained and raw. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (John 11:21, italics added). Many believers have prayed that same sentence in different forms. If You had intervened sooner. If You had stopped this. If You had acted when I asked. Jesus does not correct her theology, but He does deepen it. Martha believes in resurrection as doctrine—eschaton, the last day, the future hope. Jesus redirects her gaze from an event to a person: “I am the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25, italics added). Resurrection is not merely something Jesus performs; it is who He is. Doctrine detached from Christ remains cold and distant, but doctrine gathered into Him becomes living and personal. As Augustine observed, “Christ did not say, ‘I will give resurrection,’ but ‘I am the resurrection.’”
This is where faith often falters—not in what we affirm, but in whom we trust. We can assent to correct beliefs while still holding Jesus at arm’s length, especially when disappointment has settled into our expectations. Advent presses this tension gently but firmly. We celebrate the coming of Christ into a world that did not immediately change, a world where graves were still filled and tears still fell. Theology that cannot survive delay has not yet learned to worship. When belief finally rests in Christ Himself, theology becomes doxology—truth that bends the knee.
Standing before Lazarus’ tomb, Jesus speaks again: “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” (John 11:40, italics added). The order matters. Believe first. See later. Yet we remain, as the reflection admits, “slaves to sense.” We want proof before obedience, certainty before risk, visibility before faithfulness. Many of us stand today before graves of our own—the impossible situation, the relationship beyond repair, the calling that seems long dead. Advent does not deny the reality of those graves. It insists, however, that Christ stands beside them.
But belief is not passive. Jesus issues a command that exposes resistance: “Take away the stone.” Martha’s objection is practical, reasonable, and deeply human. Death has consequences. Removing the stone risks embarrassment, exposure, and social discomfort. Faith often stalls not because God is unwilling, but because obedience threatens to disturb what we have learned to manage. The stone represents what we have sealed away—wounds unaddressed, sins unconfessed, fears carefully hidden. We fear the stench more than the silence of the grave.
Scripture makes a sobering observation: “He did not do many mighty works there because of their unbelief” (Matthew 13:58, italics added). Not because of divine limitation, but because unbelief refuses participation. Jesus will not override the posture of the heart. Advent reminds us that God’s greatest works often require cooperation, not control. The Word became flesh, but He still asks us to respond. “Whatever He says to you, do it” (John 2:5, italics added). Obedience does not earn miracles, but it makes room for them.
John Calvin noted that faith “is not an idle quality of the soul, but a living principle that moves us to action.” To remove the stone is to trust Christ more than our instincts, to believe that His word carries more weight than our fears. The command precedes the miracle. Always has. Always will.
On Second Thought
Here is the paradox Advent invites us to consider more deeply: Jesus delayed not because He loved less, but because He intended more. If He had arrived earlier, Lazarus would have been healed. Because He waited, Lazarus was raised. Healing meets a moment; resurrection reshapes reality. We often pray for God to arrive before things fall apart, but Scripture repeatedly shows that God is just as willing to meet us after collapse. The delay we interpret as absence may, in fact, be preparation—for a greater revelation of His glory and a deeper transformation of our faith.
On second thought, perhaps the gravest danger is not that God sometimes waits, but that we want Him to act in ways that keep our lives tidy and our theology manageable. We ask for solutions that preserve appearances, not resurrections that require stones to be moved and death to be named. Advent confronts us with a God who enters the mess rather than avoiding it, who weeps before He commands, and who calls us to believe before we see. The waiting is not wasted. The grave is not final. The delay is not denial. Christ still stands before what we have declared impossible and says, “Believe, and you shall see.”
FEEL FREE TO COMMENT, SUBSCRIBE, AND REPOST, SO OTHERS MAY KNOW