The Raising of Lazarus, by Eduard
von Gebhardt (1896)
This miracle was a pivotal one in the gospel account, for it
set in motion the chain of events which would lead to Jesus’ own arrest, trial
and execution, which Christians remember at Easter. Jesus was already wanted by the religious
authorities in Jerusalem, and he had been steering clear of the region for some
time. But then his close friends Mary
and Martha sent word for him to come and heal their brother Lazarus, who was
very ill, just two miles from Jerusalem in Bethany.
Jesus waited before coming but by then Lazarus was dead. The sisters were grief-stricken and confused –
they believed Jesus loved them, and that he could heal their brother, so why had
he delayed? But when he called Lazarus from
the grave, Jesus was not only bringing an unspeakable joy to his friends, but also
calling them to a deeper level of faith in him – that he would not only heal
sickness, but also triumph over death.
Gebhardt longed to connect the truth of this story to his
own life and times, so he set the scene in a contemporary graveyard, but with costumes
from the 16th century – perhaps in recognition of Luther’s teaching
about faith in Christ, which was so influential to the artist.
More than that, he was stretching out in faith by portraying
his own terminally ill wife as Martha, kneeling just behind her sister Mary in
the painting. Jesus is explaining
something to them, perhaps, “Did I not tell you that if you
believe, you will see the glory of God?” (John 11:40)
All this would gather into a climax a few weeks later, when it
would be Jesus’ lifeless body in the tomb, and the sisters would be mourning for
a second time… But then there would be an
unwavering gleam of hope, like the dawn on the horizon of Gebhardt’s painting,
which would soon turn into the full wonder of the first Easter sunrise.
Easter Night
All night had shout of men, and
cry
Of woeful women filled His way;
Until that noon of sombre sky
On Friday, clamour and display
Smote Him; no solitude had He,
No silence, since Gethsemane.
Public was Death… but Power, but Might,
But Life again, but Victory,
Were hushed within the dead of night,
The shutter'd dark, the secrecy.
And all alone, alone, alone,
He rose again behind the stone.
Of woeful women filled His way;
Until that noon of sombre sky
On Friday, clamour and display
Smote Him; no solitude had He,
No silence, since Gethsemane.
Public was Death… but Power, but Might,
But Life again, but Victory,
Were hushed within the dead of night,
The shutter'd dark, the secrecy.
And all alone, alone, alone,
He rose again behind the stone.
Alice Meynell (1847-1922)
