Occasionally, we receive a note from readers commenting that they find these weekly reflections on the Sunday Gospel very different from what they hear at Church. One reason for this may be that we bring a particular lens to the way we read and interpret the passage, with an eye to seeing and understanding how Jesus can illuminate something about what it means to serve as a leader.

This may have already been obvious, but I share this with you today for two reasons. One, because this passage from John about the raising of Lazarus is so powerful and deep on a theological level, and yet, I will largely leave this level aside. Second, I perceive in this passage an important tension that we all face as leaders, and one that I am feeling particularly sensitive to today.

As leaders, we must attend to both people, and the tasks and objectives entrusted to us. We Jesuits often have special expressions we use for things and in this case, we identify the attention to people as “cura personalis,” and attention to our overall goals and objectives as “cura apostolica.” I don’t know about you, but the responsibility for these two essential features of our organizations often feels like a dilemma, one which pulls us in two opposing directions. Our people come to us and want accommodations for their particular needs and circumstances, and yet we also must be mindful of fairness, equity, and non preferential treatment so as not to compromise the morale of everyone else. We have limits of resources of time, money, and people, yet we must also achieve our mandates, generate revenue, and reach our goals; this often means asking a great deal of our people, testing their limits. We know that relationships and trust are essential for the fulfillment of our aims, and yet, we really don’t want to instrumentalize people’s gifts, let alone the human bonds amongst us, in order to “get the job done.” I could go on, and I’m sure that you have plenty of your own examples. Care of and for people, and care of the work we’ve been asked to accomplish…

It is hard to imagine what Jesus felt within himself when he was faced with the dilemma of caring for his sick and dying friend, Lazarus, whom he loved, and the task given to him by his Father, to “reveal his glory.” Not only was Lazarus a person so dear to him, but his sisters, Martha and Mary, were two of the women who along with his mother were so precious to him that they were named for all of time in the Scriptures. Their home in Bethany was a place where Jesus felt at complete ease, like an extended member of their family. Their relationship was for him a kind of “comfort zone” and place of retreat, where he could relax from meeting all the demands he faced, and where he might even have some rest from mediating the rivalries and competition amongst his own disciples.

And at the same time, according to John’s Gospel, as Jesus was nearing the end of his public ministry, it became evident that the Father asked of him a miracle so powerful, public, and unmistakable that the religious authorities would need to take final and decisive action, either to finally surrender to belief in or to a conclusive denial of Jesus’ identity as the Messiah. There could be no doubt left that he possessed the power of God to surpass death and fully restore life. This was his mission and task. And somehow, he had to first of all disappoint the expectations of his friends, a crushing and painful blow to the sisters, and, impossibly, to allow his dear friend to suffer and die.

What to say… I really am at a loss to fathom what a disorienting and painful decision this must have been for Jesus, even if he believed his Father’s promise for the way things would finally work out. We know that his disciples were completely dismayed and confused by his choice to remain two more days before turning toward Bethany and that he must have felt entirely alone. While John’s account presents a Jesus that is relatively stoic and self-possessed, he could not continue this impassivity. From John’s account, we know that when he witnessed Mary weeping, he was entirely overcome with his own grief and all the tension he had contained until that moment. In the Greek, the words used to describe his emotion suggested that experienced a kind of nauseating wrenching of his bowels. 

This was no simple task. His love for his friends complicated everything in a way that was painful for all of them. And yet, this was the Father’s will, in order to bring about a more abundant life, to inspire faith, and to spur Jesus on to the fulfillment of his ultimate purpose: to reveal the infinite, unconditional love of God who renounced violence and retribution, and instead reveals mercy, forgiveness, and reconciliation as his desire and will for all of us in relationship with one another.

I don’t think that I have even scratched the surface of what this dilemma meant for Jesus, or for us. And thank goodness, we are hopefully spared from ever having to make such a dramatic choice. Yet, as leaders, choices we must make which entail sacrifices, consequences, and mistakes along the way. As leaders we only have the information we have at the moment, and no assurances of what is to come. We have to risk making missteps, causing misunderstandings, and at times, we must disappoint people’s expectations. One wonders why anyone would actually want to take a leadership role, or undertake some public office, if they are sensitive, caring, and allow their love for people to complicate their lives.

But what this passage suggests to me is that Jesus wants us to bring our full selves to our roles and responsibilities, and to allow our heads, hearts, and guts to be entangled with reality and relationships when we are called to lead. And now, as the Holy Spirit nudges the Church in the direction of synodality, God is calling us to go beyond the notion of leading as individuals, but as communities composed of diverse, interdependent members. We are called to advance in the direction of deeper communion, and a fuller and more inclusive participation, for the sake of our mission. This call is complicated, messy, and filled with dilemmas. It entails holding generative tensions between what can feel like competing commitments, and to place our faith in the Holy Spirit’s help in taking the next step. It means making friends with others on the same path, and allowing our affection and care for one another to change us, to inform our decisions and plans, and if possible, to work out our ways forward together rather than taking unilateral decisions.

If all this feels rather overwhelming, maybe even impossible for us, let’s recall that the Spirit of Christ lives and moves and has being within us. This is our faith. And this same Christ knows both the experience of dilemmas and competing commitments that entail pain and sacrifice along the path to glory. I don’t pretend to understand the mystery that we are preparing to contemplate during Holy Week, but I know it matters for us who care for people and who are charged with the responsibility to accomplish a mission.

Let us contemplate this mystery together, and ask the Holy Spirit to lead us forward…

With sibling affection on the road,