Bethany was about 20 miles from the Jordan plain, where Jesus was at the time he was informed of Lazarus’ illness. It also sits at 2,700 feet above sea level, whereas Jesus was 1,100 feet below sea level, making the trek a long, uphill day of walking, with nearly 4,000 feet of elevation gain.

Look at the kind of honor these two sisters held in their hearts for Jesus, that they knew where to go with this concern. This is a prayer, you realize that, right? In the Gospel stories, there are people everywhere who ask Jesus for help—and because of who he is, every single one of them is a prayer. In this case, the sisters send a messenger those 20 miles out to where Jesus is staying—to inform him.

Now do you think Jesus already knows? Of course. Do the sisters probably know he knows? I think so. But it doesn’t matter. They send word to Jesus anyways. Here’s the point: Don’t stay quiet because “God knows” — pray anyway.

Now prayer does have a goal, of course, but it’s not what we usually think. It’s not “getting something from God.” Prayer is simply opening a door — initiating an encounter with God. We can quite literally never anticipate what the power of God will do in any given situation, so prayer should be open-handed. Mary and Martha’s prayer is extremely open-handed; a mere statement of the situation is enough; they expect Jesus to do what’s best.

The prayer of faith does not dictate outcomes, but confesses our needs and our hearts. Here, for example, the sisters simply tell Jesus, “He whom you love is ill.” It’s not wrong to make a specific request, but it is wrong to associate the fulfillment of that specific request with a “successful prayer.”

When we trust God, we don’t fixate on a particular result, but we do know that “he will do something,” and whatever that is will be best. That’s what it means to pray “in faith.”

All these women do is insinuate a healing, it’s a mere whisper of a suggestion—but it moves their earthly concern, the health of their brother, into the realm of heavenly action. That’s what prayer does.

So the sisters have laid out their news, with an implicit request: “Come and heal our brother!” Let’s see what Jesus will do in response.

Not much. He’s in no hurry. There’s plenty of time. Lazarus is dying, but no rush. How familiar does this seem to some of us? Those who have prayed and prayed—sometimes for years—with no discernible response from God know this feeling. 

Look at Jesus’ heart here. Look at vv.5–6. Even without the word “so,” these two statements would seem to be contradictory. But then when you add the word “so,” as a cause-and-effect word, it seems to read that because Jesus loved these people, he did nothing; he stayed where he was.

That brings us to the question: Is it better for Jesus to save Lazarus’ life? Or is it better for him to raise Lazarus from the dead? Is it better for God to spare us from suffering? Or is it better for him to turn suffering inside out into something eternally beautiful?

But I propose to you that it is precisely because Jesus loved Lazarus, Mary and Martha that he let him die. Because they would see something that they could not see any other way.

The real challenge, then, is to believe that our problems—whatever they are, no matter how urgent—are ultimately small things compared to whatever God is bringing the long way around. It’s not easy for us to remember, but the death of these bodies is a plot point in a much longer story—it’s one of the things that happens to people who are going to live forever.

Elisabeth Elliot put it this way: “Our vision is so limited we can hardly imagine a love that does not show itself in protection from suffering. The love of God is of a different nature altogether. It does not hate tragedy. It never denies reality. It stands in the very teeth of suffering. The love of God did not protect His own Son. And he will not necessarily protect us from anything that will make us more like Jesus.”