The Weeping Man

It was the sound of weeping that woke him. Was he really awake, though? He certainly became aware of lying on his back, in a rather stiff and formal manner, but…. awake? He wasn’t sure yet. He had often had that strange experience of being asleep but dreaming of being awake, and decided that this was what was happening now.

There it was again – weeping. A grown man, weeping, very close by, immediately next to him, quiet, insistent, desolate and disconsolate, like someone who did a lot of weeping. Almost musical in tone, very nearly like singing, it went on in continuous rhythm and was clearly the voice of a man who knew all about sorrows and was acquainted with grief. 

But why had he thought the sound was close at hand? It was now certainly further off, coming from outside. But outside of what? All he knew, in that vague and dreamy condition, was that he was inside somewhere and the weeping man was outside. This distinction between his inside and the weeping man’s outside seemed to be important and terribly significant, but it was just another unknown to him in his still dreaming condition. The weeping became louder, rising, step by step, to a tone of outrage and plain anger, reaching something like a terrible shout, a lamentation and even perhaps a war cry – the kind of sound a man would make if he were fighting and defeating an enraged lion or bear with his bare hands. And then…silence. 

He continued lying there, closer now to true wakefulness, but still knowing himself to be asleep. Other than that, he didn’t know anything at all, just his dark and enclosed inside and the man who had been weeping outside. He had no idea who he was, what had gone before, no memories of anything at all. 

Sound returned, in the vague murmur of other voices, going back and forth, talking in low insistent tones. He thought also that he could discern other wailing and weeping voices, further away, women’s voices perhaps? Then two or three male voices came much closer, until he could almost begin to pick out individual words. Sounds of exertion, grunting and heaving, followed by a brief stab of light which disappeared for a moment, only then to return, and become instantly dazzling, blinding him, despite the fact that he seemed to have some kind of arrangement of cloth over his face.

Then – his name… 

The weeping man called out his name… 

LAZARUS! 

The first piece of returning memory… Lazarus, that’s me, that’s my name. He now felt very close indeed to breaking the surface of the lake of sleep he was still submerged in. The man’s voice continued in a commanding tone, forceful enough to flatten trees a hundred miles away and even knock planets out of their course, but aimed with absolute precision at him and him alone…  

COME FORTH!  

With that shout, the return of the memory of his own name and then that not to be resisted command COME FORTH! he knew – clearly and indisputably – that he was now fully awake, able, for the first time, to flex muscle and move limbs.

Now that he was properly awake, the knowledge and sensation of being inside in that enclosed space and there being a very clear outside became rather oppressive. COME FORTH, the voice had commanded, so – of course – he obeyed. And that was still all he knew, the entirety of any knowledge he could muster. His name, the sensation of being in that enclosed space and now the command to COME FORTH.. Slowly and carefully he sat up, then stood and began to walk, in slow shuffling gait, towards the light, which he was very clearly aware of, even though he was still effectively blindfolded. There was something outrageous, something that felt as though it should Not Really Be Allowed, something impossible about this action of standing and walking – he didn’t know why that should be. It simply shouldn’t be happening, rather like following the command to walk over a cliff edge, with the assurance from somebody or other that there was an invisible surface to walk on.  He was also very dimly aware of a dull and confused racket, perhaps hordes of squealing, hideous voices, a long distance off, gibbering in rage and dismay, very faint but sufficient to frighten him a little, so he advanced his steps towards that light and warmth, and then – he was no longer inside – but outside, out into what he would soon remember to be sunlight and fresh air. For now though, like a baby that had been accidentally born with an adult body, he stood there still knowing and remembering nothing. 

Footsteps and voices approached, he became aware of hands, gentle and hesitant, plucking and pulling at the pieces of cloth that had been encumbering his movement. And how they stank! A sweet but sickly smell arose, dark and repulsive, as those filthy rags fell away and his limbs became free to move again, face free and open, eyes still screwed tight shut against that blinding and dazzling light and warmth.

Those same hands gently guided him forwards, into another space that was also inside – but not an oppressive feeling this time, a good, safe and welcoming inside. They stripped him of  his garments, and helped him with cleansing and washing. The sickly sweet death smell (as he later realised it was) faded away, and – piece by piece – memory and recognition of his friends, family and events returned, with wonderment, relief, smiles, joy,  then eventually shouts and laughter.. 

The friendly helpers washed themselves too. They felt themselves to be in something of a quandary; had they touched a dead body or not? It felt as though they had, and yet, technically, hadn’t. However, if there was ever a time to not be standing on ceremony, it was clearly now…

Later, after all the spontaneous festivities, singing, laughter, as well as earnest conversation and reflection, were over, he lay down again, and – without fear or apprehension – let himself sink back under the surface. Not the deep and dark waters this time but the caressing, shallow, mild and sunlit waters of God-given sleep and rest.