Lent V: 2026

A few years ago, while staying at an Ohio State Park lodge, we were awakened in the night by a deafening siren—the unmistakable sound, to any Midwesterner, of a tornado alarm. We quickly gathered ourselves, grabbed Ollie, who was just a baby at the time, and proceeded to the hotel basement along with every other guest staying there that night. Packed in among pool supplies, pinball machines, old lawn chairs, and chaise lounges, everyone was tense as the rain poured and the winds howled outside. Everyone, that is, except our daughter Sophie. To her, this was the very epitome of adventure. In her loquacious and precocious way, she meandered through the crowd introducing herself to everyone: “Hi, my name is Sophia. What’s your name? What’s your favorite color? Here is my brother Ollie. Isn’t he cute?” And in the midst of that tense situation, in the midst of so much anxiety, smiles began to return to people’s faces. In the darkness, there was light. And in the tomb, there was life. In that moment, it was as if God was reaching out to each and every one of us, stilling our anxious hearts. 

In today’s passage from John, we hear the famous account of the raising of Lazarus, who had been a friend and companion of Jesus. When he arrived at Bethany, just on the outskirts of Jerusalem, Jesus found that his friend had already been dead for four days and, as John tells us, his body had already begun to stink. His death was unmistakable. This could not be a case of premature burial; Lazarus was beyond revival. Nonetheless, Jesus enters the scene. The evangelist tells us that he weeps. And as St. John Chrysostom tells us, “Christ did not weep for Lazarus alone, but to show that He had truly taken on our nature. For if He had not wept, how would you know that He had assumed a real human soul?” In other words, it is a sign of God’s solidarity with us. God became man, the Church Fathers teach us, so that we might know God. And it is from this place of solidarity that Jesus enters the darkness of the tomb and commands the long-dead man: “Lazarus, come out.” He reaches out to Lazarus in the depths of the tomb and restores him to life. 

This is, of course, a miracle. But like all particular miracles, it points to something larger. Jesus has broken into this world—so often characterized by fear, gloom, and doubt—and opened to us the possibility of new life and abundant joy. He has burst into our tombs and is calling us to come out. Yet he comes not as a magician or like some powerful pagan deity; he comes to us in humility, as a friend who loves us. He is like my four-year-old daughter, dispelling the anxiety of those hotel guests huddled in a basement storm shelter. He comes to us as a friend. Yet through the miracle of the Incarnation, Jesus possesses the power and authority of God. He can transform us because he is willing to make the first move. Even now, in this very moment, Jesus is extending his outstretched arms to all of us. We, whether we accept it or not, are in our own tombs, and Jesus is calling us. You may be held captive by drugs, alcohol, or unsustainable finances. You may find yourself ensnared in a toxic relationship or another destructive pattern. You may feel stuck and unable to find a path out. Yet Jesus comes to us and tells us to come out of our tombs. “Come out and be unbound,” he says. Jesus, of course, does not offer us magic; he offers us solidarity and the grace to achieve the freedom we were created to enjoy. And in the Church he gives us the community to help us. Notice that when Lazarus comes out of the tomb, Jesus does not command him to unbind himself from his burial shroud; he tells his friends to do so. Jesus offers us new life and freedom, but we, as a community, are called to help each other live into that new reality. 

And that is at the very heart of the mission of the Church. The Church is in the business of solidarity and healing. That’s why we host Alcoholics Anonymous groups. That’s why we provide prayer shawls to those who are suffering. That’s why we open our doors to offer fellowship through Play Café. That’s why we offer the Sacrament of Baptism even to people whom other traditions might reject or hassle. Because when we do these things, we are doing more than running programs or hosting events. We are standing at the mouth of the tomb with Jesus. We are helping to roll away the stones that trap people in fear, addiction, loneliness, and despair. We are helping to loosen the bindings that keep people from living the life God created them to live. And even now, Jesus is still speaking the same words he spoke that day in Bethany. 

He is speaking them to the broken. He is speaking them to the anxious.He is speaking them to the weary and the trapped. “Come out.” Come out of fear.Come out of despair. Come out of whatever darkness has held you captive. And when we hear that call—and when we help others answer it—then once again, just as on that day long ago, the tomb does not have the final word. Life does. 

I close this morning with a few words from the poet and priest, Malcolm Guite. He writes and indeed prays: “He weeps for you, for me, for all who die,He weeps for all our loss, our loneliness; And yet his tears become the sign wherebyThe broken world is summoned out of death.”