Out of Death, Into Life
March 22, 2026 • The Fifth Sunday in Lent • Year A
Ezekiel 37:1-14 • Romans 8:6-11 • John 11:1-45 • Psalm 130
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
How often have we been in Martha’s position? When we lose a loved one to death, especially when the loss is sudden or tragic, we ask ourselves what could have gone differently.
We did this in my family a few years ago, when my grandma Betty died after a fall, outside in the winter. If someone had been there, they might have been able to prevent her from falling. If she’d had her cell phone with her in that moment, she would have been able to call for help. If my parents hadn’t moved to Colorado, they might have been with her that week instead of a thousand miles away.
We ran through—we still run through—these scenarios, perhaps as a way to process the loss, perhaps as a way to cyclically blame and absolve ourselves and others of the guilt and regret we felt for not being present enough, not calling enough, for not being able to somehow protect our beloved family member from the inevitability of death. None of it changes the reality that, as this life comes to an end for each of us, Betty’s life in this body came to an end that January night.
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Martha might feel much the same—her beloved brother Lazarus has died. Despite her and her sister’s ministrations, his illness took his life from him, and the one they knew had the power to heal had not come in time. When Jesus does arrive, it is too late. “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Not an accusation, simply a fact. It’s an expression of grief, perhaps of exhaustion from her effort to keep her brother alive. But it’s also an expression of faith, of her confidence in what Jesus could have—would have—done had he been there. And she follows this up with a second statement, and I wonder if it’s a veiled request: “But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.”
Martha, it seems, knows what Jesus is capable of, even if he hasn’t proven it yet. Could not this miraculous teacher who turns water into wine, feeds the multitudes, and restores sight to the blind also reverse death? It seems hardly more far-fetched than the other miracles we have already seen and heard about.
Jesus responds to her unspoken plea: “Your brother will rise again.”
What does he mean by this? So often, Jesus speaks in layers.
Martha probes deeper: “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.”
Jews in the first century were not unanimous in their belief in a general resurrection of the dead, but the group to which Jesus and the siblings at Bethany belonged did. Martha believed and knew that Lazarus would rise again in that resurrection, but I think she was hoping for something else, something possible because of the immanent presence of God among them.
Jesus indicates that he understands her meaning. “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”
Yes. Jesus himself—the Messiah, the One coming into the world, states affirmatively that he has the power to do what Martha felt she could not ask directly of him. “I am the resurrection and the life.” In saying this, Jesus once again associates himself with the Name of God – “I am that I am” – revealed to Moses when he was appointed to lead the Israelites out of bondage in Egypt.
“Do you believe this?” he asks Martha.
“Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world,” Martha responds. Jesus, her friend and companion, the one who was absent when her brother died, is the great I AM, incarnate, improbably present with her and with her grief.
Jesus has revealed, and is about to demonstrate, his power not only over the physical world but over death itself, the fullest manifestation yet of his identity as Son of God. And yet, in this same moment, he reveals the ways in which he has fully taken on his identity as Man. He weeps.
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Our prayer book says that the burial office is an “Easter liturgy,” one characterized by joy in the resurrection rather than fear of punishment in the life to come. However, the rubrics encourage us, this does not make grief unchristian, because “The very love we have for each other in Christ brings deep sorrow when we are parted by death.” (BCP, 507)
We are right to mourn what is lost. Those missed opportunities for sharing love and connection in the past. Those lost future moments—Thanksgivings and Christmases on the lake with my grandmother—that now cannot come to be. Those what-ifs and would-have-beens.
Mary also says, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” And this time his only response is, “Where have you laid him?”
Jesus weeps at the tomb of Lazarus, one whom he loved, one whom others loved. Jesus mourns with us, alongside of us, just as he does with Martha and with Mary. He weeps with us in those moments when it feels like death has had the last word.
But the theological work has already been done. Regardless of the possibilities and impossibilities, Jesus is determined that Lazarus will rise again—not simply in the age to come, but in the here and now.
“Lazarus, come out.”
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Jesus has taken a risk by being here at all. His disciples didn’t want him to come in the first place: that’s part of the reason he did not arrive before Lazarus died. His teaching and miracle-working have angered people in Jerusalem. John calls them “the Jews” but in this passage it’s clear that he is referring to a specific group of inhabitants of Jerusalem, rather than the Jewish people as a whole.
Nevertheless, Jesus is resolute that he must attend to Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, though by this point Lazarus has already died. The risk to his own life is something Jesus can no longer avoid, and it is Thomas who speaks for the disciples and says “Let us also go, that we may die with [Jesus].”
Indeed, immediately after the story we hear today, John tells us of the plots to kill not only Jesus, but also Lazarus, due to the threat they represent to decency and order. In a very real way, Jesus has not only given life back to Lazarus, he’s given Lazarus a part of his own life.
And in that same way, on the cross, in just a few short days, Jesus will give up his spirit and die, giving us his life and giving up his life for us. For it is in his death—that ultimate act of solidarity with humanity—that he will gain that final victory over death not only for himself but for all of us, giving us life not only in the life to come but even now, in our mortal bodies. For, just like Lazarus, the Resurrection and Life that Jesus is for us is not simply a hope for the future: it is a present reality. That same Spirit which raised him from the dead also dwells in us, giving flesh and breath to our dry bones.
We have a lot to get through in the next few weeks, theologically and liturgically, as well as in our daily lives. But as we face the Passion of our Lord together, and as we persevere to resist the many temptations that surround us day by day, let us carry with us the same bold faith as Martha and Mary. When Jesus says “I am Resurrection and I am Life,” let us say with full hearts, “Lord, I believe.”
~The Rev. Charles Martin
