24.03.2026
Saint Francis
The Rev. Christian Jennert, Bridge Pastor
Sermon Lent 5 | Year A
March 22, 2026
Ezekiel 37:1-14; Psalm 130; Romans 8:6-11; John 11:1-45
Grace to you and peace from God, the Source of all being and Jesus the Christ. Amen.
The raising of Lazarus is the final – and perhaps most powerful – of the Lenten Gospel readings from John. It brings us right to the edge of Holy Week, where life and death stand side by side.
It also gives us one of the shortest – and most profound – verses in all of Scripture: “Jesus wept.”
Jesus weeps. The Word made flesh is not distant or detached. He feels grief. He loves. He mourns. And that matters. Because before anything miraculous happens – before the stone is rolled away, before Lazarus walks out of the tomb – Jesus stands in the presence of death . . . and weeps. And perhaps this is where this story meets us most honestly. Because you know something about grief here at St. Francis.
You have said goodbye to a longtime music director . . . and to a beloved pastor. As your bridge pastor, I have heard some of those stories, and I carry some of that loss with you. So when Jesus stands at the tomb and weeps, this is not distant. It is close.
And not only here.
We carry grief in so many places – in our families, in our communities, in the wider world. Loss is that personal. Loss that is shared. Loss that we can name . . . and loss we hardly have words for. And into all of that – Jesus weeps.
The story itself is full of tension. When Jesus suggests returning to Judea, the disciples are uneasy. This is dangerous territory. Not long ago, people there tried to stone him. And Thomas – honest, maybe a little weary – says, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” You can almost hear the resignation in his voice. The disciples see risk. Jesus sees relationship.
John tells us that Jesus loved Lazarus – not in some abstract, theological sense, but with the deep affection of friendship. That love draws him back, even in danger. And the disciples? They hesitate. They see obstacles. Jesus sees possibility. And if we’re honest – that hits close to home. How often do we do the same?
How often do we see only the risk, the difficulty, the roadblock? How often do we stop short because something feels too complicated, too uncertain, too costly? It’s easier to stay where we are. Safer to avoid the hard places. But Jesus moves toward them.
When Jesus arrives in Bethany, Lazarus has already been dead four days. Martha meets him first. Then Mary. Both say the same thing: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
It’s a statement of faith . . . and also a lament. A mixture of trust and disappointment. They believe – but not quite all the way. They hope – but they are not yet ready for what Jesus is about to reveal. And then Jesus says those remarkable words: “I am the resurrection and the life.”
Not will be. Not someday. But I am. Right here. Right now. In the midst of grief. And then we are taken to the tomb. You can almost feel it – the weight of the moment, the smell of death, the heaviness of loss. Jesus is deeply moved. Again, he weeps. And then he says: “Take away the stone.”
Martha hesitates. “Lord . . . there will be stench.” Even now, there is resistance. Even now there is doubt. And yet – the stone is removed. And Jesus calls out: “Lasarus, come out!” And he does. Still bound. Still wrapped in grave clothes. But alive.
And then comes the part we sometimes overlook. Jesus says to the community: “Unbind him and let him go.” Resurrection is not just about coming back to life. It is also about being set free.
And here is where this story becomes our story. Because the call of Jesus, “Come out!”, is not only for Lazarus. It is for us.
Come out of whatever tomb we have settled into. Come out of fear. Come out of resignation. Come out of the quiet places where hope has grown dim. And sometimes, the tomb is not even something dramatic. Sometimes it’s simply:
- The belief that nothing can change
- The habit of playing it safe
- The quiet voice that says, “This is just the way things are.”
But Jesus calls us beyond that.
And then comes the second call, just as important: “Unbind him.”
We do not unbind ourselves alone. This is the work of community. To gently, faithfully one another loosen what still holds us: fear, shame, isolation, grief, whatever keeps us from living fully. And this is where the church – this community – matters so much. St. Francis has a history of being a place where people are invited to step out of hiding, and into life. A place where people are seen, welcomed, and set free to be who God has created them to be. That, too, is resurrection work.
So today, as we stand on the threshold of Holy Week, we hear Jesus’ voice: “Come out.” And we are invited not only to step into life ourselves – but to help unbind one another. To become a community where resurrection is not just something we believe in . . . but something we practice.
So, I wonder: Where is Jesus calling you to come out? And who around you might need help being unbound?
Because the story is not finished. Resurrection is already beginning.
Amen.
