The Rev. Dr. Brandon Perrine
Lent 5 A
John 11:1-45
March 22, 2026
Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha . . . So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” But when Jesus heard it, he said, “This illness does not lead to death; rather, it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.
When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days . . . Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “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” . . .
When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping and [those] who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the [people] said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”
Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone . . . Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone. And Jesus . . . cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
Many, therefore, who had come with Mary and had seen what Jesus did believed in him.
~o~
I want to begin this morning with a simple theological question: What are some things that should stay dead? Mullets, for example. My 90s high school fashion choices. That one email you definitely should not have hit “reply all” on. There are some things that, once they’re gone, we say, “Yes, Lord. Let it be so.” And yet—here we are this morning, with two stories that suggest God does not always share our instincts about what should stay buried.
In the first story, we’re faced with a whole valley filled with dry, sunbleached bones. If you’ve seen The Lion King, picture the elephant graveyard. A whole valley of dry bones. And then the bones in that valley start coming together, drawn together like magnets, clicking into place. Next, we’ve got ligaments, muscle, and skin forming on the bones, and finally, the prophet summons the breath from the four winds—and suddenly, what was dead is standing again. Sounds terrifying.
But for Ezekiel, this wasn’t about skeletons. It was about a people who believed their life was over. Their future was gone. Their hope had dried up. And into that, God asks a question: “Can these bones live?”
Next, we jump forward a few centuries and see Jesus standing outside a rock-hewn tomb. He says to roll the stone away from the entrance. They argue that the smell will be bad. He insists. With the mouth of the tomb open, Jesus cries out, “Lazarus, come out!” And he does. The mummy walks and skeletons stand—is this the fifth Sunday in Lent or is it Halloween?
Our text from Ezekiel is clearly intended as a metaphor. The bones not only represented those who perished during the Babylonian invasion of Judah, the destruction of Jerusalem and the temple, and the subsequent exile—they also signified the dead hopes and dreams of an entire people. And maybe that’s the thread that connects these two stories. In Ezekiel, God brings life to an entire nation that thought its story was over. In John, that same kind of life shows up at the level of one family, one relationship, one beloved friend.
But our text from John’s gospel is more difficult to pin down. On the one hand, stories of miracles, exorcisms, and resurrections naturally raise an eyebrow or two and get some folks wondering if the story we’re reading or hearing is meant as myth or metaphor instead of fact.
In this story, we also hear another of Jesus’ enigmatic “I am” sayings, of which John mentions seven. Scholars tell us that, a common expression in the Greco-Roman world, readers would have recognized this as an established formula in speech attributed to one of the gods.1 As such, it may have been clear to original audiences that, at least the saying “I am the resurrection and the life,” was a belief of the author rather than a claim by Jesus.
Regardless, the author doesn’t seem to want us passing over this story as if it were another allegory. They go to great lengths to set it in a particular time between Hannukah and Passover, in the specific location of Bethany, and with specific people: Mary, Martha, and Lazarus—friends of Jesus, loved ones.
If all the author had wanted was to make the claim for Jesus about resurrection and life, they could have stopped there. But they didn’t. There’s more. And it’s not just what Jesus does that’s fascinating, but how people respond. In fact, this story offers several possible responses to Jesus—each commended by the author as faithful.
Martha’s is the confessional response. Jesus’ words lead her to belief, and her belief leads to a confession of faith—of proclamation.
Mary’s is the emotional response—the empathetic response—weeping at the feet of Jesus, with Jesus. They find themselves together, sharing the work of grief.
Lazarus’ response to Jesus is perhaps the most basic—and maybe the most difficult. When Jesus calls, he comes forth from the tomb as commanded. Still bound. Still wrapped in grave clothes. And yet—he comes.
Martha, Mary, and Lazarus—for John’s author—each represent a faithful response to the good news about Jesus. None is greater than another. Each is valid, whole, and complete in itself: the confessional response in proclamation; the emotional response of shared grief; and the obedient response—coming when called. But there’s actually one more response.
After he emerges from the tomb, Jesus tells the others to unbind him, and let him go. This is the communal response—the shared response to the good news about Jesus—freeing the resurrected man to return to the common life of the community. Resurrection, it turns out, is not just something that happens to us. It is something we participate in—for one another.
And maybe that’s where Ezekiel comes back in. Because the question God asks the prophet is not just about bones—it’s about possibility: “Can these bones live?” Can a people live again? Can hope return? Can what feels finished… begin anew?
John’s author seems to think the answer is yes. And not only yes—but that this kind of life is already breaking in.
So how will we respond to the good news about Jesus—the hopeful news about the kingdom here and now? of new life, even resurrected life, for all? the possibility of participating in the life of the divine, beginning now and continuing always?
Will we proclaim it, as Martha did? Will we share the work—even the grief—as Mary did? Will we come when called, as Lazarus did? Or will we welcome one another, unbind one another, to participate in it together?
John’s author presumes we will respond.
May it be so. Amen.
1Robert W. Funk and Roy W. Hoover. The Five Gospels: The Search for the Authentic Words of Jesus, New York: Macmillan Publishing, 1993, page 419.
