“Come Out into the Light” - Fr. Pete's Sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent - March 22, 2026

Ezekiel 37:1–14; John 11:1–45

There are moments in life when we try to pretend everything is fine… and everyone around us knows it isn’t. Like, you spill coffee all over your shirt as you walk into an important meeting, and pretend the stain isn’t there. Or you trip walking up the stairs and quickly blurt out, “I meant to do that.” I confess I have done those things in my life!

One time in a church service I was attending, during the prayers of the people, somebody’s cell phone went off—unfortunately that happens, doesn’t it? But the ringtone was Marvin Gaye’s song, “Let’s Get It On.” It took a good while before all the stifled laughs faded away. The guilty party, and you could see who it was with their face blazing with embarrassment, looked around as if to say, “Who did that?”

We have a great talent for brushing things off, smoothing things over, pretending a moment isn’t as awkward or uncomfortable as it really is. Sometimes that talent is harmless.

But sometimes life brings moments that simply cannot be brushed aside. Moments when cheerful encouragement feels hollow.

Moments when someone tells a grieving person, “Everything happens for a reason,” and instead of comforting, it just stings.

Moments when what we need is not explanation, not optimism, but presence.

Most of us have stood at a grave—or its emotional equivalent—knowing that someone we loved is gone. And that’s where today’s Gospel begins.

Lazarus, one of Jesus’ beloved friends, is dead. Not ambiguously. Dead for several days, long enough that decay has set in. His sisters are grieving. The community is gathered. The tomb has been sealed.

And Jesus, the wonder-working Rabbi and close friend of the family, arrives…way too late. What do we do with that?

This Lent, we’ve been learning to live authentically before God, even in the hard places of life. Now, Lent brings us to the hardest place of all: the place where authenticity costs us emotionally. The place where love risks loss.

Martha meets Jesus first. You know Martha--practical. Direct. Honest.

“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

That sentence carries so much—both faith and disappointment, trust and grief intertwined. Notice what Martha does not do. She does not pretend. She does not soften the truth. She brings her real feelings directly to Jesus.

That is what it means to live authentically before God.

And Mary follows. She collapses at Jesus’ feet, weeping. No theology. No explanations. Just grief.

And then something extraordinary happens. Jesus weeps.

That fact is in one of the shortest verses in Scripture—and one of the most revealing. Jesus does not rush past sorrow. He does not spiritualize grief. He allows himself to be moved, shaken, undone by love.

Authenticity looks like this too. Not detachment. Not artificial composure. But honest love that refuses to armor itself against pain.

Ezekiel’s vision that we heard read reminds us that God is not afraid of dead places. Dry bones scattered across a valley—lifeless, hopeless, beyond repair. And yet God asks the prophet a question that still echoes today: Can these bones live?

Ezekiel answers wisely: “O Lord God, you know.”

That answer is the posture of Lent. Not despair, but trust.

Well, Jesus stands before Lazarus’ tomb and asks that the stone be rolled away. Martha protests—she knows the smell of death. She knows the reality. She is not wrong.

But Jesus does not deny the reality either. He asks her to trust him anyway.

“Did I not tell you,” he says, “that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” Then Jesus cries out with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out.”

Come out of the darkness! Come out of the tomb! Come out into the light!

And Lazarus comes. Alive!

But notice this: Lazarus does not come out fully free. He emerges bound like a mummy in grave clothes. Alive, yes—but still wrapped in the remnants of death.

So Jesus turns to the community around him, and gives them a command,“Unbind him, and let him go.” This is where the story becomes about us.

Yes, God gives life. But the work of unbinding—of releasing one another from what still constrains us—is communal work. It requires patience. Courage. Love. Together.

This is the culmination of our Lenten journey. Living authentically before God does not mean avoiding grief or pretending we are stronger than we are. It means trusting God enough to bring our whole selves—even our dead places—into God’s presence.

It means becoming true of heart, even when the truth is painful.

And it means loving in ways that risk being hurt. Ways that can cost us.

Jesus knew what would happen next. He knew that raising Lazarus would accelerate his journey to the cross. Love always costs something.

That is where Lent leaves us—not with easy answers, but with a deeper invitation:

Where in your life do you feel sealed behind a stone?
What grief have you learned to manage rather than bring before God?
Where might Jesus be standing, weeping with you, even now?

The promise of this Gospel is not that everything will be fixed quickly. It is that nothing—not even death—lies beyond the reach of God’s love.

Next Sunday, we will wave palms and shout hosannas. We will tell the story of triumph and procession. But before we get there, Lent asks us to linger here—at the tomb—with Jesus. To stay long enough to notice that resurrection does not bypass grief, and that love does not avoid suffering.

Living authentically before God means trusting that even our dead places can be brought into God’s light. It means becoming true of heart—not only when life is hopeful, but when it is broken. It means believing that God’s power is not shown by avoiding death, but by meeting us within it.

Have you sat in a dark room for a long time? At first, you can’t see anything. But slowly, your eyes adjust. You begin to make out shapes. You learn how to move around. And after a while, the darkness doesn’t feel so strange anymore. It feels… normal. Until someone opens the door.

Light pours in—and instead of relief, your first instinct is to turn away, cover your eyes. It’s too bright. Too exposing. It reveals things you had learned to live without seeing. And yet—that light is the only way you can truly see what is real.

When Jesus stands before the tomb of Lazarus and calls, “Come out,” he isn’t just calling a man back to life. He’s calling him out of darkness into light. Out of what is familiar into what is true. Out of what is safe into what is alive. And the same is true for us.

During these 5 Sundays of Lent, we have been learning, step by step, how to live more authentically and honestly before God. In the wilderness, we learned to stop hiding and to trust God’s promises. With Nicodemus at night, we learned to trust enough to be born from above. At the Samaritan well, we learned to name our true thirst. And with the man born blind, we began to learn how to truly see.

And now—now we are called to step into the light. Not just to understand. Not just to see. But to come out, to leave behind what binds us. To step into the life God is already calling us toward.

And that step may feel uncomfortable at first. It may even feel overwhelming. But it is the only place where an authentic life with God can begin.

So as we move toward Holy Week, the question we face is, are we ready to step into the light? Let’s get it on!

​Amen.