Come Out Into Life

There is something in the human heart that is always drawn to stories of return, renewal, and second chances.

We can find references to the phoenix going back to the Greek historian Herodotus, some 500 years before Christ was born. Across centuries and cultures, people have been captivated by the idea of a creature that dies and yet rises again from its own ashes. We are drawn to that image because, deep down, we long to believe that loss is not the end of the story, that ruin is not final, and that even after fire, something living may still rise.

And yet the gospel does not give us a mythic bird. It gives us a tomb. It gives us a family in pain. It gives us sisters in grief. It gives us a beloved friend who has died. It gives us Jesus standing before death, not as an idea, but as a reality.

John 11 and Ezekiel 37 belong together because both of them ask the same aching question: Can life come where death has already done its work? Can a community that feels exhausted, scattered, or heartbroken live again? The witness of scripture is a resounding yes.

The Valley of Dry Bones

In Ezekiel, the prophet is brought into a valley of dry bones. These are not just a few bones scattered across a field, but a whole valley full of them. They are dry and disconnected, speaking of death not as a recent shock but as an old and settled condition. God asks Ezekiel, “Can these bones live?”

It is such a daring question. Sometimes the truest answer is not confidence, but honesty. Ezekiel does not say, “Of course.” He says, “O Lord God, you know.”

That is often where faith begins. Not with certainty or easy optimism, but with enough trust to say, “God, I do not know, but you know.” And then God breathes. God gathers what was scattered, restores what was broken, and makes a people live again. God takes discarded bones and breathes them back to life.

Staring Into the Void
Humanity has always struggled to understand the finality of death and the vast unknown that follows. In 2021, the actor William Shatner Captain Kirk, traveled to space aboard the Blue Origin rocket. Upon returning, he was deeply emotional, later reflecting on the profound contrast between the vibrant earth and the terrifying blackness of space. Looking out into the cosmos, he recalled, “I saw a cold, dark, black emptiness”. For Shatner, the void of space felt like looking at death itself.

We understand his fear. The blackness of the void can seem terrifying and empty. Yet, while we may not know exactly what happens when the last breath leaves our bodies, faith tells us that God created the cosmos and called it very good. The something more in Ezekiel 37 and John 11 is the power of God to move the world in the direction of life. God takes the void and breathes life into it.

Waiting at the Tomb

In John 11, we find another scene of death and another community in sorrow. Lazarus is sick, and his sisters, Mary and Martha, send word to Jesus. What is striking is that they do not tell Jesus what to do. They do not give him instructions. They simply tell him what they know: “Lord, he whom you love is ill.”

Sometimes prayer is simply telling Jesus what is true. Lord, someone we love is hurting. Lord, this world is bleeding. Lord, my own heart is weary.

Mary and Martha tell Jesus what they know, and then they wait. Waiting can be holy, but waiting can also hurt. The question that lives in the center of the story is why Jesus delays. His delay causes heartache and anguish for the two sisters. While the gospel tells us this delay points toward the glory of God and Jesus’ own impending resurrection, theological explanations do not always heal a broken heart.

The Promise of Resurrection

That is why Martha is such a gift to the church. When she meets Jesus, she does not offer a tidy confession untouched by pain. Her faith and her grief stand side by side: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” In the same breath, she holds sorrow and trust. She is wounded, but she still comes out to meet him.

It is there, in the presence of a grieving woman, that Jesus says one of the great statements of John’s Gospel: “I am the resurrection and the life.”

Resurrection in John is not only future tense; it is present in the person of Jesus. Theologian N.T. Wright explains that Jesus’s resurrection is the beginning of God’s new project, not to snatch people away from earth to heaven, but to colonize earth with the life of heaven. This is the heart of Christian hope. It is not an escape plan, but a promise of renewal. It is God’s healing justice breaking in here, among us, even now.

Jesus Weeping with Us

Then Mary arrives. Mary, who is so often found at the feet of Jesus, falls there again. She brings the same heartbroken words as her sister, but she brings them through tears.

Here the story slows down long enough for us to see the heart of Christ. Jesus is deeply moved. He is disturbed. “Jesus wept.”

This short, poignant verse tells us that the love of God is not distant from human sorrow. Jesus does not stand outside grief and offer commentary; he enters it and shares it. This is good news for every person who has ever stood at a graveside, for every family carrying loss, and for every community lamenting injustice or loneliness. Jesus weeps with us before he calls us forward. The raising of Lazarus is not a bypass around grief; it cuts right through the middle of it.

Called Into Community

When Lazarus comes out of the tomb, Jesus does not simply perform a miracle and leave. He tells the gathered community, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

Resurrected life is community life. Resurrection is not just about being called out of the darkness; it is about being received, unbound, and restored by a community of love. People come out of tombs of despair, isolation, and fear, but they need communities willing to help unbind them.

The church is called to be that kind of community. We are called to be a place where dead spaces in people’s lives are named without judgment, where grief is not rushed, and where wounds are tended. We are called to practice resurrection as welcome.

Where is Hope?

In a story by the writer Annie Dillard, a family is gathered at a grave. The minister intones the familiar words, “Where, O Death, is thy sting?” A family member looks around at the sorrowful faces and the row upon row of headstones and thinks, “Why, it’s just about everywhere, seeing as you asked!”

It is just about everywhere. We see it in hospital rooms, in war, in displacement, and wherever human dignity is denied. But if death’s sting is everywhere, then so is hope.

Hope is in every act of tenderness. Hope is in every protest for justice. Hope is in every honest prayer uttered through tears, and in every embrace that says, “You are not alone.” Hope is the breath of God in Ezekiel, and the cry of Jesus at the tomb: “Lazarus, come out!”

Jesus calls Lazarus by name. He calls each of us by name. He calls us to come out of fear, out of despair, out of hiding, and into life.

Can these bones live is the question of Ezekiel? By the mercy of God, yes. Yes, these bones can live.

Can the weary be renewed and the world be loved back toward life? By the grace of Christ, yes.

Where is hope? It is just about everywhere, seeing as you asked.

Thanks be to God. Amen.