A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
22 February 2026
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Isaiah 25.6-9; 26.19
John 11.1-44
We’re told that Jesus loved
Lazarus,
and that he loved his sisters,
Mary and Martha,
and that he loved the village
of Bethany.
That love is evident in every
moment of this story,
a story that is both deeply
human and profoundly divine.
It’s a story about grief, about
delay, about doubt and hope,
and ultimately about life
breaking through where death seems final.
It’s a story that speaks to us
particularly in Lent,
a season when we confront
mortality, name our losses,
and face the places in our
lives that feel like tombs.
Lent is also a season when we
are reminded that God is the God of life,
even when life seems absent
and death appears to have the last word.
In this story, we meet a family
in despair.
Lazarus is dead, and his
sisters are in mourning.
And Jesus does something
unexpected: he delays.
Verse 6 tells us that he stays
two days longer where he was.
He doesn’t rush to the scene.
For Martha, Mary, and the
disciples,
this delay must have seemed
bewildering, even cruel.
Why does God wait when someone
we love is suffering?
And yet, the delay is not
abandonment.
Jesus knows that this moment, painful as it is,
will reveal the glory of God
in a way that immediate action could not.
The disciples, too, are
confused.
Thomas, ever honest, says,
“Let us also go, that we may die with him.”
They don’t yet understand that God’s life
often works through the
tension
between human expectation and
divine timing.
But even in their fear and
misunderstanding,
Jesus moves toward the place
of death,
because that is precisely where God’s life is revealed most powerfully.
When Jesus arrives in Bethany,
Lazarus has been in the tomb
for four days.
Martha approaches him first,
and she speaks with a
remarkable mixture of grief and faith.
“Lord, if you had been here, my
brother would not have died,” she says.
She names the despair, the
longing, and the confusion
we all feel when God seems
absent.
But she also expresses trust:
“But even now I know that God
will give you whatever you ask.”
Her faith is not naive;
it is honest, raw, and rooted
in the midst of grief.
Grief is one of the most
universal human experiences,
yet it is also deeply
personal.
Each of us encounters it in
different ways,
and no two experiences are the
same.
Psychologists often speak of
“stages of grief”
—denial, anger, bargaining,
depression, and acceptance—
but these are meant as descriptive tools,
not prescriptive rules.
They are helpful for
recognising the variety of responses we may have,
but they are not checklists to
measure whether we are grieving correctly.
In John 11, we can see
reflections of all these stages,
lived out with honesty and
rawness by those who loved Lazarus.
Martha expresses bargaining and
doubt
when she says, “Lord, if you
had been here, my brother would not have died.”
There is an attempt to reason
with God,
to imagine that perhaps things
could have been different.
This is a familiar human impulse:
we try to negotiate, to
understand,
to imagine a path that could
have spared our loss.
Her words also carry an
undercurrent of anger and frustration,
not aimed at Jesus personally
but at the reality of death itself.
She voices the question that so
often rises in our own grief:
why did this happen?
Where was God when we needed
them?
Mary’s grief, by contrast,
expresses sorrow and despair
in a more immediate and
visceral way.
She falls at Jesus’ feet and
weeps.
The mourners around her also
weep,
and Jesus is moved by this
communal expression of loss.
In her tears, we recognise
depression and deep sorrow
—those moments when grief
feels heavy and overwhelming,
when it presses down and
refuses to be ignored.
Yet in this despair there is
also honesty.
There is no attempt to hide
the pain,
no pressure to appear
composed.
Grief, in its fullness, demands to be acknowledged.
Even the disciples’ fear and
hesitation reflect another aspect of grief
—the paralysis that can come
when confronted with death.
Thomas’ words, “Let us also go,
that we may die with him,”
capture both fear and
resignation.
Sometimes grief leaves us
unsure what action to take,
unsure whether to face reality
or retreat.
And yet, all these responses
—bargaining, anger, despair,
fear—
are present within this story
and are met with compassion by
Jesus.
He does not chastise, correct,
or rush them.
Instead, he enters into their
pain, validates it, and then offers hope.
This passage reminds us that
grief is not a linear process,
and it is not something to be
“fixed” quickly.
It can be messy and
unpredictable.
We may move back and forth
between despair and hope,
between anger and
acceptance.
We may experience grief in
ways that are quiet or loud,
communal or
private.
And yet, even in the midst of
all this human suffering,
God’s life is present.
Jesus meets Martha’s bargaining
with gentle challenge,
Mary’s sorrow with tears,
and the disciples’ fear with
encouragement.
He demonstrates that grief is
not incompatible with faith,
but rather an invitation to
encounter God honestly
in the places where life seems
absent.
John 11 shows that our
responses to grief, however varied,
are witnessed and embraced by
God.
God does not require us to move
through grief
according to a timetable or a
formula.
God meets us in the reality of
our emotions
and calls us forward toward
life, step by step.
The story of Lazarus teaches us
that even in the depths of mourning,
when despair feels final,
there is hope.
God’s voice calls, and new life
is possible.
It is in the meeting of God’s
life and human grief that resurrection begins
—not as a denial of sorrow,
but as its transformation,
as the promise that death does
not have the final word.
It is worth noticing that the
figure of Lazarus in John’s Gospel
may carry a deeper
significance than we often acknowledge.
Many scholars, and perhaps the
author of the Gospel himself,
hint that Lazarus is the same
as the “disciple whom Jesus loved,”
the one who features so prominently
in the life, death, and
resurrection of Jesus.
In this light, the story of
Lazarus is not only about
a single death and a single
miracle.
It is about the intimate
experience of resurrection
extended to all who are close
to Jesus,
all who are drawn into the
love and life of God.
Lazarus’ resurrection is not a
distant or abstract event;
it is the living proof of the
power of God
at work in the ordinary lives
of those who follow Jesus.
When Jesus calls Lazarus from
the tomb,
it is not simply Lazarus’ body
that comes back to life.
It is the entire reality of his being
—the one who had been
silenced, bound, and confined by death—
restored to full engagement
with the community around him.
In a very real sense, Lazarus’
story prefigures the way
that all disciples can
encounter resurrection here and now.
This is what we might call realised
resurrection:
the transformation of our
lives in the present.
We often think of resurrection
as something that will happen after we die,
some distant “pie in the sky”
reward.
But John’s Gospel consistently
challenges this notion.
Jesus’ resurrection life is not
deferred;
it is something that begins in
the here and now.
Just as Lazarus steps out of
the tomb,
bound no longer by fear,
grief, or death,
so too we are called to step out of the places in our own lives
where death seems to have the
final word.
Our encounters with Jesus,
the prayers we pray, the love
we receive and give,
the compassion we
enact,
are all moments in which
resurrection is made real
in our bodies and
communities.
If we read Lazarus as the
beloved disciple, the story gains another layer:
it tells us that resurrection
life is personal and relational.
God’s life flowing into human
existence is not generic or abstract;
it is directed toward
particular lives,
experienced in particular
communities,
and shared among those who
witness and care.
Every act of love, every step
of courage, every instance of compassion
is a participation in the same
life that called Lazarus from the tomb.
We are not simply observing
resurrection;
we are living it.
In this sense, Lazarus’
resurrection is a template for all of us.
The stones that weigh us
down—grief, fear, sin, isolation—
do not have the last word.
We are called out of these
tombs by the voice of Jesus.
Our lives are restored,
unbound, and reoriented
toward life in God’s presence.
Resurrection begins here, not
just in some distant future,
but in the transformation of
our relationships, our choices,
and our capacity to love.
The story of Lazarus is a
reminder that the life God gives
is not a reward for the next
world alone,
but a present reality that demands to be received,
embodied, and lived today.
And so Jesus responds to Martha
not with reproach,
but with words that are both
comforting and challenging:
“Your brother will rise
again.”
Martha, of course, hears this
in the framework of her tradition,
thinking of resurrection at
the last day.
But Jesus doesn’t leave it
there.
He makes the defining claim of
the passage:
“I am the resurrection and the
life.
Whoever believes in me, even
though they die, will live,
and everyone who lives and
believes in me will never die.
Do you believe this?”
This is not a theoretical
question.
It is not about doctrinal
correctness.
It is about trust in the one who is life itself,
especially in the places where
death seems to have the final word.
Martha responds with courage
and tenderness:
“Yes, Lord, I believe that you
are the Messiah, the Son of God.”
Her response models for us a
faith
that can confront death
honestly
and still trust in God’s
life-giving power.
Then Mary approaches Jesus.
She weeps at his feet, and the
mourners with her weep also.
And Jesus is deeply moved;
the text simply tells us,
“Jesus wept.”
These two short words are
packed with meaning.
Jesus does not come as a
distant saviour.
He enters fully into human
sorrow.
He knows grief intimately and
shares it with us.
When Jesus approaches the tomb,
the stone is heavy and the
boundary between life and death is clear.
He instructs them to take away
the stone.
Martha hesitates, practical and
realistic:
“Lord, by now there will be a
stench; he has been dead four days.”
Death is real, and it is not
to be glossed over.
But Jesus prays, giving thanks
to God for always hearing him,
and then calls in a loud
voice, “Lazarus, come out!”
Life answers. Lazarus emerges
from the tomb,
still wrapped in grave
clothes,
and Jesus commands the people to unbind him and let him go.
This is not simply a miracle
story.
It is a story about God’s life
breaking into places of despair,
about resurrection entering
the midst of grief and doubt.
The call to Lazarus is a call
to all of us.
Each of us carries tombs
within our lives
—places of death,
literal and metaphorical.
Broken relationships,
unfulfilled dreams,
chronic illness, loneliness,
fear, sin.
We long for God to act on our
timetable,
to remove the stones
immediately,
and yet God’s life often comes through delay,
through the tension of
waiting,
and through an invitation to
trust.
“I am the resurrection and the
life,” Jesus says.
These words call us to a faith
that persists in grief,
a faith that hears God’s life
in the midst of Lent,
a faith that believes life is
stronger than death.
We are invited to see God at
work
even in the places that seem
most hopeless.
Just as Lazarus had to be
unbound to live fully,
so we too are called into
life,
called to step out
of despair, to enter community,
and to bear witness to God’s
life in the world.
This story also reminds us that
Jesus’ delay was not failure;
it was the moment in which
God’s glory was revealed most clearly.
Sometimes our grief cannot be
rushed,
sometimes our questions cannot
be answered immediately.
And yet, God’s life will not be
stopped.
It calls us out.
It breaks through the stones
we build.
It brings hope into despair.
We see this in Martha and Mary,
in the mourners,
in the call to Lazarus, and in
Jesus’ tears.
This story is about
resurrection not only for Lazarus,
but for all who trust.
Resurrection for all who sit in
grief,
for all who long for life to
break into the places that seem final.
This Lent, we are invited to
stand before the stones in our lives,
to name them, and to let God’s
voice call our names.
We are reminded of the Old
Testament promise:
“Your dead shall live; their
bodies shall rise.
You who dwell in the dust,
awake and sing for joy!” (Isaiah 26:19)
God calls us out of despair,
into new life.
We may be bound by fear, by
grief, by the realities of this world,
but God’s life breaks through.
God calls us to witness, to
hope, and to live.
As we hear Jesus’ words today,
we are invited to answer with
Martha’s courage:
“Yes, Lord, I believe that you
are the Messiah, the Son of God.”
We are invited to bring our
grief and doubts to him,
to be unbound, and to step
into resurrection life.
And we are invited to live as
bearers of that life in the world.
The God who raises the dead
calls us to love,
to care, to serve,
and to be part of God’s
ongoing work of resurrection.
So this Lent, hear the call.
Hear your name.
Step out of the tomb. And live.
Amen.
Let us pray
Loving God,
you who wept at the tomb of your friend,
you who stand with us in the place of loss,
we come to you now carrying the griefs
that live in our bodies and our
memories.
Some of us carry fresh sorrow,
raw and close to the surface.
Some of us carry older griefs,
quiet, settled, but still
shaping who we are.
Some of us grieve people we have loved and lost.
Some of us grieve
relationships that have fractured.
Some of us grieve hopes that have not come to fruition,
paths not taken,
health diminished,
communities changed.
You know each of these losses.
Nothing is hidden from your compassionate gaze.
In the light of Jesus,
who wept with Mary and Martha,
we place our grief before you.
Not to rush it.
Not to deny it.
Not to tidy it away.
But to let it be held in love.
Where there is anger,
receive it.
Where there is confusion,
meet us in it.
Where there is numbness,
sit patiently beside us.
Where there are tears,
honour them.
God of resurrection life,
shine your gentle light into
the tombs we carry.
Not with harsh brightness that blinds,
but with the steady warmth of
your presence.
Speak our names as you spoke the name of Lazarus.
Call us, in your time,
towards life.
Give us courage to remove the
stones that seal us in.
Give us companions who will help unbind us.
Give us trust that your love is deeper than death,
stronger than despair,
and wider than our fear.
We do not ask for quick fixes
or easy answers.
We ask for your presence.
We ask for hope that is honest.
We ask for the grace to live, even with grief,
and to discover that
resurrection is already at work among us.
Hold our dead in your eternal
love.
Hold our wounded hearts in your tender care.
And hold this community together,
that we may bear one another’s
burdens
and so reflect the life of
Christ in this world.
We entrust all that we are,
and all that we mourn,
into your faithful hands.
Amen.
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