There is a cave. It is a tomb. There is a stone. It must be rolled away. And strips of cloth — cloths for burial. There is weeping. There is death.

Jesus had come to Bethany. Lazarus was dead. “If you had been here,” Martha said, “If you had been here.” Her understanding of Jesus was such that from the very core of her being she trusted that had he been there, her brother would not have died. Even then she trusted Jesus could still do something, though she had no real notion of what shape that “something” might take. Nonetheless her confidence in the man of Nazareth was sure. “But even now,” she said, “I know that God will give you whatever you ask.”

“Your brother will rise again,” he told her. She took it as a reminder that on the last day her brother, along with all who believe, will be raised. It was a teaching of the Pharisees, one to which she adhered. Martha heard the reminder and accepted its words of comfort. This death, painful as it was, had a time limit, as will her own. She reassured Jesus of her belief and the comfort it afforded: “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.”

But Jesus had not meant the resurrection on the last day. He intended by his words something much more in the present — something life-giving — something death-reversing. He intended something that would not be constrained to wait until an undisclosed future date, until 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.” And then he asked, “Do you believe this?”

“I am the resurrection and the life.” So much contained in so few words: I, the one you call Jesus, am that for which you wait and hope. “I, the one sent from above, the one sent from God, I am the resurrection and the life. From the eternal one I come. From the Creator, from the life-giver I come. Those who believe in me will live not only a physical life but an eternal life as well. And that eternal life begins not at the tomb and not at the end of time, but with me — here — now. Even as we speak, Martha. Even as we speak. Do you believe this?”

“Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

There is a cave. It is a tomb. There is a stone. It must be rolled away. And strips of cloth — cloths for burial. There is weeping. There is death.

Death comes in many forms. We recognize it best when it takes physical shape, robbing us of our loved ones and our own selves through the mortality of our bodies. This death brooks no ultimate denial. The person we knew, with whom we ate and drank, laughed and argued, played and worked is gone from this world in which we live and breathe and have our being. This death we know, recognize, mourn, and celebrate into eternal life beyond the grave.

But there are other deaths not so recognizable such as the death of dreams, of hopes, and of plans. Or the death of careers, of abilities, or of options. There is the death of relationships, of identity, of esteem, and the death of one’s own inner self. These deaths, though tormenting and anguishing, often go unmourned and uncelebrated for they are to us without any promise of life beyond the wayside graves into which they fall. We, like Martha, know only that something dear to us is no more. That we are empty where once we were filled. That there is barrenness where there was to be rich sweetness. We, like Martha, hope that something, someday, will bring life again out of the barren emptiness we feel. Into the emptiness, into the barrenness of our present steps Jesus. And Jesus says:

“I am the resurrection and the life. I am that for which you wait and hope. I, the one sent from above, the one sent from God, I am the resurrection and the life. From the eternal one I come. From the Creator, from the life-giver I come. Those who believe in me will live not only a physical life but an eternal home and not at the end of time, but with me. Here. Now. Even as we speak. Even as we speak.” And he asks, “Do you believe this?”

Do you believe this? It is God’s offer of resurrection — the opportunity to pass from death to life. In Jesus Christ, God has sent the offer not of old life gained, but of life restored on new terms after its loss. “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 shall never die.”

There is a cave. It is a tomb. There is a stone. It must be rolled away. And strips of cloth — cloth for burial. There is weeping. There is death. There is about to be life.

Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, ever the pragmatist, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the presence of God in your midst? Did I not tell you the life-giving God is here, now, before you, in the person of the one — the Son — who was sent?” Jesus said, “Take away the stone.”

So they took away the stone. Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe you sent me. I am no magician. I have no magical powers. I speak to you aloud, my Father, so that everything I do will be understood as coming from you, and so that these people will believe that you, their God, have sent me.”

And when he had said this, he 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.”

It seems so simple. “Take away the stone.” But it is not simple for us to roll away the stone in front of the tombs of our lives. We look about our private cemeteries, remarking on the growing number of losses, losses of all kinds. And we know in our souls that were it not for our trust in God, our very lives would be as cemeteries. Apart from trust in God the world becomes a cemetery, roamed by people devoid of hope, devoid of life-giving resources; a cemetery filled with the tombs of dead lives, dead dreams, dead hopes, dead selves, all sealed with great stones, with only the promise of decay and lifelessness behind those stones. [Note to preacher: Please insert into this sermon your congregation’s issues needing hope.]

But into the world God has sent in Jesus Christ the offer of resurrection... the opportunity to pass from death to life. And into our individual lives God has sent in Jesus Christ the offer of resurrection... the opportunity to pass from death to life. “Do you believe this?” he asked. When he had said this he cried in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” And the dead man came out. “I am the resurrection and the life. Do you believe this?” he asks each one of us as we stand outside the tombs which dot our lives. And then he cries out to that for which we mourn “Lazarus, come out!” And that for which we mourn comes forth, not as it was before its loss but restored on new terms, transformed after the loss. The opportunity to pass from death to life comes to us once again. And it will come over and over and over again, as often as we need it. It is offered by God in Jesus Christ.

There is a cave. It is a tomb. There is a stone. It must be rolled away. And strips of cloth — cloth for burial. There is weeping. There is death. There is about to be life.

But wait. What else is happening here? What else is there for us to see? For see we must, as Jesus himself saw. Jesus was troubled and weeping. Here was a tomb not far from Jerusalem. The tomb was a cave with a large stone covering the opening. The stone was rolled away. Jesus cried with a loud voice. There were grave cloths.

This was not only Bethany. It was Calvary. The Son of God looked upon the tomb of Lazarus and sees another tomb waiting. He called forth his friend from death and knew one cannot give life unless one died. He said it himself: unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. As surely as Lazarus had left the tomb, Jesus must enter it. What else was happening here — what was really happening here — was Jesus performing the very act that would bring about his own death.

And so here we stand on the Fifth Sunday of Lent, one foot in Bethany and one on Calvary. Here we stand, knowing the unknowable: that for Lazarus’ fate to be changed, Jesus’ fate must be sealed. Here we stand, realizing the unthinkable: That having come from God, this Jesus must return to God, and the way of return is death. Death, before any of his friends and relatives can prepare to let him go. Before any can grasp the dangerous reality of the situation. Death before any can realize there is nothing they can do to stop it. Here we stand, believing the unbelievable: that before us is one who is the resurrection and the life. In his living presence eternal life begins not at the cave door, not at the funeral home, and not at the end of time, but with him, now, even as we speak. With him, Jesus Christ, the Son of God. “I am the resurrection and the life,” he said. “Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live; and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?”

Yes, Lord, we believe this. We stand here on this Sunday in Lent believing the unbelievable — or wanting to believe, longing to believe, needing to be able to believe — that in you, the Christ, there is life on both sides of the grave, and that life is ours now. Amen.