Sunday 22 March 2026 | The Rev'd Clare Barrie
Sermon based on:
Ezekiel 37:1-14
Plsam 130
Romans 8:6-11
John 11:1-45
May I speak in the name of God, +creating, redeeming, sanctifying.
+ + +
There aren’t many more heart-wrenching moments in the gospels than this one when Mary, the grieving sister of Lazarus, goes out to meet Jesus and says to him, ‘If you had been here, my brother would not have died…’ If only you’d been here…
We can’t know, really, how those words were spoken by Mary. We tend not to dwell on that moment, because we know how the story goes – we know that Jesus will weep, and will go to Lazarus’ tomb… the stone will be removed and the dead man will be called out, and will walk from the tomb still wrapped in his burial cloths. And yet, in this very well-known story, only two of the forty-five verses actually describe the raising of Lazarus.
All the rest of the story involves the human experience of death and new life – the drama of Mary and Martha confronting Jesus, the community around them, the mix of raw grief, hope and faith and anger and criticism, mixed motives and responses, and in the end, trust, glory, gratitude and community. It is a very human story…
The scene moves quickly on from that very uncomfortable confrontation between Mary and Jesus. ‘If only you’d been here…’ she says, almost certainly with desolate grief and loss, but maybe also with bitterness and anger. And I think those words strike at us so heartrendingly because they are so familiar – we have all spoken them at some time in our lives, either aloud or in our hearts, when we’ve found ourselves overwhelmed with some terrible grief or hurt.
Perhaps like Mary, we’ve spoken them to God – if only you’d been here, this wouldn’t have happened… perhaps we’ve also spoken them to ourselves and others around us – if only… if only I’d done something differently – if only I’d seen, or spoken, or acted… or prayed harder or been a better person… if only… These words, “if only” express the desperate desire to be anywhere except where I am now, confronted with some terrible present moment.
They also reveal our longing to be in control, to have power over our circumstances. Most of the time we can maintain the illusion that we do have power and that we are in control of what happens to us and those we love. Although perhaps that illusion is harder to sustain now that ever – our world is being shaken by war, climate anxiety, economic strain, and the fragility of so much we have taken for granted. When our illusions are broken by crisis, it’s only natural for us to reach for, to wish for, to long for… some explanation that maintains it. “If I, or God, or someone had acted differently, this wouldn’t have happened.” If only….
But one of the truths of this beautiful, broken world is that we are not in control, and God is not the author of every event that befalls us. If we are to live in the present, truly live, eventually we have to lay down the burden of ‘if only,’ and simply be where we really are, as we really are: and that might be angry, lost, hurting, confused, faithless, hopeless. All sorts of feelings we do not always know how to make space for in the church… All sorts of grave clothes that bind us and keep us from living fully…. But we can only meet God as we are, as our real selves, and not as we might hope to be…
But context is always important in the bible. Where we are in the story always matters. Jesus is in the village of Bethany; he is now no more than two miles from Jerusalem. His time is growing short, as is the season of Lent; we are following Jesus and soon we will be caught up in the desolation of Jerusalem and the devastating story of Good Friday.
Before we reach Easter, this gospel insists that we stand here in Bethany first – in grief, in bewilderment, in love, and in the presence of a God who does not turn away. Experiencing this story, as we have the opportunity to do in Holy Week, is one of those times when we can make space for our losses, the hurt and anger that we carry – the grave cloths that bind us and keep us from living. The experiences for which we have no words. The story of Jesus’ betrayal and loss means there is a space in the Christian faith for our own struggles. Space for us to meet God as we are, rather than dwelling always in the “if only….”
But Jesus doesn’t leave us there – he calls us out to life – he calls us out of the tomb, to join the living. And here is one of the many unexpectedly rich moments of this powerful story. After he has commanded Lazarus to come out of the tomb, Jesus then turns and issues a command to the waiting crowd as well: “unbind him and let him go.” So the community – Lazarus’ household, his sisters and others, as well as his neighbours – are invited to come and help remove Lazarus’ grave clothes and share in God’s healing action. They are drawn into God’s healing work: they are called to come close, to touch what death has touched, and to help remove the grave clothes.
What does this mean? It means we don’t journey alone; it means the community of faith – the communion of saints – is all around us.
When I was a teenager still at school, I remember talking one day with our school guidance counsellor because I was worried about another Christian student who was going through a terrible time in her life. And the guidance counselor, also a Christian, said something that has always stayed with me. She said, “If she hasn’t any faith, if she can’t believe, then you can have faith for her.” What she meant was that for a time, my faith could carry my friend. It would somehow be enough.
Since then, there’ve been times in my life when I’ve had no words, no faith of my own. There have been times when I’ve struggled along to church, but not been able to do much more than sit there; but in those times, I’ve discovered that the best thing to do is not to go through the motions and pretend to speak the words of the liturgy along with everyone else, but rather to simply hear all the voices around me. To let their prayers carry me – to let myself lean on their faith, their strength. To let others unwrap the grave cloths that bind me, whether they have known it or not. To know that I’m not alone – that I am held in the body of Christ.
That’s the great gift of the community of faith.
When we can’t pray, when we have no words of our own, others will carry us in prayer. When we have no faith or strength of our own, we can rest on the faith of others. The extraordinary thing about this man Lazarus is that he certainly did reach the end of his natural life one day – he did die. But the community that was called to gather around him, that was empowered to unbind and set loose, did endure.
And that community has continued to endure, persisting through the centuries in works of courage and mercy and times of struggle, death and resurrection. That community still endures today in you and I, gathered in this place today. And so, when one of us cannot believe, others will believe for us. When one of us cannot pray, others will pray. When one of us is still bound, others of us will come near to help unbind, and let go.
Amen.