“Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones,
Now hear the word of the Lord.”
In Ezekiel’s vision in today’s lectionary text, the valley is full of dry bones. Very dry bones. We get the sense that these aren’t bones that look like anything other than bones. They aren’t wounded or sick. They are dead and gone. Past hope.
God says “O Mortal, can these bones live?” And Ezekiel gives a brilliant answer: “God, you know.” It’s the “I don’t know. What do you think?” of dry bones.
“Why is the sky blue?” I don’t know, what do you think?
“What does God look like?” I don’t know, what do you think?
“How can Jesus be both God and God’s son at the same time?” I don’t know, what do you think?
“Can these bones live?” I don’t know, God, what do you think?
The point of the question is not Ezekiel’s optimism. The point is God’s power. God tells the prophet what to say, and God puts those very dry bones together, breathes life into them and they live.
The same thing happens in Bethany. When Jesus arrives, Lazarus has been dead for four days. In the hot climate of the Middle East without the technology that we use to preserve bodies after death, a quick burial to prevent rapid decay, was common. We will see it in a couple of weeks during Holy Week, when there is a rush to bury Jesus before sunset on Friday afternoon because the Sabbath is coming. Four days meant there wasn’t any doubt that Lazarus was dead. Martha was worried about the stench. Death had already done its work.
And yet Jesus stands at the tomb and says “Lazarus, come out.”
And that is how the zombie apocalypse began. Amen. I was just making sure y’all were paying attention.
And yet Jesus stands at the tomb and says “Lazarus, come out.” And Lazarus comes out.
Resurrection begins with the voice of God calling for life where there was none. But before Jesus ever gets to the tomb, there is a conversation. Martha meets him on the road and says what so many of us have thought in moments of loss: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” It is both a confession of faith and a statement of grief. She believes, but she also knows what has been lost. And Jesus says to her, “Your brother will rise again.” And Martha, ever the people pleaser says, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” She believes Jesus. She believes in resurrection. Just not yet. Not here. Not when her brother already smells.
Do you think she was looking down at her wringing hands when Jesus said it?
“I am the resurrection and the life.”
Not I will be.
“I am the resurrection and the life.”
Not I bring.
“I am the resurrection and the life.”
Not someday.
“I Am.”
When it comes to resurrection, the point is not our optimism. The point is God’s power. We do not create resurrection. We witness it. When Lazarus emerges from the tomb, he is alive, but he is not yet free. His hands and feet are bound with strips of cloth and his face is wrapped in a cloth. Lazarus has been resurrected, but he is still wearing the clothing of death.
If we look back at Ezekiel’s vision, we see a similar moment. The very dry bones come together. “Then there were sinews on them and the flesh comes upon them and skin but there was no breath in them.” The bodies still lie there until God breathes life into them.
Resurrection is not always instantaneous. There’s a reason the lectionary gives us this story in the same week we celebrate the first day of spring. Resurrection, like spring, rarely arrives all at once. It comes in stages. The ground softens before anything blooms. Tiny green shoots push up before the trees are full. The air warms in fits and starts, especially where we live. It’s 35 degrees one day and 85 the next and then 35 again. We don’t look out and see everything alive at once. We watch it return, slowly, sometimes quietly, persistently. New life doesn’t come all at once. Sometimes it looks like a man stepping out of a tomb still wrapped in grave clothes. Sometimes it looks like the first fragile signs of spring. Real, undeniable life, even if it’s not finished yet.
And maybe that’s where many of us live. We believe in resurrection. We just tend to push it a little further down the road. Another season. Another time. Another life. But Jesus stands in the middle of all that waiting and says: “I am the resurrection and the life.” Not I will be. Not I bring. Not someday. I Am.
And yet, people come out of tombs still wrapped in grief, fear, addiction, shame, and despair. God resurrects but healing often takes time. After Lazarus walks out, Jesus does something surprising. He does not remove the grave clothes himself. Instead, he turns to the crowd and says: “Unbind him and let him go.” Let him go. God resurrects but freedom and restoration becomes the work of the community.
In 2018, the Wild Boars soccer team went for a quick adventure in a cave after practice when a monsoon suddenly flooded the cave’s narrow passageways, trapping them inside. When divers finally found them, they were alive, huddled together, in the dark. It was astonishing but there was still work to be done. Finding them wasn’t the same as saving them. The path out was narrow, flooded, dangerous. They couldn’t navigate it on their own. Rescue divers went in, again and again, anesthetized the children and guided them out one by one through the narrow winding passages. The boys were alive, but they needed a community to free them.
Church, we cannot raise the dead, but we can help remove the grave clothes that bind the living.
We cannot stand at the mouth of the tomb and call someone back to life. That is the work of Christ alone. But when someone stumbles out into the light, still wrapped in fear, still bound by shame, still carrying the weight of what they’ve been through or what they’ve done, we are not called to stand at a distance and celebrate. We are called to step closer. We are called to unbind them and let them go.
We help unbind them and let them go when we forgive instead of keeping score.
We help unbind them and let them go when we tell the truth with gentleness and kindness so that what is hidden no longer has power.
We help unbind them and let them go when we sit with someone in their grief instead of trying to rush them through it.
We help unbind them and let them go when we walk with someone through healing that takes longer than we expected.
We help unbind them and let them go when we refuse to reduce people to the worst thing that has happened to them or the worst thing they’ve ever done, when we make room for new life, even when it still looks fragile, and when we stay, especially when it would be easier to step back.
People rarely come out of the tomb alone, and no one is meant to finish that journey alone. When we forgive, when we tell the truth, when we show up and stay present, we come alongside God in the slow, sacred work of unbinding them and letting them go.
Jesus says “Unbind him and let him go.”
Lazarus doesn’t speak. We do not hear how it felt to be called out of the tomb. We are left to imagine what it felt like when the light hit his eyes again for the first time. We only know that many in the crowd believed, and that’s okay because this story was never really about Lazarus anyway.
But it could be about his community, and it could be about ours. Because every one of us knows something about tombs, about places where hope has been sealed up, places where grief has settled in, places where we have quietly decided that nothing will ever live again. But there is good news:
The one who stands at the edge of the tomb is not just a teacher, not just a healer, not just a friend who has come to mourn. All of that would be wonderful on it’s own, but this is the one who said to Martha: “I am the resurrection and the life.”
Resurrection is not only something we wait for, it is someone who is already with us. Standing at the edge of every place we thought was finished, every place we though was sealed, every place we thought would never have life again.
Jesus still cries: “Friend, come out.”
Sometimes we come out slowly. Sometimes we come out stumbling, sometimes we come out still wrapped in the things that once held us. But the one who calls us is the resurrection and the life. And that means the story is not over. And the church still hears the same command:
Unbind them and let them go.
The God who breathes on dry bones, the Christ who says “I am the resurrection and the life,” the voice that calls Lazarus from the tomb is still speaking, and we are still called to help one another walk free.
Amen.