John 11:1-44
Introduction
Have you ever prayed for something and felt like heaven went quiet?
You asked God to move — to heal, to open a door, to make a way — and instead of an answer, you got silence. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. And before long, it felt like hope itself was fading.
If you’ve ever been there, you know the ache of waiting on God. It’s that hollow place between faith and frustration, where your heart says “I believe,” but your circumstances whisper, “Where is He?”
That’s where we find Mary and Martha in John chapter 11 — caught in the space between expectation and reality, between love and loss.
They’ve sent word to Jesus: “Lord, the one You love is sick.”
It’s not a long prayer. It’s not full of lofty words. It’s simple, desperate, and direct — “The one You love is sick.”
They don’t tell Him what to do. They don’t try to convince Him. They just trust that His love will be enough.
But what happens next feels like betrayal.
John tells us, “Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So when He heard that Lazarus was sick, He stayed where He was two more days.”
He loved them — so He stayed.
That “so” doesn’t make sense to us.
Because our logic says, “If You love me, come now.”
But God’s logic says, “Because I love you, I’m going to wait.”
The delay of God is one of the hardest expressions of His love to understand.
We expect love to act quickly. We expect compassion to rush in.
But sometimes love waits — not because it doesn’t care, but because it’s planning something greater.
When Jesus finally arrives in Bethany, Lazarus has been dead four days. Hope is gone.
The mourners have gathered. The tomb is sealed.
And yet, Jesus walks right into the middle of that grief — not with explanations, not with blame — but with presence.
He doesn’t say, “You should have had more faith.”
He doesn’t say, “This is your fault.”
He simply stands there and weeps.
Two words — “Jesus wept.” The shortest verse in Scripture, but maybe the deepest revelation of God’s heart.
He weeps because He loves.
He weeps because He feels the sting of sin’s consequences.
He weeps because He knows that before resurrection can come, something has to die — not just Lazarus, but the shallow kind of faith that only believes when everything makes sense.
In this story, Jesus is doing far more than raising a man from the dead.
He’s teaching His followers — and us — that His timing, His compassion, and His power always work together, even when we can’t see it.
He delays — because He loves.
He weeps — because He feels.
He calls — because He redeems.
And every part of this story — the waiting, the weeping, the calling — points us to a greater truth: that in Christ, delay is never denial, death is never final, and disappointment is never wasted.
If we read this story only as a miracle narrative, we miss its heart.
This is not just about Lazarus coming out of a tomb. It’s about the God who enters our tombs — our losses, our delays, our griefs — and meets us there with both tears and triumph.
So this morning, as we walk through John 11, I want to invite you to listen for three movements in this story — three ways Jesus reveals Himself in the midst of delay and pain:
First, when God delays, His love still has purpose.
Second, when delay feels like abandonment, Jesus meets us in our grief.
And third, when hope feels buried, God’s power finishes what His compassion starts.
Because in the end, this story isn’t just about what happened in Bethany.
It’s about what happens every time a believer learns to trust that God’s timing is compassionate, even when it doesn’t feel convenient.
Point 1. When God Delays: His Love Has Purpose
Text Focus: John 11:1–16
Delay is one of the hardest realities in the Christian life. When we pray, we want God to act now. When we cry out in pain, we long for instant relief. Yet again and again, Scripture shows us that God’s timing is not hurried — because His timing is holy.
The opening verses of John 11 invite us into that holy tension.
John begins with a simple but profound line: “Now a man named Lazarus was sick. He was from Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha.” (v. 1)
Bethany sits less than two miles from Jerusalem — a small village, but central to Jesus’ ministry of friendship. This home was His refuge. He had eaten at their table, laughed with them, and found rest in their hospitality. So when word reaches Him that Lazarus is sick, we expect Him to run.
The sisters’ message is short, even understated: “Lord, the one You love is sick.” (v. 3)
Notice what’s missing. They don’t demand or instruct. They simply remind Him of His love.
They don’t even say Lazarus’ name; love alone should be enough to move Him.
But then comes the first mystery: “When He heard this, Jesus said, ‘This sickness will not end in death. No, it is for God’s glory so that God’s Son may be glorified through it.’” (v. 4)
And then John adds a line that should make us pause: “Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So when He heard that Lazarus was sick, He stayed where He was two more days.” (vv. 5–6)
That “so” feels wrong. Because He loved them, He delayed? Shouldn’t love run faster? Shouldn’t compassion rush to intervene?
But this is the first great paradox of the passage: divine love doesn’t always express itself in human immediacy.
Jesus delays not because He doesn’t care — but because He cares too deeply to give them less than glory.
The Greek text is deliberate here. John uses the conjunction οὖν (oun) — “therefore” — to link love and delay: “He loved them; therefore He stayed.”
That word binds affection and inaction into one purpose. God’s love and His waiting are not opposites; they are expressions of the same heart.
In our lives, we often see waiting as a sign of distance. But in Scripture, waiting is often where faith is born. Abraham waited 25 years for Isaac. Joseph waited in prison for years before God’s purpose unfolded. Israel waited 400 years for deliverance.
And now Martha and Mary wait in silence — watching hope decay, wondering if love forgot them.
When we’re waiting, it’s easy to interpret delay as rejection. But the Gospel reminds us that delay can also be direction. It can be God’s way of drawing us deeper into trust before He draws us out into triumph.
John Calvin wrote, “God frequently defers His aid, that He may excite our desire, and exercise our faith, and at length show more abundantly the treasure of His grace.”
That’s exactly what’s happening here. Jesus is not absent; He’s orchestrating revelation. He’s not being cruel; He’s preparing to redefine what faith looks like.
When Jesus finally speaks, He says something that sounds confusing: “This sickness will not end in death.” (v. 4)
Yet we know Lazarus dies. So what does Jesus mean?
The key phrase is “will not end in death.” In Greek, πρὸς θάνατον (pros thanaton) literally means “toward death” — as in, death is not the goal or final outcome. Death will be part of the path, but not the destination.
That’s how God sees every sorrow we face. What looks final to us is only a passage to something deeper. Jesus knows that death is not the end of this story — it’s the setting for His glory.
Notice also how He frames the entire event: “It is for God’s glory, so that God’s Son may be glorified through it.”
In the Gospel of John, “glory” (δόξα / doxa) is not about shining light or fame; it’s about revealing the true nature of God’s character. Jesus isn’t pursuing spectacle — He’s revealing the Father’s heart.
That means even this moment of grief will become a canvas for divine revelation.
When God delays, it’s not because He doesn’t see our pain — it’s because He sees a purpose that we can’t yet perceive.
While the sisters wait in silence, the disciples wrestle in confusion. Jesus says, “Let us go back to Judea.” They immediately object: “But Rabbi, a short while ago the Jews there tried to stone You, and yet You are going back?” (v. 8)
They see danger; Jesus sees destiny.
Then He says something cryptic: “Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Anyone who walks in the daytime will not stumble, for they see by this world’s light. It is when a person walks at night that they stumble, for they have no light.” (vv. 9–10)
He’s reminding them that His steps are guided by the Father’s timing. Daylight represents divine direction — the time appointed for His work. He’s saying, “As long as I walk in the will of My Father, I am safe until My hour comes.”
This is more than assurance; it’s a model for us. Jesus moves according to divine rhythm, not human reaction. He teaches us that obedience is not measured by urgency but by alignment.
The disciples, still missing the point, misunderstand again when He tells them, “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep; but I am going there to wake him up.” (v. 11)
They take Him literally. “Lord, if he sleeps, he will get better.” (v. 12)
So Jesus speaks plainly: “Lazarus is dead, and for your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.” (vv. 14–15)
That’s a stunning statement. Jesus says He’s glad He wasn’t there. Not glad about the pain, but glad about the purpose. Glad, because what will unfold will deepen their faith in ways comfort never could.
Faith rarely grows in easy places. It grows in the tension between what we see and what God says.
Then Thomas, often remembered for his doubt, speaks with remarkable resolve: “Let us also go, that we may die with Him.” (v. 16)
It’s a fatalistic statement, but it’s also courageous. He assumes this journey will end in death, but he’s willing to go anyway. In his own way, Thomas expresses the kind of loyalty that Jesus later calls disciples to — to take up the cross and follow, even when the outcome seems uncertain.
John includes this line because faith is not always neat or confident. Sometimes it looks like walking forward even when your understanding lags behind.
The disciples don’t yet realize that this trip to Bethany will set in motion the final week of Jesus’ earthly ministry. The resurrection of Lazarus will be the miracle that seals His fate with the religious leaders. Love will lead Him not only to His friend’s tomb, but eventually to His own.
Martin Luther once preached, “Christ delays that He might make faith great. For faith is not born in sunshine but in the dark night where it cannot see, yet must trust.”
John Wesley wrote that “Delay is one of God’s most tender mercies, for in the waiting the soul learns whether it loves the gift or the Giver.”
And Charles Spurgeon said, “There is no greater kindness than for the Lord to let our need grow large, that His provision may appear the greater when it comes.”
This is the theology of divine delay: God allows space for despair so that glory will have room to enter. He allows the problem to ripen until the only solution is resurrection.
If we trace Scripture, we see this pattern everywhere.
- Abraham waited until his body was as good as dead before Isaac came — so that the promise would clearly be from God.
- Hannah wept for years before Samuel was born — so that her joy would overflow into praise.
- Joseph languished in prison before Pharaoh’s dreams opened the door — so that his testimony could preserve nations.
- Israel groaned in slavery for generations — so that when deliverance came, they would know who rescued them.
Every delay in Scripture becomes a doorway to a deeper revelation of God’s power. And here in John 11, that doorway opens for a small family in Bethany — and through them, for the entire world.
Jesus is teaching us that divine love doesn’t always prevent pain; sometimes it permits it, to prepare a greater joy.
What does this mean for us when God delays the answer we’re praying for?
It means we can rest in the assurance that delay is not absence. God’s silence is not His withdrawal; it’s His invitation to trust Him more deeply.
When healing doesn’t come, when doors don’t open, when prayers seem to echo back unanswered — it’s not because He forgot. It may be because He’s forming something eternal.
We may cry, “Lord, the one You love is sick,” and hear nothing in return. But love is still on the way, even if it’s walking slowly.
God’s delays are not denials — they are declarations of His sovereignty.
John 11 reminds us that Jesus does not move on our schedule because His love is too wise for haste. He waits so that, when He finally acts, there will be no mistaking who deserves the glory.
Verse 5 is the key to understanding everything that follows: “Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So when He heard that Lazarus was sick, He stayed where He was two more days.”
That single word “so” reshapes how we see God’s timing. His love doesn’t always rush in to remove suffering; sometimes it holds back to redeem it.
Jesus stayed — not because He didn’t care, but because He cared enough to let the fullness of God’s plan unfold.
He stayed — so that death could run its course and life could triumph over it.
He stayed — so that Martha and Mary’s faith could grow from knowing His healing power to knowing His resurrection power.
He stayed — so that every believer who reads this story could know that divine delay is never divine disinterest.
When God waits, love is still working. When He’s silent, glory is still forming. When He seems absent, He’s already on His way.
And when He finally arrives — even if it’s four days “too late” — the waiting will make the miracle all the more radiant.
Point 2. When Delay Feels Like Abandonment: Jesus Meets Us in Our Grief
Text Focus: John 11:17–37
There are few passages in Scripture that reveal the heart of Christ as tenderly and as powerfully as this one.
Here we see a Savior who is not detached or distant but deeply present—both divine and human, both commanding life and carrying sorrow.
When Jesus finally arrives in Bethany, Lazarus has already been in the tomb for four days.
That detail is no accident. In Jewish thought, the spirit was believed to hover near the body for three days after death before departing. Four days meant death was final—beyond question. Hope was gone.
And it’s in that moment that Martha, the ever-practical sister, comes running.
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” (John 11:21)
Her words carry faith and accusation in equal measure.
She believes Jesus could have prevented this—but she cannot understand why He didn’t.
Haven’t we all been there?
Those moments when we know God could have done something—healed, spared, provided—but He didn’t.
And the silence hurts more than the loss itself.
Martha’s statement captures that paradox of faith:
“I believe in You, Lord… but I don’t understand You.”
It’s important to notice that Jesus doesn’t rebuke her. He receives her pain.
He doesn’t defend His timing, justify His delay, or quote Romans 8:28 to her. He meets her heart before her theology.
Because grief doesn’t need explanations first—it needs presence.
And that’s what Jesus offers.
Jesus’ response to Martha isn’t just comforting; it’s revolutionary.
“Your brother will rise again.”
Martha answered, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”
Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.”* (John 11:23–25)
The Greek phrase “ἐγώ εἰμι ἡ ἀνάστασις καὶ ἡ ζωή” (egō eimi hē anastasis kai hē zōē) is one of the seven great “I Am” statements in John.
Notice that Jesus doesn’t just promise resurrection—He is resurrection.
He moves the conversation from the future tense to the present.
Martha is thinking in theological categories: “Yes, Lord, I know there’s a resurrection someday.”
But Jesus is revealing that resurrection is not a date on the calendar—it’s a person standing right in front of her.
In that moment, He is inviting her—and us—to shift from belief in an event to trust in a person.
“Do you believe this?” (v. 26)
That’s the hinge of the story.
Faith is not about understanding why the tomb exists; it’s about trusting the One who stands before it.
Martha answers with a confession that echoes Peter’s in Matthew 16:
“Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who has come into the world.” (v. 27)
Her faith has deepened through her grief.
What began as disappointment has become revelation.
Suffering has forced her to confront what she truly believes about Jesus.
And that’s the quiet miracle before the public one.
Before Jesus raises Lazarus from the tomb, He resurrects Martha’s faith.
Charles Spurgeon said it this way: “When the Lord delays, it is not denial. He waits that He may be gracious. He lets our needs grow so that His supply may be the more glorious.”
That’s what’s happening here.
The delay is not neglect—it’s divine strategy.
It’s not punishment—it’s preparation.
Martha wanted a healing.
Jesus planned a resurrection.
After His conversation with Martha, Jesus calls for Mary.
Mary comes quickly, and the text says the mourners follow her, thinking she’s going to the tomb.
But Mary falls at Jesus’ feet—the same posture we saw in Luke 10 when she sat listening at His feet.
Her words are almost identical to her sister’s:
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” (v. 32)
But this time Jesus doesn’t respond with a theological statement.
He doesn’t correct or teach—He simply weeps.
“When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, He was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. ‘Where have you laid him?’ He asked. ‘Come and see, Lord,’ they replied. Jesus wept.” (John 11:33–35)
Those two words—“Jesus wept”—are the shortest verse in the Bible, but they carry immeasurable weight.
The Greek word used for “wept” here is ἐδάκρυσεν (edakrysen), meaning “to shed quiet tears.”
It’s not the same word used for the loud wailing of the mourners.
Jesus doesn’t perform grief; He feels it.
This is not divine acting—it’s divine empathy.
He knows He will raise Lazarus in minutes, but He still chooses to enter into the sorrow first.
Why?
Because love mourns what sin has broken—even when it knows resurrection is coming.
This is one of the most important truths in all of Scripture:
Jesus is not indifferent to human pain.
He does not rush us through our tears or shame us for them.
He joins us in them.
In that moment, the infinite God weeps with finite humanity.
The Word made flesh feels the sting of death.
The Creator weeps for His creation.
John Chrysostom wrote, “He wept, not because He needed to lament, but to teach us to weep; to show that to mourn with the mourning is no weakness but compassion.”
And Augustine added, “He wept as man, though as God He raised him. He showed both the power to save and the heart to feel.”
So when you weep over what’s been lost—Jesus doesn’t stand at a distance waiting for you to recover.
He stands beside you, tears on His face, whispering, “I know. I’m here.”
That’s who our God is.
Not a stoic deity unmoved by suffering, but a Savior whose compassion runs deeper than our despair.
John records two different responses to Jesus’ tears.
“Then the Jews said, ‘See how He loved him!’ But some of them said, ‘Could not He who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?’” (vv. 36–37)
The same act of compassion produced both faith and cynicism.
Some saw love; others saw failure.
That’s still true today.
For some, Jesus’ delay feels like proof that He doesn’t care.
For others, His tears are the proof that He does.
It all depends on what we’re looking for.
If we expect God to eliminate every sorrow, we’ll be disappointed.
If we look for God within our sorrow, we’ll find Him every time.
Before performing the miracle, John tells us again:
“Jesus, once more deeply moved, came to the tomb.” (v. 38)
The phrase “deeply moved” comes from the Greek ἐμβριμάομαι (embrimaomai) — a word that means to “groan with indignation.”
It carries the sense of being stirred with intense emotion, even anger.
Jesus isn’t just sad—He’s angry.
Not at the mourners, not at Martha or Mary, but at death itself.
He confronts the tomb like a warrior facing the enemy.
Death was never part of God’s original design.
It’s the result of sin—the great intruder into creation’s beauty.
And here stands the Word made flesh, staring it down, preparing to undo it with a single command.
Paul would later write in 1 Corinthians 15:26, “The last enemy to be destroyed is death.”
And that battle begins right here in Bethany.
When Jesus cries, “Lazarus, come out!” (v. 43), He is not just rescuing His friend—He’s declaring war on death itself.
Let’s not forget how this all started.
Jesus delayed coming to Bethany.
He waited until Lazarus was gone.
He allowed grief to unfold, not because He didn’t love them, but because He did.
Verse 5 says it plainly: “Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So when He heard that Lazarus was sick, He stayed where He was two more days.”
That “so” is startling.
Because He loved them… He delayed.
That’s the kind of love that trusts the Father’s plan more than our expectations.
John Wesley noted that “Delay is not denial when God ordains it for a greater manifestation of His glory.”
Wesley preached that “Christ’s compassion is not shown by sparing us from pain but by redeeming it into purpose.”
And that’s the pattern we see throughout Scripture:
- Joseph waited years in prison before seeing God’s plan unfold.
- Israel wandered forty years before entering the Promised Land.
- The disciples watched their Messiah die before witnessing resurrection.
In every delay, God’s timing turned despair into display—of His glory, His faithfulness, His power.
So what do we do with this story?
We learn that delay doesn’t mean God’s absence—it means He’s preparing something deeper.
We learn that faith isn’t proven when God says yes, but when He seems silent.
And we learn that Jesus doesn’t just fix our pain—He feels it first.
There’s a pastoral truth here for anyone walking through loss:
You can trust the heart of God even when you don’t understand His hand.
When your prayers seem unanswered, remember:
Jesus stayed away from Bethany not because He didn’t care—but because He cared enough to show them something greater than healing: resurrection.
Your “fourth day” might be the moment God’s glory breaks through.
When Jesus called Lazarus out, He didn’t just prove His power—He previewed His own resurrection.
In just days, He would enter a tomb Himself.
But unlike Lazarus, no one would call Him out.
He would rise by His own authority as the Resurrection and the Life.
So when we stand before the tombs of our own disappointments—relationships that have died, dreams that have ended, seasons that feel finished—we remember:
There is One who still calls life out of what looks hopeless.
“Lazarus, come out!” (v. 43)
Those three words still echo through history, through every grave of despair, through every moment when faith feels impossible.
And if we listen closely, we might hear Him calling our name too.
Not just to life after death, but to faith after disappointment.
Summary
- Martha teaches us that faith is not erased by confusion; it’s refined through it.
- Mary teaches us that worship and weeping belong together.
- Jesus teaches us that divine power and divine compassion are never in conflict.
In your grief, Jesus is both the Resurrection and the Tears.
He stands beside you and within you.
And when the time is right—when all hope seems lost—He will speak life again.
“This sickness will not end in death… it is for God’s glory.” (John 11:4)
Point 3. When Hope Feels Buried: God’s Power Finishes What His Compassion Starts
Text Focus: John 11:38–44
If Point 1 showed us that divine delay has purpose, and Point 2 revealed God’s compassion in our grief, this final point shows us the culmination of both:
God’s power bringing resurrection where we only see ruins.
John writes:
“Then Jesus, again deeply moved, came to the tomb. It was a cave with a stone laid across the entrance. ‘Take away the stone,’ He said.” (John 11:38–39a, NIV)
The scene is tangible — you can almost smell the air thick with grief. A crowd of mourners stands still, the sound of weeping fading into silence as Jesus gives His command:
“Take away the stone.”
The tomb is sealed with a massive stone — the visible symbol of finality.
But in the language of faith, the stone often represents the barrier between what is and what could be.
For Martha, that stone is the weight of reason.
For Mary, it’s the weight of emotion.
For the crowd, it’s the weight of unbelief.
Each of us has our own “stone” that keeps resurrection out of reach — that part of our heart that says, “Don’t open that; it’s too late, it’s too painful, it’s too far gone.”
Martha gives voice to that fear:
“But, Lord,” said Martha, “by this time there is a bad odor, for he has been there four days.” (v. 39b)
The Greek word for “odor” is ὄζει (ozei) — meaning to emit a stench, decay, or corruption.
Martha is saying, “Jesus, don’t go there. It’s too broken, too ugly, too late.”
And how often do we say the same to God?
“Don’t touch that part of my past.”
“Don’t stir up that loss I’ve buried.”
“Don’t ask me to hope again where I’ve already given up.”
But Jesus doesn’t retreat. He responds with a gentle rebuke wrapped in promise:
“Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?” (v. 40)
That’s the pivot point of the story.
It’s the same lesson He’s been teaching since verse 4 — “This sickness will not end in death; it is for God’s glory.”
Faith does not wait for proof before obeying. It obeys, and then sees glory.
In Greek, the word “see” is ὄψῃ (opsē) — implying perception that comes through revelation, not just sight.
Jesus is saying, “You will perceive God’s glory in a way you’ve never known before — but only if you trust Me enough to roll away the stone.”
Before speaking the miracle, Jesus prays.
“So they took away the stone. Then Jesus looked up and said, ‘Father, I thank You that You have heard Me. I knew that You always hear Me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that You sent Me.’” (vv. 41–42)
Notice the posture — He looked up.
In the middle of the tomb’s darkness, Jesus fixes His eyes on heaven.
This is not a desperate plea. It’s a confident declaration.
The verb “thank” is εὐχαριστῶ (eucharistō) — the same word from which we get Eucharist. It means to give thanks with joy for grace already received.
Jesus hasn’t yet performed the miracle, but He’s already thanking the Father for hearing Him.
That’s the language of divine certainty.
He doesn’t pray to convince God — He prays to reveal God.
He speaks aloud so the crowd might understand that this resurrection is not a trick, not human magic, not the last flare of a dying prophet — it’s the power of the Father made visible through the Son.
And notice the unity between Father and Son.
Jesus doesn’t say, “Please do this.”
He says, “I thank You that You have heard Me.”
The resurrection is not a negotiation; it’s a partnership in perfect alignment.
This moment shows us not only Christ’s compassion but His communion — the unbroken intimacy between heaven and earth, between divine will and human flesh.
In our waiting, we often pray like beggars hoping for scraps.
But Jesus models prayer as a child confident in the Father’s love.
He teaches us that faith-filled prayer thanks God before the stone rolls and before the miracle comes.
Then comes the climax:
“When He had said this, Jesus called in a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, come out!’” (v. 43)
In Greek, the word for “called” is ἐκραύγασεν (ekraugasen) — meaning to cry out with authority.
This is the same word used in John 12:13 when the crowds shouted “Hosanna!” as Jesus entered Jerusalem.
It conveys strength, not desperation.
Early church fathers often noted that Jesus had to call Lazarus by name — otherwise, every tomb in Bethany might have emptied at once.
This is the moment when divine speech meets human death.
The same Word that spoke creation into being in Genesis 1 now speaks life into a decaying body.
Theologian Leon Morris observed that Jesus does not use ritual, touch, or intercession here.
He uses His word — because His word is enough.
What human hands could never accomplish, divine speech accomplishes effortlessly.
Augustine preached, “He that was dead obeyed the command of Him who called, and life returned at the word of Life Himself.”
And that is still true today.
The voice of Christ still calls dead hearts to awaken — not with volume, but with authority.
When He speaks your name, darkness loses its grip.
“The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face. Jesus said to them, ‘Take off the grave clothes and let him go.’” (v. 44)
It’s easy to rush past this detail, but it’s crucial.
Lazarus is alive — but still bound.
He walks out of the tomb wrapped in othonia, the linen graveclothes, a symbol of what once defined him: death.
He’s breathing again, but he can’t move freely.
And so Jesus gives one final command — not to Lazarus, but to the people: “Unbind him.”
That’s a picture of the church.
Jesus gives new life — we help one another live free.
Salvation is instantaneous, but sanctification is communal.
Christ raises; the community releases.
In Protestant theology, this is the cooperation between justifying grace (God making us alive) and sanctifying grace (God, through His people, helping us walk unbound).
John Wesley wrote, “The grace that pardons is the grace that perfects.”
We don’t simply come out of tombs; we grow into freedom.
Jesus said this entire event was “for the glory of God.”
The Greek word δόξα (doxa) carries the sense of “weight” or “radiance.”
In Hebrew thought, it echoes כָּבוֹד (kabod) — the visible manifestation of God’s presence.
In Bethany that day, the glory of God shone not as dazzling light but as love stronger than death.
The tomb became a theater for revelation — the place of despair turned into the stage for divine power.
As the onlookers gasped, many believed in Him (v. 45).
And yet, for others, this miracle would accelerate the plot to kill Him.
Resurrection for Lazarus meant a death sentence for Jesus.
Because the power that raised a friend would soon cost Him His own life.
This miracle is the hinge of the Gospel — the sign that sets in motion the Passion Week.
The one who called Lazarus out of the tomb will Himself be laid in one.
But unlike Lazarus, no one will need to call Him — because He is the resurrection and the life.
Let’s pause and recognize what Jesus has just done.
In one moment, He overturns everything we know about finality.
He demonstrates that:
- Death does not have the last word.
- Delay does not mean denial.
- Darkness is not permanent.
And in doing so, He reveals the heart of the gospel — that resurrection is not just a future promise, it’s a present power.
Every believer who trusts Christ experiences that same voice calling them from death to life.
As Paul writes in Ephesians 2:1, “You were dead in your trespasses and sins… but God, being rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ.”
The resurrection of Lazarus is a picture of our salvation.
Once bound, now free.
Once decaying, now restored.
Once silent, now called by name.
What does this mean for us today?
First, we all have stones that need rolling.
They might not be made of rock, but they weigh just as heavy — bitterness, fear, shame, regret.
Jesus still commands, “Take away the stone.”
He calls us to participate in the miracle by removing the obstacles of unbelief.
Second, some of us have come out of tombs but remain bound by graveclothes.
Old habits, hidden guilt, or cultural pressure can keep us wrapped in what Christ already freed us from.
Jesus says, “Unbind him.”
That means we need the church — brothers and sisters who help unwrap the layers that keep us from walking in freedom.
Third, the story reminds us that when God delays, He’s not denying; He’s developing.
The silence that precedes resurrection is often the space where faith matures.
Martin Luther wrote, “The resurrection of Lazarus is a mirror of our own — when we, who lie dead in sin, hear the call of the Gospel and are drawn out of death to life.”
Charles Spurgeon put it most vividly: “When Christ calls, the dead rise, for He speaks to the dead as if they could hear — and they do, because He gives them hearing as He calls.”
Each of these voices reminds us that this is not just a historical event; it’s a living testimony of how God works still today.
After this miracle, John 12 opens with another scene — a dinner in Bethany.
Lazarus, once buried, now sits at the table with Jesus.
What a picture of redemption.
The same home that echoed with mourning now rings with laughter.
The same man who lay in darkness now reclines beside the Light of the World.
Every resurrection leads to fellowship.
Every deliverance ends in communion.
And that’s where Jesus is leading us — from tombs to tables, from grief to gratitude, from silence to song.
10. The Invitation
Jesus still stands before the tombs of our lives, calling our names with compassion and power.
He doesn’t shout at us in frustration; He calls to us in love.
And every time we respond, we step into resurrection life.
So today, hear His voice:
“Take away the stone.”
“Lazarus, come out.”
“Unbind him and let him go.”
The same power that spoke at Bethany still speaks today.
The same Savior who wept still raises.
The same God who delayed still delivers.
He is not finished.
He is still calling dead things to life.
He is still turning graves into gardens, loss into witness, silence into testimony.
And the same glory that filled Bethany is waiting to fill your heart.
- Jesus’ command to remove the stone challenges our unbelief.
- His prayer before the miracle shows His intimacy with the Father.
- His call to Lazarus demonstrates divine authority over death.
- His order to unbind invites us into community restoration.
- His glory revealed reminds us that resurrection is both His identity and His mission.
Where human hands saw a tomb, divine hands saw a beginning.
The grave was never the end — only the doorway through which glory walked in.
“I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live.” (John 11:25)
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