A Sermon by Deacon Terry

​With the three readings we just heard,
Today we stand in three landscapes of Scripture:
From the Gospel: a grave in Bethany,
From Ezekiel: a valley filled with dry bones,
and from Romans: the human heart where the Spirit of God longs to dwell.
These three places seem different, but they tell one story. It is the story of God bringing life where there is death, hope where there is despair, and breath where there is only silence.
This is not merely a story about what God did. It is a story about what God is doing—even now.
The Gospel tells us plainly: Lazarus is dead.
Not sleeping ,Not resting peacefully. Dead.
His sisters, Mary and Martha, are grieving. Their home, once filled with friendship and laughter, is now heavy with absence. And when Jesus arrives, Martha says the words many of us have spoken in our own hearts:
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
This is not an accusation as much as it is heartbreak. It is the cry of faith struggling to understand loss.
We know this cry.
We know what it means to stand at gravesides.
We know what it means to lose people we love.
We know what it means to face the slow losses of aging, the sudden loss of illness, and the quiet losses of hope.
Death is not only physical. There are also other tombs.
There are tombs of discouragement.
Tombs of loneliness.
Tombs of regret.
Tombs of fear.
There are places in each our lives that feel sealed shut with a stone.
Much like the stone that sealed Lazarus tomb.
And when we stand before those stones, we wonder: Where is God?
In our first reading
The prophet Ezekiel is carried by the Spirit into a valley.
It is filled with bones.
Not bodies. Bones.
These bones have been dead a long time. They represent a people who have lost everything—land, identity, hope.
God asks Ezekiel a question:
“Son of man, can these bones live?”
It is a dangerous question.
Because the obvious answer is no.
Bones do not live.
What has died stays dead.
What has ended stays ended.
But Ezekiel gives the only faithful answer possible:
“O Lord God, you know.”
And then God tells him to speak.
Not to the living.
To the dead.
And as he speaks, something impossible begins to happen.
Bones come together.
Sinew forms.
Flesh appears.
Skin covers them.
But they are still not alive.
They are complete—but lifeless.
Then God says, “Prophesy to the breath.”
And breath enters them.
And they live.
Because breath is life.
Spirit is life.
God is life.
Now let’s return to Bethany.
Jesus stands before the tomb of Lazarus.
 “Jesus wept.”
He wept not because he was powerless, but because he loved.
God is not distant from our suffering. God does not observe our grief from afar. In Jesus, God enters it fully.
He feels it.
He shares it.
He weeps with us.
And then Jesus does something extraordinary.
He commands that the stone be removed.
Martha protests. She knows the reality of death. She knows what happens to bodies after four days. She knows the finality of the grave.
But Jesus is not bound by what Martha knows.
He is bound by who he is.
“The resurrection and the life.”
And then he cries out with a loud voice:
“Lazarus, come out.”
And the dead man comes out.
Still wrapped in grave cloths. Still marked by death. But alive.
Because the voice of God has power over death.
The same voice that called the world into being now calls life out of the grave.
Paul tells us how this is possible in our second reading from Romans
He says
“You are not in the flesh: you are in the Spirit, since the Spirit of God dwells within you.
This is the center of our hope.
The same Spirit
that entered the dry bones,
the same Spirit
that raised Lazarus,
the same Spirit
that raised Jesus himself--
dwells in us.
Not near us.
Not around us.
In us.
This means resurrection is not only a future event. It is a present reality.
The Spirit is already at work bringing life to places within our lives that feel dead.
Where there is fear, the Spirit brings courage.
Where there is despair, the Spirit brings hope.
Where there is bitterness, the Spirit brings healing.
Where there is death, the Spirit brings life.
This is not wishful thinking. It is real life.
It is the life of God within the human soul.
I couldn’t help but notice something important in both Ezekiel and John.
Life comes through God’s word.
Ezekiel speaks, and bones live.
Jesus speaks, and Lazarus lives.
God speaks, and death loses its grip.
And that same voice still speaks today.
It speaks in Scripture.
It speaks in prayer.
It speaks in quiet moments when hope returns unexpectedly.
It speaks in the assurance that we are not alone.
Sometimes we feel like those dry bones.
Empty.
Exhausted.
Sometimes parts of us feel sealed in tombs we cannot open.
Old wounds, regrets, fears.
But the voice of Christ still calls:
“Come out.”
Come out of fear.
Come out of despair.
Come out of whatever binds you.
Because death does not have the final word.
God does.
Here’s something else that stuck out to me
Jesus tells the community to remove the stone.
And after Lazarus comes out, Jesus tells them:
“Unbind him, and let him go.”
God gives life.
But the community, the Church, the people of St. David’s helps remove what binds.
This is the work of the Church.
We help roll away stones of isolation.
We help unbind one another from despair.
We help remind one another of hope when hope is hard to find.
I believe today’s reading comes at a perfect time, as we will need each other so much during our transition.
We need to remember that we are witnesses to resurrection—not only at the end of time, but in daily life, and during transition.
Every act of forgiveness is resurrection.
Every act of love is resurrection.
Every act of hope is resurrection.
Paul gives us this promise:
“If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also.”
This is not wishful thinking.
It is not poetic comfort.
It is the promise of God.
Death is real.
But it is not ultimate.
Graves are real.
But they are not permanent.
Loss is real.
But it is not final.
Because the Spirit of God is stronger than death.
The valley of dry bones lives.
Lazarus walks out of the tomb.
And Christ rises on Easter morning.
This is our future.
And it is also our present.
Because resurrection begins now, here in this place
In every heart in which the Spirit dwells.
We live, all of us, between Good Friday and Easter morning.
We know the reality of death.
But we also know the promise of resurrection.
We stand in the valley—but we hear the breath coming.
We stand at the tomb—but we hear the voice calling.
We carry within us the Spirit who gives life.
And that changes everything.
It means despair is never final.
It means loss is never ultimate.
It means death is never victorious.
Because God is always bringing us to life.
Today, Christ stands before every tomb.
Before every dry bone.
Before every place of despair.
And he calls.
He calls with the same authority that raised Lazarus.
He calls with the same power that raised himself.
He calls with the same Spirit that raised the dry bones.
He does not say, “Come out, everyone.”
He says, “Lazarus, come out.”
He calls each of us by name.
He calls us into life.
He calls us into hope.
He calls us into resurrection.
And the question is not whether he is calling.
The question is, we will come out.
Because the Spirit of God is already breathing.
Already moving.
Already bringing life.
Life to each of us, life to ST. David’s
The grave is not the end.
It’s a new beginning
Amen.