The Rev’d Ivica Gregurec

5th Sunday in Lent, Year A

Readings: Ezekiel 37:1-14; Ps 130; Rom 8:6-11; John 11:1-45

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Lent is almost over. Today the Church gives us four readings full of darkness – bones in a dry valley, a dead man in a tomb, people who have lost all hope. And yet, in the middle of all that darkness, there is a strong and living hope. That is what I want to talk about this morning.
But first, a special word to those among us preparing for Baptism at the Easter Vigil. In a few days, you will go into the water and come up again. Everything we hear today is, in a deep way, your story. And it is also for all of us – because every baptised person needs to hear again what happened to them in that water.

God takes the prophet Ezekiel and puts him in a valley full of bones. Many, many bones. And they are very dry. There is no moisture, no warmth, no chance of recovery. Nothing any human being could do would change this.

Ezekiel was speaking to the people of Israel living as prisoners far from home in Babylon. Their country had been destroyed. Their Temple had been knocked down. They said: ‘Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost.’ They had stopped hoping. And that is the most dangerous place to be – when you feel no hope at all.

We know this valley today. We think of cities destroyed by war in Gaza, in Ukraine, in Iran and Lebanon, in Sudan – families broken, children growing up knowing only displacement. We think of communities facing floods and fires made worse by the climate crisis. We think of young people who feel more alone than any generation before them. Many people around us have quietly given up. Not because they are bad or weak, but because they are exhausted. The bones are dry.

And into that valley, God asks a surprising question: ‘Mortal, can these bones live?’ Ezekiel gives a wise answer. He does not say yes with easy confidence. He does not say no with despair. He says: ‘O Lord God, you know.’ Sometimes, faith is exactly that – not having all the answers, but trusting that God does.

God tells Ezekiel to speak God’s word into the valley. The bones come together. Muscles and skin return. But there is still no life. Then God says: speak to the breath – the ‘ruach’, the Hebrew word for wind, breath, and spirit together. The same word used when God’s Spirit moved over the water at the very first creation. The breath enters the bodies, and they stand up alive. This is resurrection.
(To those preparing for baptism: in the ancient rite, the priest breathes over the water before you enter it. It is a sign of that same Spirit. The water is both a grave and a birthplace. What God’s Spirit did in Ezekiel’s valley, the Spirit will do for you.)

The psalm begins: ‘Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.’ These words come from someone at the very bottom. But look at what this person does. They wait. ‘My soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning.’ Think of a guard standing on a city wall in the dark, watching for the sun to come up. Think of a parent sitting next to a sick child through the night. All of them watching for morning.
The psalm’s hope is not based on feelings. It is based on who God is: with God there is steadfast love, and great power to redeem. The Hebrew word is ‘hesed’ – a love that is completely faithful, that never gives up, that stays no matter what.

Paul, in Romans, connects this to our daily life. He says the person who lives with the Spirit of God has life and peace. Not just one day in the future – now. And then he says something that should surprise us: the same Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead is already living in those who belong to Christ. That Spirit is at work in us today. This is why Baptism and the Eucharist are so important. They are not just beautiful ceremonies. In baptism, we go into the death of Christ and come out in his resurrection – that really happens. At the eucharist every Sunday, we receive the body and blood of the Risen Christ. We are not only remembering the past. We are part of something living and present.
(For those preparing for baptism: this is the water you are entering. The water of a God whose love is older than your fear and more patient than your doubt.)

In the gospel, we come to Bethany, and to the greatest miracle in John’s Gospel before the resurrection of Jesus.
Martha and Mary have lost their brother Lazarus. When Jesus arrives, each of them says the same thing: ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.’ There is love in those words, and also pain. Where were you? We sent word and you waited. Why did you let this happen?

These are hard questions. But in a world where children die in bombed hospitals or schools, where communities are destroyed by climate calamities, where young people take their own lives – these questions do not go away. If you are here, God, and you have power, why?
Jesus does not explain. He asks to be taken to the tomb. And then John writes the shortest sentence in the whole New Testament: ‘Jesus wept.’

God weeps. The one who is the Resurrection and the Life stands in front of his friend’s grave and cries. This tells us something very important. God is not far away, untouched by what happens to us. God is not a cold force that created the world and then stepped back. In Jesus, God enters our grief completely. God cries with us. This is the God we worship.

Then Jesus calls out in a loud voice: ‘Lazarus, come out.’ And Lazarus comes out, still wrapped in his burial cloths. Jesus turns to the people standing there and says: ‘Unbind him, and let him go.’
Notice: Jesus gives life. But he gives the unwrapping to the community. The people around Lazarus must remove the grave cloths and set him free. This is what the Church is called to do – to help people get free. Free from shame, from loneliness, from past wounds, from judgement (even those who consider themselves vey religious), from all the things that can still hold a person even after new life has begun.
To those preparing for baptism: you are Lazarus. At the Easter Vigil, Christ will call you by name. You will come out of the water. And we – this community – will be there to help unwrap you, to welcome you, and to walk with you into your new life. This is our promise to you.

We are almost at Holy Week. We will walk with Jesus to Jerusalem, to the garden, to the cross. We will sit in the dark of Good Friday. But today, God gives us a look ahead. Ezekiel’s bones rise. The psalmist’s morning comes. Lazarus walks out of his tomb into the light.

The world has many dry valleys, and it would be wrong to pretend it does not. Faith does not ask us to close our eyes to suffering or injustice. But faith does ask us to say, from whatever dark place we are in: God knows. God speaks. The breath of God can bring life to even the driest place.
(To those who will be baptised: welcome to the resurrection. The whole Church, in every age and every land, is glad you are here.)

To all of us: the Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you. Go and live as if you believe that.
Because it is true.

And the peace of God, which is greater than anything we can understand, keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.
Amen.