Homily for the 5th Sunday of Lent – Year A 2025
Ezekiel 37:12–14 | Psalm 130 | Romans 8:8–11 | John 11:3–7,17,20–27,33b–45

Sisters and brothers, we stand today in the shadow of a tomb. It is not yet the tomb of Jesus—but the tomb of Lazarus in Bethany. It is a place of weeping and mourning, a place where the hopes of Martha and Mary have died, and their faith is put to the test. It is there, in the midst of their grief—four days after Lazarus’ death, when the body has already begun to disintegrate—that Jesus reveals something more powerful than the grave: He reveals His glory.

This fifth Sunday of Lent brings us to the very threshold of Holy Week. The road from here leads to the Passion, to the cross, and to the tomb of Christ. But today’s Gospel allows us a glimpse of what lies beyond the cross. We are reminded that the One who will soon be laid in the grave is also the One who cries out in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”

Let’s not rush past the pain of the scene. The tears of Mary. The confusion of Martha. “Lord, if you had been here…”—it is not just a question, it’s a lament we know well. We’ve said it ourselves, haven’t we? In hospitals, in cemeteries, in quiet moments when life didn’t go the way we prayed it would. “Lord, if you had been here…”

And yet, into this heartbreak, Jesus does not remain distant. He does not preach a sermon on patience. He weeps. The Son of God, the Word made flesh, the Resurrection and the Life, weeps at the grave of his friend.

What kind of God is this?

A God who is not untouched by our suffering. A God who dares to enter the graveyard of human sorrow. And a God who, even as he weeps, carries within him the power to give life.

We heard the Lord’s promise in Ezekiel: “I will open your graves and bring you back.” That was not mere poetry. In Lazarus, it becomes flesh. And even more, Paul tells us in Romans, “If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, then he who raised Christ will also give life to your mortal bodies.” The same Spirit breathes through this church today. Through you. Through me. Through the catechumens preparing for Baptism, who even now draw near to the waters where graves are opened and new life begins.

Make no mistake—this miracle is not only about Lazarus. It is about you. It is about the tombs you carry in your heart:

the places where you have buried hope, locked away forgiveness, or given up on change.

It is about the ways we sometimes live like the dead—trapped by sin, bound by fear, unmoved by love.

Jesus stands before that tomb and cries out: Come out!
Come out of your despair. Come out of your shame. Come out of your fear.
And when we do, when we let the stone roll away, when we stagger out still wrapped in the cloths of our old lives, what does Jesus say? “Unbind him, and let him go.”

Let the Church unbind you, through mercy.
Let Christ’s Body unbind you, through friendship and truth.
Let the Spirit unbind you, because you were not made for the tomb. You were made for life.

So today, with Martha, we are invited to make our profession: “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, the one who is coming into the world.” This confession is not only for the catechumens. It is for all of us. Because today, Jesus meets us in our weeping and calls us back to life.

And the tomb cannot hold us anymore.