LAZARUS - Sarah Curl

22nd March 2026

Pretend grief isn’t real.Pretend sorrow is something believers should outgrow.Pretend that faith makes us immune to fear.

But the Gospel does not allow us to pretend.And neither does Jesus.

As we stand on this Fifth Sunday of Lent, the Church draws us close to the tomb of Lazarus. Not simply to witness a miracle, but to look into the heart of Christ at a moment when he knows something the others do not fully understand—his own death is coming. The shadow of the cross is already stretching across his path.

Jesus is not walking casually through these days.He is walking toward Jerusalem.He is walking toward betrayal.He is walking toward suffering.He is walking toward death.

And he knows it.

That is what makes this story so powerful.When Jesus receives the message, “Lord, the one you love is sick,” he delays. He waits. Not because he does not care, but because something larger is unfolding. The raising of Lazarus will not only reveal God’s glory—it will also set in motion the final events that lead to the cross.

From this moment on, the authorities begin to plan his death.So when Jesus walks toward Bethany, he is not just going to comfort friends.He is stepping closer to his own grave.

And still, he goes.

We sometimes imagine Jesus as calm and untouched, moving through life with a kind of divine detachment. But the Gospels show us something much more human. They show us a man who feels deeply. A man who loves deeply. A man who carries the weight of what lies ahead.

So let us ask the question honestly:Was Jesus sad?Was he frightened?Was he nervous?Was he anxious?

I think so.

Not because he lacked faith.Not because he doubted God.But because he was fully human.

To be human is to feel the tremor of fear when suffering approaches. To be human is to feel the knot in your stomach when you know pain is coming. To be human is to grieve what you will lose—friends, breath, life itself.

And Jesus was truly human.

When he arrives in Bethany, Martha meets him with words that many grieving people have spoken:“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

There is love in those words.But there is also disappointment.And perhaps a hint of anger.

Mary comes next, and she falls at his feet with the same cry. Around them, the mourners are weeping. The air is thick with sorrow. This is not a tidy, controlled moment. It is raw. It is loud. It is human.

And the Gospel tells us that Jesus is deeply moved.Troubled.Shaken.

Those words matter. They tell us that Jesus does not stand outside the storm. He stands in the middle of it. He feels the grief of his friends, but he is also feeling something else—the weight of his own approaching death.

He is standing at a tomb, knowing that soon others will stand at his.

Then comes the shortest verse in Scripture, and perhaps the most revealing:Jesus wept.

He wept for Lazarus.He wept for Mary and Martha.He wept because death is an enemy.And perhaps—just perhaps—he wept because he knew what was coming for himself.

There is something profoundly comforting in that thought. It means our fear does not separate us from God. Our anxiety does not make us weak in faith. Our trembling hearts are not signs of failure.

They are signs of being human.

Later, in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus will pray with such anguish that his sweat falls like drops of blood. He will ask, “Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me.” That is not the prayer of someone untouched by fear. That is the prayer of someone who knows suffering is real.

And yet, he continues.

At the tomb of Lazarus, Jesus gives a command:“Take away the stone.”

Martha hesitates. She worries about the smell, about the finality of death. But Jesus insists. The stone is rolled away. He calls out, “Lazarus, come out!” And the dead man walks into the light again.

It is a stunning miracle.A sign of power.A glimpse of hope.

But it is not the end of the story.

Because Lazarus returns to physical life. He will laugh again, eat again, walk again. He will sit at table with his sisters. But one day, he will die again. His resurrection is temporary—a restoration of earthly life.

Jesus knows his own resurrection will be different.

He will not return simply to resume ordinary life.He will not go back to the way things were.He will pass through death into something new—into the fullness of life with the Father. He will return not just in body, but in glory, in Spirit, in a life that cannot be taken away.

So when Jesus stands before the tomb of Lazarus, he is revealing more than power over death. He is revealing the path he himself will walk. A path that leads through suffering, through fear, through grief—and into life beyond the grave.

That is why this story belongs in Lent.Because Lent is not about pretending everything is fine.It is about walking honestly toward the cross.

And perhaps some of us are walking toward our own difficult places right now. A diagnosis. A loss. A decision. A future that feels uncertain. We may feel sadness, or fear, or anxiety about what lies ahead.

If that is you, hear this clearly:Jesus understands.

He has stood where you stand.He has felt what you feel.He has faced what you fear.

And he did not turn away.

Faith does not mean the absence of fear.Faith means walking forward even when fear is present.Faith means trusting that beyond the tomb, beyond the sorrow, beyond the unknown, God is still waiting.

So yes—Jesus was sad.Yes—he may have been frightened.Yes—he may have felt the weight of anxiety pressing on his heart.

But he walked forward anyway.Toward the cross.Toward the Father.Toward life that death could not hold.

And because he walked that path, we do not walk ours alone.

Amen.

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