A Homily for the Fifth Sunday of Lent
Sunday, March 22, 2026
Ezekiel 37:12-14; Psalm 130:1-2, 3-4, 5-6, 7-8; Romans 8:8-11; John 11:1-45
Audio Recording
Today’s Gospel—the raising of Lazarus—stands at the threshold of Holy Week and prepares us to understand what Jesus is about to do in Jerusalem. He is about to confront death itself—and defeat it.
The story begins with grief. Martha and Mary send word to Jesus: “Lord, the one you love is ill.” But instead of coming immediately, Jesus delays. By the time He arrives, Lazarus has been dead four days. Long enough, as Martha says with painful honesty, that there will already be the smell of decay. This detail is important. Jesus wants everyone to know that Lazarus is truly dead—not sleeping, not mistaken, not barely alive. Dead. Because what He is about to reveal is not simply compassion, but authority over death itself.
Yet before the miracle happens, something unexpected takes place. Jesus weeps. He stands before the tomb of His friend and is deeply moved. He is troubled in spirit. He does not remain distant from human suffering. He enters into it. He shares it. He allows Himself to feel the sorrow of those He loves.
This moment matters deeply for us, especially for anyone who has stood beside a hospital bed or a graveside, anyone who has buried a spouse, a parent, a child, or a friend. The Lord we meet in this Gospel is not indifferent to grief. He stands beside us in it. He knows what loss feels like from the inside.
But Jesus does more than weep. He commands: “Take away the stone.” Martha hesitates. She knows what death looks like. She knows what it means when someone has been gone four days. She knows what is final. Jesus answers her hesitation with a promise: “Did I not tell you that if you believe you will see the glory of God?” Then He calls out with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” And Lazarus walks out of the tomb.
This miracle is not only about Lazarus. It is about every grave that has ever been dug. It is about every funeral we have attended. It is about the destiny of the human race. Jesus declares just moments earlier, “I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live.” Then He asks Martha the decisive question: “Do you believe this?” That question is not addressed only to her. It is addressed to each of us.
Christianity stands or falls on this claim: that Jesus Christ has authority over death. St. Paul tells us in today’s second reading that the Spirit of the one who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in us and will give life to our mortal bodies. Notice that he does not say only our souls. He says our mortal bodies. The promise of Christ is not simply survival after death. It is resurrection. Our lives are not moving toward extinction; they are moving toward restoration and glory.
This promise had already been spoken centuries earlier through the prophet Ezekiel, as we heard in our first reading when God declared to His people, “I will open your graves and have you rise from them.” The raising of Lazarus shows that this promise is not poetry or symbolism. God truly opens graves. That is what He does.
This miracle of the raising of Lazarus also marks a turning point in the Gospel. From this moment forward, the authorities begin plotting Jesus’ death. To give Lazarus life, Jesus moves closer to His own death. To open Lazarus’ tomb, He walks deliberately toward His own. The raising of Lazarus is not only a miracle of compassion; it is a sign pointing directly to Calvary. Soon His own body will be wrapped. Soon His own tomb will be sealed. But the One who calls a dead man out of the grave cannot remain in the grave Himself.
The Gospel today also forces us to face something our culture often tries to avoid. We do not like to think about death. We soften it. We hide it. We distract ourselves from it. Yet Scripture speaks about death honestly. It calls death an enemy—the last enemy. The sorrow we feel when someone dies is not weakness. It is evidence that death does not belong in the world as God intended it. We know instinctively that we were made for life. That is why Jesus stands before the tomb of Lazarus not only grieving, but preparing for battle. He has come to confront the power that holds humanity in bondage.
This is why the Church gives us this Gospel just before Holy Week. It prepares us to understand what the Cross really means. The Cross is not defeat. It is the decisive confrontation between the Lord of life and the power of death. And the Resurrection is the victory.
So what does this mean for us today? First, it means that Jesus understands our grief. If you carry sorrow in your heart for someone you love who has died, remember that the Son of God stood at a graveside and wept. He knows exactly what that feels like. Second, it means death does not have the last word. Many of you have lived long enough to see how quickly life passes. You have buried friends. You have watched generations change. You have felt the limits of the body more clearly with each passing year. But today’s Gospel reminds us that the grave is not the end of the story. Christ Himself is the resurrection and the life, and those who belong to Him will live.
Third, this Gospel reminds us that the call to come out of the tomb begins now. Sometimes the tomb is fear. Sometimes it is regret. Sometimes it is sin that has lingered too long. Sometimes it is discouragement or the quiet temptation to believe that our best days are behind us. Yet the voice of Christ still speaks with authority: “Come out!” He calls us out of whatever binds us so that we may live already as people of the resurrection.
One day, that same voice will speak again. And when it does, every grave will open. Every loss will be restored. Every tear will be wiped away. Today the Lord asks each of us the same question He asked Martha: “Do you believe this?” May our answer be yes—yes, Lord, I believe.