Sermon by The Very Rev Chris Yaw, 3/22/2026, Lent 5
Lessons:
John 11:1-42
A favorite summertime pastime in my family is walking along the shoreline of one of the Great Lakes.
If you’ve ever been there, you know the beaches aren’t always soft and sandy. Much of the time they’re covered in stones. Thousands of them. Millions of them. Every shape, every size, every color.
And if you walk that beach with young children, something very predictable happens.
At some point, one particular rock becomes the rock. Not just any rock. Not one of many.
This one.
It gets picked up, examined, turned over in the light, they’ve found the Hope Diamond.
And then, without fail, it gets handed to you. “Can you carry this?”
And now you are responsible for the most important object in the world. You cannot lose it. You cannot forget it. You cannot mix it up with the other five identical rocks in your other pockets.
Because this rock has been declared special. Valuable. Irreplaceable.
And then, at the end of the day, you give it back.
And sometimes… a day later… maybe two…
You hear it. Crying.
Deep, inconsolable, world-ending crying. Because the rock is gone. Lost.
And your instinct, at least my instinct, is to say:
“Just go get another one.” “I mean… come on. There are millions of rocks.
We can find one just like it!”
But you know, in that moment, that won’t work.
Because they don’t want another rock.
They want that rock.
And it’s gone.
And what they need, in that moment, is not a solution. Not a replacement. Not a quick fix.
What they need… is someone to sit with them in the loss.
To say, “I know. That mattered.”
To carry the grief with them. ##
And I wonder if that isn’t one of the most universal human experiences there is?
That feeling of longing for something you cannot have.
Or cannot get back. Or cannot fix.
Some of us are carrying that right now.
A relationship that didn’t survive.
A diagnosis that changed everything.
A future that you thought would unfold one way… and didn’t.
And some of those longings are bigger than our own lives - ##
I find myself carrying a deep yearning these days. A yearning for war to end. A yearning for dignity for people being treated as disposable. A yearning for a world where the poor, the elderly, the vulnerable are not pushed aside.
And I believe, with everything in me, that one day God will bring all things into wholeness.
That one day, there will be no more war. No more injustice. No more suffering.
That one day we will stand in what Scripture calls the peace of God… what I sometimes imagine as a kind of deep, quiet ocean where nothing is broken, everything is fixed.
But that day… is not today.
And that matters.
Because the Jesus we meet in today’s Gospel knows that.
In John’s Gospel, Jesus arrives at the home of sisters Mary and Martha.
Their brother, Lazarus has died – all of them are close friends.
And both sisters, on two occasions, say the exact same thing to him:
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
It’s not just a statement. It’s an ache. It’s grief with an edge.
It’s the kind of thing you say when your heart is breaking and you don’t know what else to do.
And here’s what’s remarkable: Jesus already knows what he’s going to do.
He knows Lazarus will walk out of that tomb.
He knows the miracle is coming. He could have skipped ahead.
He could have said, “Just wait. This is going to work out.”
He could have given them a future-focused answer.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he pauses. He hears their pain. He sees their grief. He feels it himself.
And then we get the shortest verse in the Bible.
Two words: “Jesus wept.”
But the Greek underneath that is stronger than it sounds.
It’s not a polite tear sliding down the cheek.
It is not a patronizing slight to hint that he cares.
It’s more like this: Jesus breaks.
The Greek, quite literally says: Jesus burst into tears.
Why?
Because love does that.
Love is not just about seeing the pain – but sharing it.
Because love does not stand at a distance and offer explanations:
Love steps in.
Love feels.
Love refuses to rush past pain just because it knows how the story ends.
Before the miracle…
Jesus bursts into tears.
And that tells us something crucial about God:
God is not just the one who fixes things.
God is the one who sits with you in what cannot be fixed.
God is not just the promise of “someday.”
God is present in the ache of right now.
And if we’re honest, that’s often what we need most.
Not answers. Not timelines. Not theological explanations.
We need someone who will not look away from our grief.
That’s what Jesus does.
That’s who Jesus is. ##
This week, I got a glimpse of what that kind of presence can look like.
I spent a couple of days in Ann Arbor and Lansing - at a conference and then at a news conference - working with others on how we might reduce gun violence.
As you know, the statistics are staggering.
Firearms are the leading cause of death for children and teenagers in this country.
It’s not car accidents, fentanyl, or cancer.
It’s guns.
In Michigan, someone is shot once every six hours.
It’s enough to make you angry.
It’s enough to make you hate guns.
It’s enough to make you draw a line in the sand and say,
“I know exactly what the problem is.”
But then something happens when you start listening.
You hear from police officers who carry firearms because they have to walk into danger.
You hear from soldiers who are trained to defend others.
You hear from people who live in places where safety is not a given, and a firearm feels like the only thing standing between them and serious harm.
And when you actually listen… empathize… sympathize…
Something shifts.
Not necessarily your convictions.
But your posture.
Because understanding begins to grow.
Empathy grows.
And you grow.
And you begin to see – that maybe we’ve done this before…
Since the 1970s, some estimate we’ve reduced traffic fatalities in this country by more than 60 percent. We knew how dangerous cars were – how crashes killed and maimed.
But we didn’t ban cars.
We concentrated on the whole experience of transportation.
We concentrated on a shared goal of safety.
And we have made the whole experience of driving much less dangerous.
We did it through a thousand small changes.
Seatbelts.
Airbags.
Better road design.
Driver education.
We listened to the stakeholders.
We respected them – we worked to understand and empathize with them.
We worked across differences.
We focused on a shared goal.
And if you are in a modern car, you are in a safer vehicle than at any point in history.
(Please notice that I am not touching on all those crazy ‘other’ drivers out there- who you see while you’re cruising Woodward - who are texting, drinking, and painting their toenails… yes, I’ve seen that - but that’s another sermon…)
And so I can’t help but wonder…
What would happen if we approached one another with the same kind of empathy and understanding? What would happen to our problems - if, instead of shouting past each other, we stood still long enough to hear one another? What would happen if we spent less time trying to win… and more time trying to understand?
Because that’s what Jesus models.
He doesn’t dismiss the grief.
He doesn’t correct it.
He enters it.
And that kind of approach has power.
Because that kind of approach is love in action.
We see it in that strange, haunting vision from Ezekiel.
The valley of dry bones. A landscape of death.
The hardened calcium of a once vibrant sea of humanity.
Bones so bare that don't even interest the vultures -
Where nobody's left to arrange a funeral.
All is broken. Just fragments. Just what’s left when hope has long since given up.
And God asks the question: “Can these bones live?”
It almost feels like a cruel question.
But then… There’s a sound. A rattling. Bones coming together.
Sinew. Flesh. Breath. Life.
What was dead… rises.
Not because the bones figured it out.
Not because they deserved it.
But because God’s Spirit refused to leave them as they were.
God is not a God of the dead.
God is alive – Love is alive.
And this is what love does.
Love does not accept that death gets the final word.
Not in a tomb.
Not in a valley of bones.
Not in a broken world.
Not in OUR broken world.
No matter how hard apathy, cynicism, and hopelessness vie for realism.
Love cannot be pushed aside – because it has won.
It has risen. It reigns. ##
As you’ve heard me mention – the Saturday, April 4 Easter Vigil is around the corner.
It’s at 8pm, the night before Easter. It’s the Church’s first celebration of Easter.
And it’s a holy celebration of love’s victory – and a sacred time of spiritual renewal.
And I’m wondering if God is calling you to a time like that?
If you wondered why lilies, springtime, eggs, and bunnies are popular monikers -
It’s because Easter is about newness – new beginnings, new possibilities – and our call to revive and revitalize.
I would like to invite you to join me there – especially if you’re looking for a fresh start and renewed walk with Jesus. Join me in saying ‘no’ to the temptation to take the negative left road of ‘same old, same old’… And together let’s embark upon a new road - the ‘right road’ of newness and promise -possibility and imagination.
On this night the Church uses its festive fanfare – music, candles, and liturgy – to tell us ancient stories to take us on new pathways. You can sign up at the Ministry Hub in the Atrium.
Because here’s the key:
For things to change – we need to change.
And when we draw closer to God – God draws closer to us.
This wonderful God – who is love.
And today we have seen love in action.
Jesus shows us sympathy, empathy, and truly caring about people - being with people – through the good and the bad.
Because the same love that raises the dead…
Is the love that first sits and weeps.
Before the shouting, there is listening.
Before the fixing, there is presence.
Before the miracle…
There is compassion.
So maybe the question for us this week is not,
“How do I solve everything?”
Maybe the question is:
Where am I being invited to stay a little longer?
To resist the urge to fix.
To resist the urge to say, “It’ll be fine.”
To resist the urge to instantly replace the rock.
And instead to say:
“I’m here.”
Because when we do that…
We begin to look a little more like Jesus.
And when we look a little more like Jesus…
We become part of the kind of love that doesn’t just comfort the grieving…
But, in time…
Helps bring the dead back to life.
Amen.