Introduction
As Lent begins to draw toward its conclusion, the lectionary gives us one of the most powerful and emotionally layered stories in the Gospel of John: the raising of Lazarus. It is a familiar text. Many congregations hear it at funerals because of Jesus’ declaration, “I am the resurrection and the life.” Because of that line, it is easy to treat this passage as a preview of Easter morning. A kind of early resurrection story pointing us toward the empty tomb.
But John’s Gospel refuses to rush past the grief that fills this story.
Before Lazarus walks out of the tomb, there is loss. There is confusion. There is anger. There is a community gathered around two sisters in mourning. And there is a question that echoes through the entire narrative: “Lord, if you had been here…”
Narrative Context
The story begins with an unsettling detail. When Jesus hears that his friend Lazarus is ill, he does not rush to Bethany. Instead, the Gospel tells us that he waits two days before leaving (John 11:6). The author softens the sting of that by adding that “when Jesus heard it, he said, ‘This illness does not lead to death; rather, it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.’” We are already supposed to know that Jesus has a plan here.
By the time he arrives, Lazarus has already been dead for four days. And even though we know it was intentional, that delay hangs over the entire story. Both sisters greet Jesus with exactly the same words: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
Those words carry a sharp edge. They are spoken from grief, but they also sound like a question. Maybe even an accusation. Where were you?
Again, the narrative makes it clear that Jesus already understands what is about to happen. Early in the chapter he tells the disciples plainly, “Lazarus has died. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe.” The delay is intentional. In the logic of the story, it will allow the glory of God to be revealed in a way that leaves no doubt about what has happened.
But knowledge does not insulate Jesus from the grief he encounters when he finally arrives.
When Martha and Mary speak their lament, “Lord, if you had been here…”, Jesus is confronted with the real human cost of that delay. What was, from his perspective, a moment preparing for glory has been experienced by the sisters as absence.
They do not know what he knows. They only know that their brother is gone. And their grief is raw enough that it moves Jesus to tears.
The Greater Purpose of Presence
“Lord, if you had been here…”
Those words reveal more than grief. They reveal the terrible feeling that in their moment of deepest pain, God was not there.
Few questions cut deeper than that one. Where was God when this happened? Where was God when we needed help? When we prayed? When we cried out?
And when Jesus hears those words, when he hears faithful people speak from a place that feels abandoned, he does not correct them. He does not defend himself. He weeps.
In that moment we see something profound about the heart of God. The God revealed in Jesus Christ is not distant from human pain. God does not watch suffering from afar. God steps into it. God feels it. God grieves with those who grieve.
But John’s Gospel does not stop there.
Only a few chapters after this moment, Jesus gathers with his disciples and makes an extraordinary promise. He tells them that when he leaves them, they will not be abandoned. The Father will send another Advocate, the Holy Spirit, to be with them forever (John 14:16–17).
It is hard not to hear that promise echoing back to this moment in Bethany.
Here, Jesus has just heard the words no one ever wants to speak to God: “Lord, if you had been here…”
And not long after, he promises something remarkable. God will never allow God’s people to feel that kind of absence again. The Spirit will abide with them. Not occasionally. Not from a distance. But always.
The promise of the Holy Spirit is the promise of divine presence. God dwelling with humanity, not only in moments of worship or miracle, but in every moment of life, including grief, confusion, and sorrow.
If the tears of Jesus reveal that God shares our suffering, the gift of the Spirit reveals something even more beautiful: God refuses to leave us alone in it.
Preaching Possibilities
Presence in the Midst of Grief
This story unfolds in the middle of a grieving household. Mary and Martha are mourning their brother, and neighbors from Jerusalem have come to sit with them, console them, and share in their sorrow. Grief in the ancient world was rarely carried alone. People showed up. They stayed. They wept together.
In many ways, that is still one of the most sacred callings of the church.
Congregations regularly encounter moments when life breaks open, when illness comes suddenly, when a family loses someone they love, when the future feels uncertain, or when the weight of the world presses heavily on people’s hearts. In those moments, the church often wishes it had the right words. But the story of Lazarus suggests something else may matter more.
Jesus has come knowing what he will do. The raising of Lazarus will be a sign of God’s glory. And yet before anything else happens, he steps into the grief of the moment.
He listens to Martha’s confession.
He hears Mary’s sorrow.
He sees the crowd gathered in mourning.
And then Jesus weeps.
Before the stone is rolled away, before the miracle is revealed, Jesus stands among the grieving and shares their tears. The sign does not erase the sorrow that brought them there. Instead, it grows out of Jesus’ willingness to be present within it.
We might invite our congregations to reflect on what it means to follow a Savior who meets sorrow first with presence rather than explanation. Often the most faithful response to suffering is not fixing it or explaining it away, but simply showing up, sitting beside someone in pain, listening to their story, bearing witness to their grief.
This is part of what it means to be the body of Christ in the world.
And the promise of the Gospel is that when the church gathers around those who mourn, when it sits beside hospital beds, gathers at kitchen tables, or stands together at gravesides, it becomes a living sign of God’s presence. The Spirit continues to move through the community, reminding those who grieve that they are not alone.
In a world where so many people suffer in isolation, the church is called to be a community that stays.
Micah Krey 
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