22/03/2026
FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT SERMON
PS 130:1-8
EZEK. 37: 1- 14
ROM 8: 1-11
JOHN 11: 1- 45
Grace, mercy, and peace be unto you from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.
Out of the depths we cry to You, O Lord. The psalm does not give us polished religion; it gives us a cry torn out of the human chest. It is the voice of one who knows both suffering and sin, who stands not on dignity but in desperation: “If You, O Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand?” That question strips everything away. It silences excuses. It topples titles. It exposes every heart. Who could stand? Not the strong, not the clever, not the religious, not the leaders of the Church, not you, not me. If God were to count our sins as they deserve, we would not merely stumble, we would be undone.
But the psalm does not end in the depths. It turns on a single, blazing truth: “But with You there is forgiveness, that You may be feared.” Not earned forgiveness. Not negotiated forgiveness. Forgiveness that comes from God Himself. Forgiveness that creates true fear, true faith, true worship. And so the psalmist waits; not in uncertainty, but in hope: “My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning.” This is not passive waiting; this is clinging to a promise when everything else collapses.
Now take that cry from the depths and walk with it into the valley shown to Ezekiel. There is no metaphor here to soften the blow. The valley is filled with bones; dry bones, scattered, lifeless, beyond recovery. And the Lord asks a question that seems almost cruel: “Son of man, can these bones live?” The honest answer is no. There is no life here. No pulse, no breath, no future. This is what sin does. It does not merely wound; it kills. It does not merely weaken the Church; it reduces it to bones when it abandons the Word for power, when leadership becomes a ladder for self-advancement, when nepotism replaces calling, when tribalism replaces baptism, when corruption is tolerated and even defended. Then the Church does not merely struggle, it becomes a valley of dry bones.
But God does not ask Ezekiel to fix the bones. He does not command him to organize them, improve them, or inspire them. He says, “Prophesy.” Speak My Word to what is dead. And as the Word is spoken, something impossible happens. There is a sound, a rattling, bones come together, sinews and flesh appear, but still there is no life until the breath of God enters. And when the breath comes, the dead stand on their feet, a great army. This is not reform; this is resurrection. This is what the Word of God does. It creates what it commands. It brings life where there is none.
And now the apostle Paul speaks into this same reality with clarity that cuts through every illusion: “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” Not less condemnation. Not delayed condemnation. None. Why? Because “the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death.” The law could diagnose the disease, but it could not cure it. It could expose sin, but it could not justify the sinner. So God did what the law could not do: He sent His own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and for sin, and He condemned sin in the flesh. At the cross, sin is judged, not excused; condemned, not ignored. And because Christ stands in the place of sinners, those who are in Him stand justified. This is the center of everything: you are declared righteous not because of what you have done, but because of what Christ has done for you.
But Paul presses further. This is not an abstract declaration floating above reality. “You, however, are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if in fact the Spirit of God dwells in you.” The same Spirit who hovered over the chaos at creation, the same breath that entered the dry bones, now dwells in those who belong to Christ. “If the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, He…will also give life to your mortal bodies.” This is not only about a distant future; it is about a present reality shaped by a coming resurrection. Even as the body wastes away, even as death approaches, the promise stands: life will be given.
Carry all of this now into Bethany, into the house of grief where Lazarus has died. The sisters send word to Jesus, but He delays. And when He arrives, the words come; honest, aching, accusatory: “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” It is the cry of Psalm 130 in another form. It is the cry of those who stand in hospital rooms, who sit beside graves, who watch the Church fracture and wonder where God is. “Lord, if You had been here…”
Jesus does not rebuke the grief. He enters it. He speaks first to Martha, drawing her confession beyond general resurrection hope into Himself: “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in Me, though he die, yet shall he live.” Not an idea. Not a system. A person. He does not point away from Himself to a future event; He locates resurrection in His own being. Faith is not clinging to a concept; it is trusting Him.
And then, at the tomb, He weeps. The Son of God stands before death and does not treat it lightly. He is deeply moved because death is the enemy, the wages of sin, the great destroyer. He sees what sin has done; to Lazarus, to the sisters, to all creation, and He is not indifferent. He weeps.
Then He commands the stone to be taken away. Objections arise; practical, reasonable, rooted in reality: “Lord, by this time there will be an odor.” Yes, there will. Death is real. Decay is real. Just as the corruption that seeps into the Church is real, just as the suffering of the poor is real, just as the despair of the dying is real. But Jesus is not deterred by what is real to us, because He is the One who defines reality.
He prays, not to gain power, but to reveal the Father, and then He cries out with a loud voice: “Lazarus, come out.” The Word goes forth, and the dead man comes out, bound in grave clothes. The command that creates life is followed by a command to the community: “Unbind him, and let him go.” Resurrection leads to release, to restoration, to life among others.
This is what justification looks like in flesh and blood. The sinner, dead in trespasses, is called by name through the Gospel and brought to life. Not improved, not advised, not managed, raised. Declared righteous for Christ’s sake. Freed from condemnation. And then, set within the community to live.
So the texts converge into one thunderous proclamation: from the depths of Psalm 130, through the dry bones of Ezekiel, through the Spirit-filled promise of Romans 8, to the open tomb in John 11, God justifies the ungodly and raises the dead by His Word.
And that Word judges us even as it saves us. It judges the Church wherever it has trusted in anything other than Christ. Where leadership has been shaped by favoritism instead of faithfulness, where tribal identity has overshadowed baptismal identity, where racism has denied the unity of the body, where corruption has been excused, there the Word exposes death. There the valley of dry bones is not a distant image but a present reality. Repent. No position, no lineage, no influence will allow anyone to stand if the Lord marks iniquities.
But the same Word that condemns sin also forgives sinners. “With You there is forgiveness.” That is the only reason anyone stands at all. Not above others, but before God, justified by grace alone. And that justification is not a theory; it is a living reality that must shape the life of the Church. A Church that confesses justification but neglects the suffering neighbor contradicts its own confession. A Church that guards doctrine but ignores the poor has forgotten the Lord who calls the dead to life. The one who has been raised by Christ cannot remain indifferent to those who lie in the depths.
So to those who have lost hope, hear this: your cry is not unheard. The Lord who heard the psalmist hears you. To those in hospice, to those facing terminal illness, to those whose bodies are failing, hear this clearly: “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” Your life is not measured by your strength, your usefulness, or your remaining days. Your life is hidden with Christ, and the Spirit who raised Jesus will give life to your mortal body. The grave is not your end.
And to those who have means, influence, stability; hear the call: the justified life is a giving life. Go to the poor. Stand with the suffering. Bind up the broken. Not to earn anything, but because everything has already been given to you in Christ.
Out of the depths we cry, and into the depths Christ Himself has come. He has entered death, borne sin, been condemned in our place, and risen victorious. And now He speaks. And when He speaks, the dead live.
“My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning.” The morning is coming. The voice that called Lazarus will call again. And all who are in Christ will stand; not because they could stand on their own, but because they have been justified, raised, and given life by Him.
In the name of Jesus. Amen.
