Lazarus, Come Out: A Contemplative Reading of the Lectionary Gospel for the 5th Sunday of Lent concerning Death, Love, and Awakening in John 11:1–45

A personal contemplative reflection

The story of the raising of Lazarus in the Gospel according to Gospel of John (11:1–45) is one of the most moving of texts in the New Testament. On the surface it is a dramatic miracle narrative. Yet within the contemplative tradition of Christianity this story has often been read as something deeper: a revealing of divine love, human grief, spiritual awakening, and the movement from death to life. The story unfolds slowly, inviting us not simply to rationally understand what happens but to dwell within the emotionality and spirituality behind the story.

The passage begins with a simple statement: Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany. The Greek word used for illness here is ἀσθενῶν (asthenōn), meaning weakness, frailty, or powerlessness. This word carries more than a medical meaning; it reflects the vulnerability of human existence itself. The story begins in weakness, as so many spiritual journeys do. Lazarus represents not only a sick man but the fragile condition of humanity - the places in our lives where we feel powerless, wounded, or lost.

What is striking in the text is the way the evangelist emphasises love. Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. The Greek verb here is ἠγάπα (ēgapa), from ἀγαπάω (agapaō), a form of love that signifies deep, faithful commitment rather than mere affection. The contemplative tradition has long noticed the paradox that follows: precisely because Jesus loves them, he delays his journey. The text tells us that when he heard of Lazarus’s illness, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was. At first this seems perplexing, even troubling. Love does not appear to hurry. Yet within the spiritual life there are many moments when God seems absent or slow to act. The delay in this story mirrors the human experience of waiting in darkness, when prayers seem unanswered and hope feels fragile.

Jesus eventually tells the disciples, Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep. The Greek word here is κεκοιμήται (kekoimētai), meaning to sleep or rest. In the ancient world this word was sometimes used metaphorically for death, suggesting that death itself is not the final reality. For the contemplative reader, this language hints that what appears to be ultimate loss may actually conceal a deeper transformation. Jesus reframes death itself as something provisional. This is extremely profound for us to hear and focus on as words of comfort.

Yet the disciples yet again misunderstand him. Like many moments in John’s Gospel, misunderstanding becomes a doorway into deeper revelation. Jesus clarifies, Lazarus is dead. The starkness of the word ἀπέθανεν (apethanen) confronts the reality of mortality. The spiritual life does not deny death, grief, or suffering. Rather, it faces them honestly.

When Jesus arrives in Bethany he encounters Martha, whose words echo the pain of many believers: Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. I hear myself in this - as I suspect we all do in our intercessory prayers “ God If Only….” Martha’s statement is not simply a complaint but a confession of faith mixed with disappointment. She believes Jesus could have prevented this tragedy. Her faith is real, yet it struggles with the mystery of suffering.

Jesus responds with one of the most significant declarations in the Gospel: I am the resurrection and the life. The Greek phrase ἐγώ εἰμι ἡ ἀνάστασις καὶ ἡ ζωή (egō eimi hē anastasis kai hē zōē) carries enormous theological depth. The word ἀνάστασις (anastasis) literally means “rising up” or “standing again.” It suggests not merely life after death but the overturning of death’s power. The word ζωή (zōē) refers not simply to biological life but to the fullness of divine life itself. In this moment Jesus is not merely promising resurrection as a future event; he embodies it as a present reality. Resurrection is not only something that happens later - it is a presence that stands before Martha in the person of Jesus the Christ.

Yet the narrative does not rush towards triumph. Instead, it lingers in grief. Mary comes to Jesus and repeats Martha’s words: Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. The text then describes Jesus’ emotional response with remarkable intensity. The Greek says he was ἐνεβριμήσατο τῷ πνεύματι (enebrimēsato tō pneumati) and ἐτάραξεν ἑαυτόν (etaraxen heauton). These phrases are difficult to translate fully. I am struggling here with my own comprehension of the Greek. These words do convey a deep internal agitation, even something like indignation or anguish. Jesus is not emotionally detached from human suffering. He enters into it with profound compassion.

The shortest verse in the New Testament follows: Jesus wept.

The Greek phrase is simply ἐδάκρυσεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς (edakrysen ho Iēsous). The verb δακρύω (dakryō) refers to quiet weeping, the shedding of tears. This moment reveals something essential about the contemplative vision of God. God is not distant from human grief. In Jesus, God participates in it. The divine heart is not indifferent but deeply moved by suffering.

Jesus then approaches the tomb. John describes it as a cave sealed with a stone. The imagery evokes darkness, enclosure, and finality. Death appears sealed and immovable. Yet Jesus commands, Take away the stone. The command requires participation from the community. Martha hesitates, noting that the body has been dead four days and that there will be a stench. The Greek word ὄζει (ozei) bluntly acknowledges the reality of decay. The contemplative life does not romanticise death; it recognises the unpleasantness of what has been lost.

After the stone is removed, Jesus prays aloud, giving thanks to the Father. The prayer reveals the relational intimacy between Jesus and God, (Kenosis). He speaks not to persuade God but to reveal that divine life is already present and active.

Then comes the climactic moment. Jesus cries out with a loud voice, Lazarus, come out! The Greek command δεῦρο ἔξω (deuro exō) literally means “come here, outside.” It is a call from darkness into light, from confinement into freedom. The contemplative tradition often hears this as the voice of Christ calling each person from the tombs of fear, shame, and despair. The call of God always invites movement - from death into life.

Lazarus emerges, still bound with strips of cloth. The miracle is not yet complete. Jesus instructs those around him: Unbind him, and let him go. The Greek verbs λύσατε (lysate) and ἄφετε (aphete) mean “loose” and “release.” Resurrection is not only God’s action but also a communal responsibility. The community must participate in liberation, removing the bindings that still restrict the newly restored life.

For contemplative readers, this story becomes a metaphor of the spiritual journey itself. Each of us knows places of asthenia - weakness and vulnerability. Each of us encounters moments when God seems delayed. We know the tombs of grief and the stones that seal our fears. Yet the story insists that the voice of Christ continues to call into the deepest darkness of human experience.

The raising of Lazarus therefore reveals something about the nature of divine love. The love of God does not avoid suffering but enters it. It does not rush past grief but weeps within it. And ultimately it calls life out of death. Resurrection, in this sense, is not only a miracle that happened once in Bethany. It is the ongoing work of God within the human soul. This is the power of continuing incarnational theology embodied in the life and ministry of Jesus.

The contemplative path is learning to hear that voice. Again and again Christ stands before the tombs we inhabit and calls us outward. The call is simple yet transformative: come out of fear, come out of shame, come out of despair. Come into the light of divine life.

And when we step into that light, the community of faith is called to help remove the bindings that remain. Resurrection is both gift and journey. It begins with the voice of Christ and continues as the slow unfolding of freedom.

In the end, the raising of Lazarus points beyond itself. It foreshadows the deeper mystery that will soon unfold in the Gospel - the death and resurrection of Jesus himself. Yet even before that final revelation, this story offers a profound contemplative insight: that divine love is stronger than death, and that the voice of Christ still calls the human soul from the tomb toward the fullness of life.

Photo by Daniel J. Schwarz on Unsplash