Worship
Service for March 22, 2026
Prelude
Announcements:
Call to Worship
L: Coming from places near and far, perhaps
having seen better days,
P: God bids us to celebrate this day, a day
full of new possibilities.
L: Coming with our breath taken away by
grief,
P: the Holy Spirit breathes new life within
us, renewing our connection to God and with one another.
L: Coming to worship seeking a hope that will
endure,
P: Christ unbinds the fetters that hold us in
death, speaking in word and sacrament, and building community for holy service.
Opening Hymn – Near the Cross #319 Brown
Prayer of Confession
Forgive us, O God, when we see
the world through rose-colored glasses rather than as it really is, much less
the way You seek it to be. Forgive us,
Holy One, when we forsake lively and risky faith calling us to be
agents of change in our world for the bland conviction that all will be
well. Renew us with Your grace and
ground us with Your Spirit, that we might be empowered to live by word and
deed, as testimonies to the power of Your love over the grave. In Jesus, we pray. (Silent prayers are
offered) AMEN.
Assurance of Pardon
L: In the spirit of repentance, in the mercy
of Almighty God, we are forgiven.
P: In Christ Jesus, our Savior, we rejoice
and give thanks!
Gloria Patri
Affirmation of Faith/Apostles’
Creed
I believe in God the Father
Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth; And in Jesus Christ His only Son our Lord;
who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under
Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead, and buried; He descended into hell; the
third day He rose again from the dead; He ascended into heaven, and sitteth on
the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from thence He shall come to judge
the quick and the dead.
I believe in the Holy Ghost,
the holy catholic Church; the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins; the
resurrection of the body; and the life everlasting. AMEN
Pastoral Prayer and Lord’s
Prayer
All-knowing God,
you are the Lord of the church, you see our sins, faults and failures. And although we ask for forgiveness, allow us
to see the sin in our own lives before we judge others too harshly. Allow us to acknowledge the gift of grace
you’ve given to us in your son, Jesus Christ.
All-knowing God, we
ask that you fill the leaders of the nations and the leaders of our communities
with so much of your love that all people would be able live without fear of
improper judgment, and the nations would know peace.
All-knowing God,
you know every hurt we suffer in body, mind or spirit. Use your wisdom and guidance to bring health
and healing to all who are ill or suffering from disease. Bring comfort to those who worry or are
anxious.
All-knowing God,
you knew us before the foundation of the world and chose us to be your
own. We thank you for the lives and
influence of those who have gone before us in the faith. Help us to imitate them in the way of love
and forgiveness so that others will see you through us.
All-knowing God, we
especially pray for….
All-knowing God,
hear the prayers of our hearts in this moment of silence…
O
God, we place our very lives into Your hands knowing that you judge us only
based on the gift of grace offered to us through Your son, Our Savior, Jesus
Christ who taught us to pray together saying …Our Father who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy
name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be
done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give
us this day our daily bread. Forgive us
our debts as we forgive our debtors. And
lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and
the glory, forever. AMEN.
Hymn –
What Wondrous Love is This Hymn
#85/314
Scripture Reading(s):
First Scripture Reading – Psalm
130
Second Scripture Reading – John
11:1-45
Sermon
–
Seeing, Believing, and Being Raised
based on John 11:1–45 (with echoes of John 9)
There are stories in scripture that
feel less like stories and more like thresholds—places where something shifts
both in the telling of the story and in us, where what we thought we knew no
longer holds, and where we are invited to see something differently.
The raising of Lazarus is one of
those thresholds.
And it begins, not with
resurrection, but with perception.
Because long before Jesus ever
stands at the mouth of a tomb, John’s Gospel has already been asking us a
deeper question: What does it mean to see? Not just with our eyes, but with our hearts,
with our assumptions, with the lenses we carry into every moment.
Last week, in John Chapter 9, the
disciples see a man born blind and immediately ask, “Who sinned?” They want a cause, a category, someone to
blame. But Jesus refuses that framework.
He says, in essence: You’re asking
the wrong question.
And by the time we arrive at the
story of Lazarus, we are meant to understand that blindness isn’t just about
sight—it’s about interpretation. It’s about the stories we tell to make sense
of suffering, loss, and death.
So, when we come to this text, we
have to ask: what are we not seeing?
We’ve often heard this story with
familiar names: Lazarus, Mary, and Martha. We’ve built sermons, devotionals, even
personality types around them. But some
scholars have begun to revisit the text—due to the scholastic work of fresh
eyes looking at the ancient texts; the oldest surviving copy of this story,
they’ve noticed that additions and subtractions and letter changes have altered
the original text of Papyrus 66. And
these new scholars, such as Elizabeth Polzer, have begun asking whether the
figure of Martha even belongs in this story at all. There is increasing evidence that Mary and
Martha, the two sisters that we have in the gospel of Luke, are not sisters
related to Lazarus. In fact, there is
growing evidence that Lazarus only had one sister, whose name was Mary. And the larger conversation is that this
sister at the center of today’s narrative was not Martha, but was instead Mary
Magdalene, or Mary the Tower, a title given to her, not the name of the town
she was from. A woman whose role in the
Gospel tradition has long been minimized, reshaped, or misunderstood.
Now, whether one agrees fully with
that scholarship or not, what it does is important: it disrupts our certainty. It reminds us that the text itself has been
mediated through layers of memory, translation, and tradition. And it invites
us to consider that perhaps the story we thought we knew is more complex and
more liberating than we imagined.
Because if Mary, Mary Magdalene, is
at the center of this story, then suddenly this is not just a story about a
grieving family. It’s also a story about
a woman whose voice, whose leadership, whose faith has too often been obscured. And that matters.
Because resurrection stories are
always about more than what is raised from the dead; they are about what is
brought back into view, what we get to see and experience, again.
The story as told in John begins
with illness. “Lord, the one you love is
ill.” It’s such a simple sentence, but
one that holds so much meaning, so much care, concern, compassion, worry, fear,
and dare I say; even hope. And isn’t
that where so many of our stories begin too?
Not with clarity, but with crisis. Not with answers, but with ache.
We know what it is to send up that
prayer of helplessness after hearing: The one you love is ill. In that simple sentence alone, the world can
feel like it is unraveling. And what’s
striking, what’s really unsettling about it, is that Jesus does not immediately
respond. He waits. He doesn’t immediately say, “let’s go.” He doesn’t rush off to Lazarus’ side. He doesn’t even reassure his own disciples by
saying something like, “It will be okay, his faith has already made him well.” No, instead, he is silent and waits for two
full days.
Now, let’s be honest: we don’t want
a god that is silent in our most vulnerable moments, we don’t want a god that
waits. We want to believe in a god that
takes action and answers us immediately.
And that’s the part of the story we don’t like. We want a Jesus who shows up on time, who
fixes things quickly, who prevents the worst from happening.
Instead, we’re given a God who
enters into the fullness of human experience; including delay, including grief,
including death itself. Instead, we get
a Savior who knows and completely embraces the soul-wrenching heartache of
loss.
By the time Jesus does arrive,
Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days.
Four days. Long enough for hope
to settle into resignation. Long enough
for the community to say, “It’s over.”
We know that place. We’ve been there ourselves, where the
diagnosis that seemed surreal only days ago is final, where the living relationship
we had with our loved one is over and a dreaded new one has taken its place,
where they are no longer with us. Where
the dream of healing that you carried has been buried for four days.
And then comes that moment, one of
the most human moments in all of scripture; Jesus weeps. Why does Jesus weep? He knows what he is about to do. He knows what he is capable of doing. He knows that Lazarus will be with them
again. And yet, he weeps. Why? He
weeps because love does not bypass grief.
Certainly all of us grieve in different ways, but let me repeat, love
does not bypass grief.
Perhaps not in our own lives, but
certainly in the stories told in scripture we often rush to resurrection. We want to skip the tears, the questions, the
silence. We want Easter without Good
Friday. But Jesus stands at the tomb of
his friend and weeps. He honors the
reality of loss. He refuses to minimize it. In fact, he enters into it.
And that, in itself, is a kind of
resurrection because it tells us that God is not distant from our pain. God is not waiting on the other side of our
suffering. God is right there, in the
midst of it, weeping with us.
But then the story turns. Jesus approaches the tomb and says, “Take
away the stone.” And immediately, there
is resistance. “Lord, already there is a
stench.” That’s an honest response. There is nothing that even Jesus can do now. That’s a real answer and response to what has
happened. It’s too late. If Jesus had only been there sooner. If Jesus had only said the words, prayed the
right prayer to His Father in heaven. If
Jesus had only….but now, it’s too late.
Here is the deeper meaning of this
story in John about Lazarus’ resurrection.
Resurrection sounds beautiful until it requires us to confront what
we’ve sealed away. We all have stones
we’ve rolled into place. Griefs we’ve
buried. Truths we’ve avoided. Systems we’ve accepted because change feels
too risky.
And when Jesus says, “Take away the
stone,” our instinct is to say, “No, it’s too far gone. It’s too messy. It’s too late.” But resurrection always begins with that
moment of courage; the willingness to move the stone.
And then Jesus calls out: “Lazarus,
come out!” Lazarus emerges still wrapped
in grave clothes. Still bound. Resurrection is not the end of the story. It is, in fact, the beginning of a new one.
“Unbind him, and let him go.” That’s the work of community. Too often we think of resurrection as an
individual experience—my healing, my transformation, my salvation. But this story reminds us: resurrection is
communal. We are called to help unbind
one another. To loosen the wrappings of
fear, of shame, of exclusion. To
participate in the work of liberation.
And this is where the story speaks
so powerfully into our present moment. Because
there are still stones that need to be rolled away. There are still voices, especially the voices
of women, of marginalized communities, that have been buried under layers of
tradition and interpretation.
If Mary Magdalene, Mary of Magdala,
or Mary the Tower, is indeed the one closer to this story than we have been led
to believe and the one who actually responds to Christ, “You are the Messiah,
the Son of God, the one coming into the world” then her presence here is not
accidental. It is a reminder that
resurrection often involves the restoration of voices that have been silenced. What would it mean for the church to truly
hear those voices? What would it mean to
unbind not just individuals, but systems?
To unbind ourselves from racism, from sexism, from theologies that limit
rather than liberate?
What would it mean to believe that
resurrection is not just something that happened once, but something that is
still happening? We are living in a
Lazarus moment. We are standing at tombs,
personal and collective. Our democracy is
strained. Our communities are divided. Our families are living in realities we don’t
even understand. And the question is not
whether those tombs exist. The question
is: do we believe that resurrection is still possible?
Do we believe that God is still
calling life out of death?
Do we believe that we are part of
that calling?
Jesus calls Lazarus out. And that same voice is calling us, too. Calling us out of complacency. Calling us out of fear. Calling us out of the narrow ways we have
learned to see.
“Come out,” Jesus cries. Come out of the tombs we have accepted.
Come out of the stories that limit who belongs.
Come out into a new way of seeing, a new way of being.
And maybe that’s where this story
meets last week’s story from John 9 most clearly. Because resurrection is not just about being
raised—it’s about being able to see with resurrection eyes. To see one another more fully. To see God more clearly. To see that life is breaking forth even where
we thought it was impossible, or too late.
So today, we stand at the threshold
between what has been and what could be.
Between death and life. Between
blindness and sight. And we hear the
voice of Christ:
“Take away the stone.”
“Come out.”
“Unbind him, and let him go.”
May we have the courage to respond.
Amen.
Offertory –
Doxology –
Prayer of Dedication –
Lord,
here is our gratitude for all that You have poured out in blessings upon
us. Let these offerings be a true
reflection of our thankfulness and a true measure of our discipleship.
AMEN.
Closing
Hymn – O Sacred Head Now Wounded Hymn
#98/316
Benediction –
With
clarity of purpose in the knowledge of resurrection, with renewed strength in
our conviction, we proclaim to the world that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of
the Living God. Go in service out into
the world. AMEN.
Postlude
