Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” But 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.” Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.
Then after this he said to the disciples, “Let us go to Judea again.” The disciples said to him, “Rabbi, the Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?” Jesus answered, “Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble, because they see the light of this world. But those who walk at night stumble, because the light is not in them.” After saying this, he told them, “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to awaken him.” The disciples said to him, “Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will be all right.” Jesus, however, had been speaking about his death, but they thought that he was referring merely to sleep. Then Jesus told them plainly, “Lazarus is dead. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.” Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow disciples, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.”
When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”
When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary, and told her privately, “The Teacher is here and is calling for you.” And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. Now Jesus had not yet come to the village, but was still at the place where Martha had met him. The Jews who were with her in the house, consoling her, saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”
Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
Sermon by the Rev. Carole Horton-Howe
In the heart of San Salvador, in the old city, there is a square known as Plaza Libertad. It is surrounded on three sides by imposing government buildings and embassies. On the fourth side stands a church, Iglesia El Rosario. It is a structure so plain and industrial it could be mistaken for an abandoned warehouse. Only a simple metal cross on the roof hints at its sacred purpose.
In February 1977, thousands gathered in Plaza Libertad to protest injustice—first 15,000, and then within days nearly 50,000. As tensions rose and the military presence grew, protest leaders appealed to the newly appointed Archbishop of El Salvador, Óscar Romero: “Please come. Your presence could prevent violence.”
Romero replied, “I will pray for you.”
The violence came. When the National Guard opened fire, people fled into the church seeking refuge. What had been a sanctuary became a place of terror. A bullet pierced the tabernacle holding the consecrated sacrament, the bread and wine that are the mystical body and blood of Christ. But the sanctuary light at the tabernacle did not go out. El Rosario, sacred space bathed in filtered light and dotted with sculptures of the ancient church mothers and fathers, was now consecrated by the blood of those who died there, their memorial in the shattered glass of the tabernacle.
And in the story of Oscar Romero, this moment matters deeply— because he did not come.
El Salvador, a small, beautiful country along the Pacific, has long been marked by struggle—between powerful elites and the poor seeking dignity and justice. In this tension, the Church itself was tested. Many voices were silenced. Many disappeared.
As a young Salvadoran priest, Romero was cautious, reserved, even aligned with the powerful. He was considered a “safe” choice for Archbishop—bookish, predictable, unlikely to challenge the status quo. But transformation often begins where we least expect it. He had a close friend from his seminary days, Rutilio Grande, a priest deeply committed to the poor. Romero admired him but also worried he went too far. On March 12, 1977, news reached Romero that his friend had been murdered. That day, Romero did answer the call to come.
Those present report that Romero stood for a long time over the bullet-riddled body of his friend staring in silence. He later said "When I looked at Rutilio lying there dead I thought, 'If they have killed him for doing what he did, then I too have to walk the same path.’ ” Rutilio Grande was dead. Oscar Romero came alive. It took the murder of a friend to open his eyes, to allow him to look both inward and outward at the work he had to do. A piece of him had to die with his friend so that something new could be born.
That night, Romero did do something new—he listened. He sat with the poor, the grieving, the wounded, and heard their stories. The people he had once dismissed, he now turned to in humility. The people at last saw in their Archbishop the face of Jesus. And in that turning, something in Romero died, and something new was born.
This is where his story meets the Gospel—the story of Lazarus.
The gospel story, the ancient Lazarus story, is Jesus’ supreme miracle, demonstrating the power of God over even death. And in doing so, it is one of transformation and restoration. This story is rich in images but the one that guides the transformation of Oscar Romero, and Lazarus and all us as we come to the end of this wilderness journey of Lent, are Jesus final words – “unbind him, and let him go.” Let him go. Let him go – to embody the gospel promise of life made new, let him go – to be a messenger of hope, let him go to show the hope of restoration for those who are watching and waiting and in incredible need. Let them see restoration happening.
I think each of us at one time or another in our lives know we need to go in a new direction. But we are afraid of letting go of the familiar, of letting go of life patterns even those we know are unhealthy: certain propensities we have like a need to control, an inability to forgive, a need to be right or the need to constantly be liked. It is precisely these things – things that may seem impossible to ever set aside, that need to die. From time to time, we need to wonder about these things and then to ask, “what part of me needs to die. What do I need to leave in the tomb and be restored?”
And then – we need to listen, to hear Jesus voice, his LOUD voice, calling to us to come out – to come out to the life we desire, the life that is open to greater possibilities, to parts of us the need to be revived – our gentler, kinder, childlike selves; our convicted, energetic selves where we can move forward in our lives in strength. The dead parts of our lives are just not meant to stay dead. But instead, they are like dormant seeds just waiting for the sunlight of God’s lifegiving word. Waiting – and, like Lazarus, listening for God’s call to us.
It might seem like those dead parts are completely beyond the reach of God. That’s probably how it seemed to Martha and Mary. Lazarus was dead. You can’t get more dead than being in a tomb for 4 days. Many Jews believed that the soul hovered around the body for 3 days. So Lazarus, in this gospel, is dead in every conceivable way. But God’s word can awaken us in the most common and the most extreme circumstances.
Obviously we don’t hear God physically speak to us. But we very well may have an intense understanding of God at work in soft whispers or the gentle nudge of a human or furry friend. Or maybe more forcefully – like a very bunt comment from a stranger or a friend that startles us; in an intense prayer experience that floods us with peace; in a passage of Holy Scripture that hits us like a thunderclap – even if we’ve read it may times before. Or in the stories told by the poor and abandoned that Oscar Romero heard in the painful aftermath of the death of his friend, Rutilio Grande. In those moments, we may be moved like never before to forgiveness, generosity, self-lessness and love. We may be moved like never before to a place of restoration with our God.
After the murder of his friend, Rutilio, Oscar Romero began to speak boldly against violence and injustice. He stood with the poor. His weekly radio homilies named the suffering of the people—disappearances, torture, killings—and called for justice and peace. In his final broadcast, he spoke directly to the soldiers:
“In the name of God… I beg you, I command you: stop the repression.”
The next day in the small church near his home, while he was setting the table to celebrate the Eucharist, he was assassinated. A single bullet ended his life.
Here is the irony about Oscar Romero: death did not silence him. He became more alive than ever. He personifies today the ethos of the Salvadoran people more than ever. The memory of his courage uplifted and inspired them and continues to do so today. Not only does he continue to be the voice of the voiceless but also the name of the nameless. Because to remember Romero is to remember the thousands of innocent and defenseless people who suffered for the cause of human dignity and peace but who can never be publicly known. And for this he is beloved.
Death did not silence him. It unbound him.
On this last Sunday in Lent, we remember that we began this journey on Ash Wednesday with a call: to fast from what separates us from God, and to feast on what draws us closer.
Feast on the Christ within each person.
Feast on compassion.
Feast on truth.
Feast on hope.
As we stand on the threshold of Easter, we hear again the voice of Christ:
Come out.
Come out of what binds you.
Come out into the life you are meant to live.
Amen.