John 11:1-44

For the past several weeks we have been returning to a simple but transforming truth: God loves us. Not with a distant love. Not with a conditional love. But a with love that knows our names. A love that sees us and sees all of us. A love that seeks us out even when we feel lost. A love that bends down to the ground and touches the places where we are the most wounded. A love that heals, repairs, restores, and resurrects. And we have talked about how the knowledge of that love has the power to change the world.

However, the season of Lent is a season for honesty, and if we are to be honest, there are moments in life when that truth becomes difficult to trust.

Because sometimes, the circumstances of the world force us to ask a troubling question, a question many people are asking right now: Is it too late? Have we passed the point of no return? Has the train left the station?

Have we reached the point when it is too late for love to truly make a difference in this broken world? Is it too late for love to turn it around?

That question hangs quietly beneath the surface of today’s story in the gospel of John. Mary and Martha send word to Jesus saying: “Lord, the one you love is ill.” Notice the words. They don’t just say “Lazarus is sick.” They say: “The one you love is sick.” They are reminding Jesus of the relationship. Of the bond. Of the love.

And the gospel writer confirms the belovedness: “Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus.”

Yet, the next thing we read feels deeply unsettling. Instead of going immediately to Bethany…Jesus is late.

What in the world? I will never forget my first and my last time being late walking into my 8am college chemistry class. I slowly opened the door and saw the professor at the chalk board with his back to the class. So, thinking I might sneak to my desk unnoticed, I walked as quietly, but as fast as I could. But before I could sit down, with his back still to the class, I heard the professor say with a condescending tone, “Good morning, Banks. Better never than late.”

Since then, I’ve tried my best, to never be late for anything.

Jesus loves Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, but his love shows up late. By the time he arrives, Lazarus has been dead four days. And when Martha meets Jesus out on the road, she says the words many grieving people have whispered across the centuries:

“Lord, if only you had been here…” In other words, “It’s too late now, Jesus.”

Jesus, I am afraid the ship has sailed. The window is closed. Lazarus is dead and buried.

Right now, the world is asking some difficult questions. As violence spreads across the Middle East and bombs fall between nations locked in war, as the strait of Hormuz is on fire, many people are asking: Is it too late for peace?

When retaliation follows retaliation, when anger hardens into hatred, when the machinery of World War III is already moving, is it too late for reconciliation?

Others are asking a different question closer to home.

Is it too late to prevent an economic recession? When the cost of gas and food skyrockets…when programs for the poor are slashed—is it too late to do anything about people dying of poverty in the richest nation in the world?

Is it too late for democracy? When our leaders lie…when fair elections and the free press are constantly attacked…when trust in institutions erodes—is it too late to repair what has been broken?

Is it too late for the planet? When science is denied…when environmental protections are lifted…when our love for money is greater than our live for the earth—is it too late to stop or even slow down the doomsday clock?

Still, others are asking an even older question that has echoed through the American story. Is it too late for the dream, the dream that this nation might yet live into the promise spoken in its founding documents: liberty, justice, dignity for every human being. Is it too late for that dream?

And on a deeply personal level, many people quietly carry their own version of the question. Is it too late for the one who has made terrible mistakes? The one who believes their past defines them. The one who feels buried beneath regret. Is it too late for the person facing illness? For the one sitting beside a hospital bed? For the one staring into the mystery of death? Is it too late?

When Jesus arrives in Bethany, the house is filled with mourners. Mary falls at his feet. The crowd is weeping. And in the middle of all that sorrow the gospel gives us the shortest verse in all of scripture: “Jesus wept.”

Think about that. The one who is about to raise Lazarus from the dead…stops to weep. Because the love of God does not stand outside our suffering offering explanations. The love of God mysteriously enters our suffering. God stands beside the tombs of life with tears in divine eyes.

So, we stand beside the tombs of this world—a graveside, a hospital bed, a broken community, a wounded nation, a world at war, the good news is that God is already there, weeping with us.

Jesus finally arrives at Lazarus’ tomb. A stone seals the entrance. The kind of stone that declares the situation final. But Jesus says: “Remove the stone.”

Martha protests: “Lord… there will be a stench.” In other words: It’s too late now, Jesus. It’s four days too late. Hope is too late. Life is too late. Love is too late.

The mourners know that the story is over. But Jesus interrupts their certainty. And the stone is rolled away, and Jesus calls into the darkness with a voice that echoes across the centuries: “Lazarus, come out!”

And suddenly the question that seemed so certain, “Is it too late?” is answered by the impossible. The man who was dead four days walks out of the tomb alive. Still wrapped in burial cloths. Still bound by the garments of death.

Then, Jesus turns to the community and says something we often overlook in this great story: “Unbind him and let him go.”

Resurrection does not end with the miracle of life. It continues with the work of the community. Lazarus is alive. But someone must step up and help remove the grave cloths. And this, is what may be the heart of this story. It’s not just about Jesus bringing his beloved back to life. It’s about the community, people like you and me, doing the work of unbinding. It’s about doing the liberating work of removing grave cloths.

A community organizer once told a story about a young man in his red-lined neighborhood who had grown up surrounded by poverty. Underfunded schools. Limited opportunity. A justice system that seemed far more interested in punishment than restoration. By the time he was twenty-three he had already spent years cycling in and out of jail.

One day the organizer sat with him and asked a simple question: “What do you think your life could look like if things were different?”

The young man sat quietly for a moment. Then, he said something heartbreaking: “You ask me about my life? Honestly, I feel like I’ve been dead and buried for years.”

He felt buried under expectations. Buried under mistakes. Buried under systems that had already decided who he was supposed to be.

But the organizer and others in the community refused to accept that burial.

They mentored him. Helped him find work. Supported him as he rebuilt his life. And slowly he began to emerge from the tomb others had built around him.

The organizer later said something that echoes today’s gospel story. He said: “He wasn’t dead. He was just wrapped in grave cloths.”

Our world is filled with people wrapped in grave cloths: cloths of poverty; cloths of racism; cloths of bigotry; cloths of violence; cloths of despair.

And every time we challenge injustice…every time we refuse to accept war as inevitable…every time we chip away at a system that oppresses some while rewarding others…every time we restore dignity to those the world has buried, we are helping to unbind Lazarus. We are removing burial cloths and participating in resurrection.

So, when the world asks its heavy question, “Is it too late?” The gospel answers with a resounding: “It’s never too late!”

It’s never too late for peace.

It’s never too late for mercy.

It’s never too late for freedom.

It’s never too late for the democracy and for the dream of liberty and justice for all.

It is never too late for anyone who believes their life is beyond redemption.

Because the love of God does not abandon the world to its tombs. The love of God stands at the entrance of every sealed place and calls out with resurrection power: “Come out.” And the community, that’s you and me, is called by that same voice to participate in the work of reparation and liberation.

And we have heard that voice before.

We heard it when Sarah laughed—laughed because she thought it was too late—too late for joy, too late for promise, too late for life—and still, God said, “Not yet.”

We heard it when Abraham looked at his years and wondered if the promise had passed him by, and God said, “Not yet.”

We heard it when Moses tried to talk his way out of his calling: “Send someone else… I’m not enough… I’m too late…” and God said, “Not yet.”

We heard it in Hannah’s weeping, in Ruth’s wandering, in Elizabeth’s waiting—stories that felt finished, lives that felt settled, hope that felt buried—and still, God said, “Not yet.”

We heard it in Peter, who thought failure was final—and in Mary Magdalene, standing at a tomb, certain that death had won—and even there… especially there…God said, “Not yet.”

And if God has said it before, if God has spoken into barren places, into broken lives, into sealed tombs, then maybe, just maybe, God is still saying it now.

To a world at war, to a people weary of injustice, to a life that feels buried under regret: “Not yet.”

And when that voice speaks, through me and through you, through us collectively as the body of Christ in this world—stones move, grave cloths loosen, and hope breathes again.

Because in the Kin-dom of God…love is never too late.

Amen.