Out of the Depths & Unbinding the Graveclothes

March 20, 2026

Out of the Depths & Unbinding the Graveclothes

The Fifth Sunday in Lent | March 22, 2026

Opening Thought

There is a profound, almost uncomfortable rawness to the readings this week. We are standing on the very edge of Holy Week, and the liturgy does not try to soften the blow of human suffering. Instead, it takes us straight into the graveyard.

I learned too quickly what that kind of pain and grief felt like. As a ten-year-old boy, even though I didn't fully understand everything about my father's battle with cancer, I knew it was agonizing—for him, for my mom, for my sister, and for everyone who loved him. I remember being so angry, sad, and confused, crying out to God, demanding to know why He was taking my father away from me.

The last time I saw him was at Duke Hospital. He had a feeding tube and couldn't speak. I remember looking at the nurse and pleading, "Please take the tube out, he's going to die anyway." But my dad didn't need a voice to speak to us. He spoke with his eyes. He held my hand and my sister's hand, telling us he loved us and saying goodbye in the only way he could. I was devastated, yet somehow, deep down, I knew it was only goodbye for now.

My daddy, Alan Dale Poe, died on April 7, 1992, the Tuesday before Palm Sunday. I remember the white azaleas covering the front of our home were in full bloom. It was a beautiful day, and it was a deeply sad day. But there was something about the relentless beauty of God's creation in that moment that brought me joy and a strange comfort—a whisper that He makes all things new.

When we are in the depths, we often wonder where God is. The beautiful, heartbreaking answer in this week's Gospel is that God is right there in the mess with us. Jesus doesn't march up to Lazarus's tomb and immediately fix it. He stops. He sees Mary weeping, he is deeply moved, and then, Jesus weeps. Even the Son of God wept for us. He does not rush past the pain; he pauses to feel the full weight of human grief before doing the unimaginable work of giving his own life to save ours.

My dad knew this glorious news, and I believe he was at absolute peace when he died. To some, the promise of heaven might sound simplistic, but to Christians like me, it is a profound comfort to know that God has a plan and that there is a better place than this flawed, beautiful, broken world we call home. His soul lives on with the angels, the archangels, and the great cloud of witnesses.

I was angry for a long time, but as I've grown older, that anger has turned to deep thanksgiving to God for giving me my daddy. Our time on this earth was short, but one day we will have all of eternity together. And that is worth the wait.

Engaging the Word

Our texts this week are an arc of incredible restoration, moving from absolute despair to miraculous life.

Ezekiel (37:1-14) places the prophet in a valley of dry bones. God asks a seemingly impossible question: "Mortal, can these bones live?". God then commands Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones and to the breath. With a rattling sound, the bones come together, flesh covers them, and breath enters them, creating a vast multitude. It is a vivid promise that God can resurrect even the most hopeless, cut-off situations.

Psalm 130 is a classic penitential psalm and a raw cry for help. The psalmist waits for the Lord with an agonizing anticipation, "more than watchmen for the morning". Yet, even in the depths, there is an unshakable confidence that with the Lord, there is mercy and plenteous redemption.

Romans (8:6-11) contrasts the mind set on the "flesh" (which leads to death) with the mind set on the "Spirit" (which brings life and peace). Paul offers a profound comfort: the exact same Spirit that raised Jesus from the dead currently dwells within you, ready to give life to your mortal body.

John (11:1-45) is the emotional climax of our Lenten journey. Jesus arrives in Bethany too late; Lazarus is in the tomb. Martha confronts him with a mixture of profound grief and staggering faith: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died". Jesus declares, "I am the resurrection and the life". After weeping with the sisters, Jesus orders the stone rolled away and shouts, "Lazarus, come out!". The dead man emerges, and Jesus gives the community a final, crucial command: "Unbind him, and let him go".

A Journey in Song: Our Musical Guides

This Sunday's music shifts us from the quiet longing of the Lenten wilderness into the impending, dramatic reality of the cross and resurrection.

Opening Voluntary: We begin with Ralph Vaughan Williams's Prelude on "Song 13". The melody (originally by Orlando Gibbons) is treated with Vaughan Williams's signature pastoral warmth, offering a quiet, contemplative space to prepare our hearts for a liturgy dealing with the heavy themes of life and death.

Entrance Hymn: We sing "Thine arm, O Lord, in days of old" (#567). This hymn recounts Christ's healing power over sickness and death, perfectly framing the Gospel story we are about to hear.

Sequence Hymn: As we process to the Gospel reading, we sing "Hail, thou once despised Jesus!" (#495). It is a bold pivot toward the passion narrative that awaits us next week on Palm Sunday.

Offertory Anthem: The choir offers "O Savior of the World" by John Goss. The text is a direct, humble plea: "O Saviour of the world, who by thy Cross and precious Blood hast redeemed us: Save us, and help us, we humbly beseech thee, O Lord".

Communion Hymn: There could be no better hymn for today's Gospel than "I am the bread of life" (#335). With its soaring refrain of "And I will raise them up on the last day," we literally sing the promises Jesus makes to Martha at the tomb.

Post-Communion Hymn: We close with the joyful release of "O for a thousand tongues to sing" (#493), praising the God who breaks the power of canceled sin and sets the prisoner free.

Closing Voluntary: We conclude with Johannes Brahms's O Welt, ich muß dich lassen (Op. 122, No. 11). Translated as "O world, I must leave thee," this was one of the very last pieces Brahms ever wrote. It is a poignant, achingly beautiful acceptance of mortality, gently pointing our compass toward the cross of Good Friday.

A Closing Note on our Journey

There is a fascinating detail at the very end of the Lazarus story. When Jesus calls him out of the grave, Lazarus emerges alive, but he is still wrapped head to toe in his burial cloths. He can't move freely.

Jesus doesn't miraculously make the graveclothes disappear. Instead, he turns to the community standing around the tomb—to the friends, the family, the neighbors—and says to them, "Unbind him, and let him go".

God provides the miracle of life, but the community is required to do the work of unbinding.

We all wear graveclothes from time to time. For a long time after my daddy died, I wore the heavy, suffocating graveclothes of anger and devastating grief. I was wrapped so tightly in the pain of losing him that it was hard to move forward. We are all bound up by something—by past mistakes, by the shame we carry, by unresolved grief, by anxiety, and by the labels the world has placed on us. We may have been given new life, but we are still tripping over our bandages.

The church is meant to be the community that unbinds. Looking back, it was the love, patience, and presence of the people around me that gently helped unwrap my own grief over the years, allowing that anger to eventually give way to peace and profound gratitude. We are called to look at each other, see the places where we are tied up in knots, and gently help one another take off the things that deal death. As we enter these final days of Lent, ask yourself: what graveclothes are you still wearing? And more importantly, whose bindings can you help untie this week?

A Prayer for the Week Ahead

As we stand before the God of the living, let us offer our prayers for the church and the world.

For the Church, that we may be a community of unbinding, gently helping one another shed the graveclothes of fear, shame, and despair to walk fully in your grace.