3-22-26 “Unbind Him: A Community That Cares” (Membership Caring Month #4)

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“Unbind Him: A Community That Cares”

(Membership Caring Month #4)

 

I want to start with something funny that I found an internet site: A ninety-five year old woman at a nursing home received a visit from one of her church members.

“How are you feeling, Mary?” the visitor asked. “Oh, I’m just worried sick!” said the lady.

“What are you worried about, dear?” the visitor asked, “You look like you’re in good health. They are taking care of you, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are taking very good care of me.”

“Are you in any pain?” she asked. “No, I have never had a pain in my life.”

“Well, what are you worried about?” the visitor asked again.

The lady leaned back in her rocking chair and slowly explained her major worry. “Every close friend I ever had has already died and gone on to heaven. I’m afraid they’re all wondering where I went.”

In today’s scripture, we meet two sisters walking through one of the hardest journeys of life. Martha and Mary experience the fear of death, the grief of loss, anger, disappointment, disconnection, and the long, uncertain waiting. Their beloved brother Lazarus is dying.

These are not strangers to Jesus. According to the Gospels, Jesus often stayed in their home. He shared meals with them. He rested there. He loved them. Martha and Mary trusted that love. They believed that when crisis came, Jesus would be there.

So, when Lazarus became ill, they sent a simple message: “Lord, he whom you love is ill.”
It is a message of faith—and also a quiet expectation: “Come quickly. Help us.” But Jesus does not come right away. Instead, he stays where he is for two more days, and Lazarus dies.

How strange this feels. The Gospel tells us clearly: Jesus loved them, yet he delayed.

Have you ever felt that tension—when you believe in God’s love, but God seems late?
When prayers feel unanswered and hope feels delayed?

In my own experience, when I hear that someone has entered hospice, I try to visit them as soon as possible. But if something urgent comes up, I may arrive too late—after they have already passed. In those moments, I feel deep sorrow and grief, and I feel sorry for the family who may have been waiting for me. I know that even if I had been there on time, I couldn’t have fixed anything.

But this is Jesus. How much more must it have seemed that way for them—Mary and Martha?

When Jesus finally arrives, both Martha and Mary say the same words: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” These are not just statements; they are filled with grief, disappointment, and longing.

Martha, ever practical and active, goes out to meet Jesus. She speaks with faith: “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” She knows the doctrine. She believes the teaching. However, the reality feels far away.

A few days ago, one of my close friends—a pastor here—lost her mother in Korea. Because of visa restrictions, she was unable to travel home or attend her mother’s funeral. I could feel how deeply painful that was, because I had a similar experience in 2020. When my older sister passed away, I could not visit my family due to COVID-19. So, I tried to comfort her, saying, “You will meet her again in the resurrection.” And she replied, “I know that in my mind, but my heart still aches and longs for my mom.” It’s true. When we are grieving a loss, it is hard for anything to fully comfort us—even when we believe in the hope of the resurrection.

But here, Jesus invites Martha deeper. He says, “I am the resurrection and the life.” Here is the point—we often miss it. Resurrection is not just a future event. It is not only a doctrine to believe; it is a person to trust.

Life stands before her. And then Jesus asks her a deeply personal question: “Do you believe this?” Faith, here, is not simply knowing the right answer. It is trusting the presence of Christ—even in the face of death. Then Mary comes. She is weeping. The crowd is weeping. And something remarkable happens.

Jesus weeps. He is not distant. He is not unmoved. He stands at the tomb—and he shares in their grief. This is where we begin to understand something essential about our life together as the church. We are not simply people who share beliefs. We are a community that shares life. To belong to Christ is also to belong to one another.

Like Mary and Martha, we will face moments of loss, confusion, and waiting. And in those moments, we are not meant to stand alone. Membership in the body of Christ is not just a name on a list. It is a commitment to be present with one another—to weep together, to pray together, to wait together, and to hope together.

When Jesus comes to the tomb, he says something surprising: “Take away the stone.” Martha hesitates. “Lord, already there is a stench…” Even in her faith, she is still focused on the reality of death. And aren’t we often the same?

We believe, and yet we hesitate. We trust, and yet we hold back. The stone represents not only death—but also fear, doubt, and the limits we place on God. And here is where the community becomes essential. Jesus does not remove the stone alone. He calls others to do it. Faith is not only personal—it is communal. Sometimes, we need others to help us move the stones in our lives:
stones of grief, stones of isolation, stones of fear. And sometimes, we are the ones called to help remove the stone for someone else.

Then Jesus cries out with a loud voice: “Lazarus, come out!” And the dead man comes out.

But the story does not end there. Jesus says, “Unbind him, and let him go.” Jesus gives life. But the community participates in the freeing. Lazarus is alive—but he is still bound. And it is the people around him who help remove the grave clothes. This is a powerful image of membership care.

As a church, we are called not only to celebrate new life—but to help one another live freely in that life. We unbind one another through love, through forgiveness, through encouragement, through presence. We help one another step out of what still holds us back.

During this Lenten season, we are invited to reflect deeply on our lives. We remember the days of uncertainty during COVID—how fragile life felt, how precious simple things became: a conversation, a shared meal, a familiar routine, a person sitting next to us.

We learned how much we need one another. And perhaps that lesson still calls to us today.

What does it mean for us to be a church that truly cares?

• Who is waiting, like Martha and Mary, for someone to show up?
• Who is standing at a tomb, grieving in silence?
• Who is still bound, even after hearing words of hope?

And how is God calling us to respond?

Jesus may not always come in the timing we expect. He may not always prevent suffering.

But he is always present. He weeps with us. He calls us by name. He brings life where there was death. And he gives us one another—to walk together as a community of resurrection.

So, in this season of Lent, may we hear the voice of Christ calling us: “Take away the stone.” “Come out.” “Unbind him. Let him go.” May we not only believe in resurrection—but live it, together. Thanks be to God. Amen.