He Calls Us by Name

The Gospel of John offers us one of the most moving and mysterious stories in all of Scripture: the raising of Lazarus from the dead. On the surface, it’s easy to read this passage as simply a preview of the resurrection at the end of time. And in a real sense, it is that. Jesus reveals that death does not have the final word. In Him, we catch a glimpse of the glory that awaits us.

But if we stop there, we might miss something equally profound—something that tells us not just about the resurrection, but about who Jesus is, and who we are. This is especially important during the time of the scrutinies in the OCIA process. These are not just rituals—they are spiritual examinations, moments when we are invited to hold a mirror to our hearts and ask, “Where do I need God to bring me to life?”

"The One You Love Is Ill"

The story begins with a message. Mary and Martha, the sisters of Lazarus, send word to Jesus: “Lord, the one you love is ill.” That’s all they say. They don’t plead or explain. They don’t even mention Lazarus by name. They simply appeal to Jesus' love.

This short sentence reveals something powerful: the love of Jesus for Lazarus is personal. It’s not distant or abstract. It’s not a vague love for “humanity.” It is specific. Deep. Intimate.

And here’s the good news: the love Jesus has for Lazarus is the same love He has for you. Not just for the world in general. Not just for the Church. You. If you had been the only person in the world, He still would have come. Still would have wept. Still would have died and risen. That’s the kind of love we’re talking about.

God's Promise in the Valley of Dry Bones

The first reading for this Sunday comes from the prophet Ezekiel, writing during the time of the Babylonian exile. Israel had turned away from God. Though they performed the right rituals and said the right words, their hearts were not truly open. They did not love God or neighbor.

As a result, they experienced exile—not just from their land, but from God's presence. In the opening chapters of Ezekiel, we see the glory of the Lord departing from the temple. It is a devastating image of divine sorrow.

And yet, God is not done.

In Ezekiel 37, we hear a promise of restoration: “I will open your graves and have you rise from them. I will put my Spirit in you, that you may live.”

This is mercy. Not earned. Not deserved. But freely given. Even after rejection. Even after exile. This is what love does: it keeps reaching out. It keeps calling us back.

What Ezekiel could not have imagined is how God would fulfill that promise—not by simply returning to the temple, but by becoming human.

Jesus Weeps

Before resurrection comes incarnation. The infinite God humbles Himself and takes on human flesh. He enters into our world—not out of necessity, but because love does that. And part of becoming human is entering into relationship.

Jesus had a mother. A family. Friends. And one of His dearest friends was Lazarus.

When Jesus arrives in Bethany, He is met with sorrow. Mary and Martha are grieving, and they say the same thing many of us have said in our own grief: “Lord, if you had been here...” It’s a cry of pain and disappointment.

Jesus doesn’t respond with a lecture. He doesn’t offer clichés. He weeps.

Why does He weep, knowing He will raise Lazarus in just a few moments? Because He enters into our pain. He feels it. He takes it seriously. He doesn’t bypass the messiness of our human condition. He walks right into it.

Jesus didn’t come just to save our souls in some spiritualized sense. He came to redeem all of us—our bodies, our emotions, our relationships, our brokenness. He came to make all things new.

Come Out

Standing before the tomb, Jesus calls out: “Lazarus, come out!” And the dead man lives again.

That same voice speaks into our lives. Into the places where we feel stuck, numb, ashamed, afraid, or hopeless. Jesus doesn’t just raise Lazarus—He invites us to step out of the tombs we’ve grown used to.

The scrutinies are a sacred opportunity to name those tombs. To let Jesus meet us in our weakness. To allow His love to transform us—not because we’re strong or deserving, but because we are loved.

This is not about behavior modification. It’s about resurrection. It’s about letting God breathe life into the places where we feel spiritually dead.

Questions for the Journey

As you reflect on the raising of Lazarus, take some time in prayer this week with these questions:

• Where do I need Jesus to call me back to life?

• What part of my life feels messy, broken, or weary?

• Where do I need to let Him in—not just to fix things, but to redeem them?

Maybe it’s a relationship that’s gone cold. Maybe it’s a part of your spiritual life that feels dry. Maybe it’s a sin you can’t shake or a grief you’ve been carrying alone.

Wherever it is—He wants to meet you there.

He’s not afraid of your pain. He’s not waiting for you to get it all together. He calls you—just like He called Lazarus—by name.

And when He calls, tombs turn into doorways.

Let Him in. Let Him love you there.