Loose Him

Reading Time: 10-12 minutes

Bethany was a small village tucked against the eastern slope of the Mount of Olives, less than two miles from Jerusalem. Travelers passed through it often, yet it somehow retained the warmth of a place where neighbors still knew one another. Olive trees dotted the surrounding hillsides, vineyards climbed the terraces, and narrow stone paths wound between modest homes built from the pale limestone common to Judea.

It was here, away from the crowds that so often surrounded Him, that Jesus found something every weary traveler treasures.

He found friends.

Martha, Mary, and Lazarus were not merely names in a Bible story. Their home seems to have become a place where Jesus was always welcome. One can almost picture the familiar rhythm of His visits: Martha making certain everyone had enough to eat, Mary listening intently to every word He spoke, and Lazarus laughing somewhere nearby as another ordinary evening unfolded.

Then one ordinary day became anything but ordinary.

Lazarus became sick.

At first, no one may have been overly alarmed. Fevers were common. Rest, cool water, and time often accomplished what medicine could not. But the days passed, and instead of improving, Lazarus grew weaker. Whatever strength he had possessed yesterday seemed absent today.

Finally, the sisters sent word to Jesus.

Their message was remarkably brief.

“Lord, behold, he whom thou lovest is sick” (John 11:3).

There were no instructions telling Jesus what needed to be done. There was no attempt to persuade Him to care. They simply placed their need into the hands of the One they trusted most.

Then they waited.

I have often wondered what those hours must have felt like.

Every distant figure on the road to Bethany may have caused Martha to glance up from her work. Mary may have paused whenever footsteps approached the house, hoping this time it would be Jesus.

Yet each hopeful glance ended the same way.

It was not Him.

Meanwhile, the room grew quieter.

Friends came and went carrying food, fresh water, and whispered words of encouragement. The conversation that once filled the house slowly gave way to anxious silence. Every labored breath reminded the sisters that time was slipping away.

Then came the moment they had feared.

Lazarus died.

In keeping with Jewish custom, loving hands gently washed his body. Linen strips were wrapped around him, with fragrant spices placed among the folds. A separate cloth covered his face. Before the day ended, family and friends carried him to a nearby tomb cut into the hillside. A heavy stone was rolled across its entrance, and with the grinding of stone against rock, every earthly hope seemed to disappear behind it.

The house filled with mourners.

Neighbors came because grief was never meant to be carried alone. Some sat quietly. Others wept openly. The sound of sorrow drifted through the little village, mingling with conversations spoken in hushed tones.

Four days passed, and with every sunrise it became easier to believe that this chapter of their lives had closed forever.

Then Jesus came.

Martha hurried out to meet Him, and her first words have always touched my heart because they sound so wonderfully human.

“Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died” (John 11:21).

Can you hear both faith and heartbreak in the same sentence?

She still believed Jesus could have changed everything.

She simply could not understand why He had not.

There is something comforting in the way Jesus received her words. He did not rebuke her for bringing Him an honest heart. He was not offended by her sorrow or threatened by her questions. He met her where she was, just as He still meets us.

Martha returned to the house, found Mary, and quietly told her, “The Master is come, and calleth for thee” (John 11:28).

Mary rose immediately. The mourners, assuming she was going to the tomb to weep, followed behind her. Before long, a quiet procession wound its way out of Bethany toward the hillside where Lazarus had been laid to rest.

When Mary reached Jesus, she fell at His feet and spoke the same words Martha had spoken.

“Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died” (John 11:32).

That has always fascinated me. Two different sisters. Two different personalities. Yet grief gave them the same sentence.

Jesus looked upon Mary’s tears, the sorrow of the mourners, and the heartbreak death had carved into every face around Him. John tells us that He “groaned in the spirit, and was troubled” (John 11:33).

The word John chose carries the idea of deep emotion, even indignation. Jesus was not angry with Mary or Martha. He was standing face-to-face with the terrible work of sin. Death had never been part of God’s original creation. It was an intruder. Every tear was another reminder of what rebellion had done to the world His Father once declared “very good.”

Then comes the shortest verse in Scripture.

“Jesus wept” (John 11:35).

How remarkable that the One who was only moments away from calling Lazarus back to life still entered fully into the grief of those who mourned.

He did not tell them to stop crying because everything would soon be all right. He did not dismiss their pain because He already knew the ending.

He wept.

Sometimes we imagine that because God knows tomorrow, He must somehow be untouched by today’s sorrow. Yet Jesus reminds us that divine foreknowledge has never diminished divine compassion. He does not merely resolve our grief from a distance. He steps into it with us.

When they arrived at the tomb, Jesus gave an unexpected command.

“Take ye away the stone” (John 11:39).

For a moment, everything must have grown very quiet.

Martha, ever practical, protested.

“Lord, by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days.”

I have always appreciated Martha’s honesty. She was not questioning Christ’s love. She was simply saying aloud what everyone else was thinking. Four days is a long time. The miracle they had once hoped for seemed buried behind that stone along with Lazarus himself.

Several men stepped forward and leaned their weight against the great circular stone. Slowly it began to move, scraping against the rock with a deep grinding sound. As the opening widened, the cool air from inside the tomb escaped into the warm afternoon. With it came the unmistakable evidence Martha had feared.

Death was real.

No one standing there could question that.

Jesus lifted His eyes toward heaven and thanked His Father so that those gathered around Him might know the source of the power they were about to witness.

Then the silence was broken.

With a voice carrying both authority and life itself, Jesus cried,

“Lazarus, come forth” (John 11:43).

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then something moved inside the darkness.

At first, there may have been little more than the shuffling of feet against stone. Slowly, a figure emerged from the shadow of the tomb into the afternoon light.

It was Lazarus.

Alive.

The man they had buried four days earlier stood before them once again.

Yet something about the scene has always captured my attention.

Lazarus came out of the tomb still wrapped.

His hands remained bound. His feet were still tied. Even his face was covered by the cloth that had been placed around his head. The same linen strips that testified he had once been dead now clung to a man who was very much alive.

I doubt Lazarus made a particularly graceful entrance. He was not striding confidently into the sunlight like a man finishing a morning stroll. Wrapped as he was, he could only move slowly and awkwardly. If anyone ever literally needed a helping hand, it was Lazarus.

Then Jesus turned to the people standing nearby and spoke again.

“Loose him, and let him go” (John 11:44).

The voice that had called life back into a body dead for four days could certainly have caused every strip of linen to fall harmlessly to the ground.

Yet the grave clothes remained.

For a few extraordinary moments, Lazarus stood alive but still bound by what belonged to his death.

Then ordinary hands reached for him.

Someone loosened the cloth around his face. Someone worked at the linen binding his hands. Someone else knelt to free his feet. Those standing nearest the miracle were not asked to give Lazarus life. They could not have done that.

They were asked to help him walk in the life Christ had already given.

We do not always know what to do with people who come stumbling out of dark places.

We rejoice that Christ has reached them, but we may quietly expect them to emerge already steady on their feet, knowing how to walk, what to say, and how to leave every old habit behind.

We forget that resurrection and unwrapping are not always the same moment.

A man may come to Christ carrying years of bitterness that do not disappear in a single Sabbath. A young woman may still wrestle with fear, guilt, or habits she sincerely longs to leave behind. A new believer may know Christ as Savior while only beginning to understand what it means to walk with Him day by day.

And sometimes the linen is not obvious.

Some bindings appear as caution. Others reveal themselves through anger, silence, suspicion, pride, or the desperate need to keep everyone at a safe distance. We may be tempted to step back from the awkwardness, never realizing that the person before us is alive because Christ has called them, yet still waiting for someone patient enough to help loosen what death left behind.

Paul wrote, “Brethren, if a man be overtaken in a fault, ye which are spiritual, restore such an one in the spirit of meekness” (Galatians 6:1).

Meekness does not stand at the mouth of the tomb complaining that Lazarus should be walking better by now.

It draws near.

It handles the bindings gently.

It remembers that linen wound tightly around wounded places cannot always be removed with one impatient tug.

Once the grave clothes had been taken away, Lazarus was not meant to remain standing at the entrance of the tomb. Somewhere beyond the pages of John’s Gospel, he went home. He embraced Martha and Mary. He sat once again at the family table. He walked the familiar paths through Bethany beneath the olive trees.

Ordinary moments must have felt different after nearly being lost forever.

Yet I wonder whether Lazarus ever forgot the hands that reached for him outside the tomb.

He would always know who had given him life. But I imagine he also remembered those who did not recoil from the smell of the grave, the awkwardness of his first steps, or the linen still clinging to him. He may have carried with him the faces of those who came close enough to obey the words of Jesus that day:

“Loose him, and let him go.”

Somewhere near us, there may be a person Christ has already called out of the darkness. He has given them new life, but remnants of the grave may still cling to them—old fears, painful habits, wounded thinking, or ways of surviving that no longer belong to where Christ is leading them.

We cannot give them life. Only Christ can do that.

But He may have placed us near them for what comes next.

Perhaps ours are the hands called to loosen one binding through patient friendship, another through faithful instruction, and still another through the kind of love that remains near while they learn to walk in the life Christ has already given.

So, the question is whether, when He says, “Loose him, and let him go,” we will draw near enough to help.

If this Fireside Chat warmed your spirit and sparked fresh resolve to live what you believe, fan that flame with Scripture—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” (Colossians 3:16). Pull a little closer to the Light, and carry it into the week ahead.

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