Sunday Sermon: “You Have Died — and Yet You Live”
Mass Readings:
- Ezekiel 37:12-14
- Romans 8:8-11
- John 11:1-45
Over the past weeks of Lent, the Church has been leading us gently—but firmly—into the heart of the mystery of Christ. First, we encountered Him as the One who quenches our deepest thirst. Then, as the One who opens our eyes. And today, on this Fifth Sunday of Lent, we are brought even further. Today we are told something astonishing: that in Christ, we already possess life. Not just existence. Not mere survival. But life—real, full and enduring. A life that does not end with death, but passes through it. And yet, if we are honest, this is not how we usually think. Death still appears to us as the final word. As the great silence. As the end. The Word of God today quietly, but decisively, challenges that assumption.
Hope in the Midst of Ruins (Ezekiel 37:12-14)
The First Reading, from the Book of Ezekiel, is often misunderstood. It speaks of graves being opened, of the dead rising. At first glance, it seems like a vision of resurrection. But it is not—at least not directly.
Ezekiel is speaking to a broken people. Israel is in exile. Their land is lost, their temple destroyed, their identity shattered. They feel as though they are already dead. And into that despair, God speaks: “I will open your graves and bring you up from them.” This is not about physical death—it is about hopelessness. About the feeling that everything is over. How familiar that sounds.
There are moments in life when we, too, feel buried. When something within us dies: trust, joy, purpose, faith. When we look at our lives—or at the world—and quietly think: this is the end. And yet God says: it is not.
The opening of the graves is a promise: that even when everything seems lost, God remains faithful. That He can restore what we thought irretrievable. That hope is never an illusion when it rests in Him.
The psalm echoes this cry: “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.” And the answer is simple, though not always immediate: God hears. God remembers. God acts.
Two Ways of Living (Romans 8:8-11)
Saint Paul, in the Letter to the Romans, takes us a step further. He speaks of two ways of living: according to the flesh, and according to the Spirit. At first, this language can sound a bit abstract, even confusing. But in reality, it is very concrete. To live according to the flesh does not simply mean to sin in obvious ways. It means to place oneself at the centre. To sit, as it were, on the throne of one’s own life.
To live according to the Spirit means something opposite: it means to allow Christ to take that place. The difference may seem small at first—almost invisible. Like a railway switch that shifts the track by only a few inches. But over time, that small difference leads to entirely different destinations. Two lives that begin in similar ways may end in radically different places. And this is the heart of Paul’s message: it is not merely what we do, but who reigns within us.
Do I trust myself ultimately—or do I entrust myself to Christ?
Do I seek to save myself—or do I allow myself to be saved?
And here comes the astonishing promise: if the Spirit of God dwells in us, then even death is not the end: “He who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also.” Not might. Not perhaps. Will. This is no longer just hope in the restoration of earthly life, as in Ezekiel. This is something far greater: the promise of resurrection. The promise that death itself will be undone.
“I Am the Resurrection and the Life” (John 11:1-45)
All of this comes to its fullness in today’s Gospel: the raising of Lazarus. It is one of the most powerful and dramatic moments in all of Scripture. And yet, if we listen carefully, we realise that the miracle itself is not the central point. The heart of the story lies in a conversation—in a question. Jesus says to Martha: “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live.” And then He asks: “Do you believe this?” That is the real centre of the Gospel.
Everything else—the delay, the journey, the tears, even the miracle—is directed towards this moment. Jesus does not simply promise resurrection. He identifies Himself with it. He does not say, I will give you life. He says, I am life. This changes everything.
Because it means that eternal life is not only a future reality. It begins now. It begins in relationship. It begins in faith. Lazarus becomes, in a sense, a sign—a visible proof. He truly died. His body had already begun to decay. And yet, at the word of Christ, he comes forth. It is as if Jesus is saying: If you doubt My words—look. And still, not everyone believes.
After such a miracle, one might expect universal faith. But the Gospel tells us otherwise. Some believe. Others do not. And those who do not… begin to plan His death. It is one of the most sobering moments in the entire Gospel. They see the signs. They hear the testimony. And yet, they remain closed. Why? Because they interpret everything through fear and calculation: “If we let Him go on, the Romans will come…”
They do not deny the miracle. They simply refuse to follow its implications. And perhaps this is closer to us than we would like to admit. Faith is not only about evidence. It is about openness. About the willingness to let God be God. Without that, even the greatest sign can be explained away.
There are also quieter moments in this Gospel that deserve our attention. Thomas says: “Let us also go, that we may die with Him.” There is a real courage here. The disciples are not as weak as we sometimes imagine. They struggle, yes—but they follow.
Martha and Mary both say the same words: “Lord, if you had been here…” It is a cry we all know. A cry of faith mixed with disappointment. Of trust wounded by experience. And Jesus does not reject it. He enters into it. He weeps. God who gives life is not distant from our pain. He stands beside the grave. He shares our sorrow. And then—He speaks.
What, then, does all this mean for us? First, it means that Christianity is not simply about coping with life—it is about receiving life. Christ does not offer us vague consolation. He offers us Himself.
Secondly, it means that eternal life is not something we think about only at funerals. It is something that should shape how we live now. If we truly believe that life does not end, then we are free. Free to love more generously. Free to forgive. Free even to lose something in this world—because we know that we are not losing everything. And yet, how often we live as though this world were all that exists. We worry, we cling, we strive—sometimes forgetting that we are made for more.
Finally, it means that we must ask ourselves a very simple, but very demanding question: Who sits on the throne of my life? Is it Christ—or is it myself? It is easy to give the right answer in theory. Much harder to live it in practice. But the direction of our lives depends on it.
At the beginning of Lent, we heard about thirst. Then about sight. And today—about life. To meet Christ is to have our thirst quenched. To meet Christ is to have our eyes opened. To meet Christ is to receive life. And not just any life—but life that endures, life that overcomes even death.
Standing before the tomb of Lazarus, Jesus asks: “Do you believe this?” He asks the same question of us today. Not as a test. But as an invitation. Because to believe is not simply to accept a truth. It is to step onto a road. A road that leads through death—but beyond it. A road that leads to life. And perhaps that is the most astonishing thing of all: That even now—here, today—we have already begun to live it.
Fr Dominik Domagala
Points for personal meditation:
- First Reading (Ezekiel 37:12-14)
“I will open your graves and bring you up from them.”
- Where in my life do I feel “buried” or without hope?
- Do I believe that God can still bring life out of what seems finished?
- When everything appears lost, do I still trust in God’s fidelity?
- Second Reading (Romans 8:8-11)
“If the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus dwells in you…”
- Who truly sits on the throne of my life: Christ or myself?
- Do I try to “save myself,” or do I entrust my life to Him?
- What concrete choices show that I live “according to the Spirit”?
- Gospel (John 11:1-45)
“I am the resurrection and the life… Do you believe this?”
- Who truly sits on the throne of my life: Christ or myself?
- Do I try to “save myself,” or do I entrust my life to Him?
- What concrete choices show that I live “according to the Spirit”?
- Final Prayer:
Father,
I abandon myself into Your hands;
do with me what You will.
Whatever You may do, I thank You:
I am ready for all, I accept all.
Let only Your will be done in me,
and in all Your creatures—
I wish no more than this, O Lord.
Into Your hands I commend my soul:
I offer it to You with all the love of my heart,
for I love You, Lord,
and so need to give myself,
to surrender myself into Your hands without reserve,
and with boundless confidence,
for You are my Father.
by St Charles de Foucauld (1858–1916)
