If you know me at all, you probably know I’m a massive Disney person, and The Lion King is easily one of my favourites. I’ve seen it more times than I’ll admit, and yet I still cry when Mufasa dies. That moment when Simba nudges his father’s body, calls his name, and waits for an answer that never comes ; that scene grips us because it shows something we all quietly fear: finality. The stillness that whispers, It’s over. Nothing more can be done.
You feel it in your chest: the helplessness, the disbelief, the desperate wish that somehow this isn’t the end. Most of us, at some point, live our own version of that moment. Standing by a hospital bed. Sitting in a funeral chapel. Watching a friendship fracture beyond repair. Realising that a dream you held onto has slipped through your fingers. Everything in you wants to rewind, fix it, bargain with time, but the silence just sits there like a sealed door.
In the time of Jesus, death was not hidden away. It was public, loud, and physical. Families and neighbours gathered for days to mourn. People wailed openly, tore their clothes, and anointed the body with oils and spices before placing it in a tomb carved into rock. Grief was not a private “side project”; it was visible and communal. Death constantly reminded people that life was fragile and that humans were not in control. Our culture often goes the opposite way. We move death into hospitals and funeral homes. We keep the hardest parts out of sight. There can be an unspoken pressure to “stay strong”, to cry privately, to move on quickly. Funerals are short. Conversations skip around the topic. We avoid words like “died” and soften it with phrases like “passed away”. Yet all of this tidying up doesn’t change the reality: grief still hits, and death still exposes our limits.
That’s why John 11 is such an important chapter. It doesn’t avoid death; it walks straight into it. And in that story, Jesus shows us three powerful truths:
- Jesus brings life where there’s death.
- Jesus doesn’t just give resurrection; He is resurrection.
- Jesus gives hope beyond death.
The story centres on a man named Lazarus, a close friend of Jesus. Lazarus lives in Bethany with his sisters, Mary and Martha. When Lazarus becomes seriously ill, the sisters send a message: “Lord, the one you love is sick.” This isn’t a random stranger asking for help; it’s family ; level closeness. They fully expect Jesus to come. And then the unthinkable happens: Lazarus dies.
Now, if my best friend died, and it took a whole day to reach her, I know exactly what I’d do: panic-pack, sprint out the door, message everyone, do whatever it takes to get there as fast as humanly possible. That’s how we imagine love showing up. But Jesus does something that feels almost offensive: He waits. He stays where He is for two more days. By the time He finally walks into Bethany, Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days. In Jewish thinking, four days meant the body had begun to decay. This isn’t “maybe they’re just sleeping”; this is final. The stone has been rolled across the entrance. The mourning has begun. Everyone has accepted that this story is over.
When Jesus arrives, the village is thick with grief. People are crying loudly. The rituals of mourning are underway. Martha hears that Jesus is near and goes out to meet Him. Her first words are raw and honest: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” It’s frustration and faith in the same sentence. She believes He had the power to stop this, but the tomb behind her is screaming that He didn’t. A lot of us know that feeling ; God, I believe You can, but where were You when it counted?
Jesus replies with a sentence that changes everything: “I am the resurrection and the life.” He doesn’t say, I will bring resurrection one day in the distant future, or I occasionally perform resurrection when the conditions are right. He says, I am. Resurrection isn’t just something He does; it is part of His identity. He is the source of life itself, standing right there in the middle of a funeral.
And then there’s the smallest, most loaded verse in the whole passage: “Jesus wept.” Two words, but they dismantle any picture of a distant, detached God. Jesus already knows what He is about to do. He knows Lazarus will walk out of that tomb in minutes. Yet He still stands among the mourners, sees their pain, hears their cries ; and He breaks down and weeps with them. For a respected teacher and leader in that culture, open, public grief was not expected. But Jesus isn’t worried about appearances. His authority does not cancel His empathy. Before He shows His power over death, He fully enters into the pain that death causes.
That matters for us. It means Jesus is not embarrassed by our grief or impatient with our questions. He doesn’t wait on the other side of our pain, arms crossed, saying, “Come back when you’ve pulled yourself together.” He steps into it with us. He wept in Bethany, and He still weeps with us now.
Then comes the moment everything shifts. Jesus walks to the tomb, a dark cave cut into rock, sealed with a heavy stone. He tells them to take the stone away. Martha objects: “Lord, by this time there is a bad odour, for he has been there four days.” In other words, This is too far gone. Please don’t open what we’ve already accepted as finished. Many of us respond the same way when Jesus moves near our “tombs” ; the broken friendship, the private sin, the disappointment we’ve given up on. We think, Don’t touch this. It’s too late. It already stinks.
But Jesus is not intimidated by four days in a grave. He is not repulsed by decay, literal or symbolic. He prays, then calls out in a loud voice: “Lazarus, come out!” And Lazarus does. He walks out of the tomb still wrapped in strips of linen, very much alive. The crowd that had come to mourn now watches the impossible happen in front of them. In the very place they had declared “The story is over,” Jesus writes a new line.
That is the first truth in action. Jesus brings life where there is death. He doesn’t just improve slightly bad situations; He walks into dead ones. The parts of your life you consider finished, ruined, or beyond repair are not beyond His reach. He can breathe life into the places you have quietly labelled “never again.”
The second truth flows straight from His own words: Jesus doesn’t just give resurrection; He is resurrection. Raising Lazarus is not just proof that Jesus can do miracles; it is a sign of who He is. Real, lasting life – spiritual, eternal, and even renewed life here and now – is found in Him. We often talk about fresh starts as if they come mainly from working harder or fixing ourselves. Jesus shifts the focus: the deepest kind of new beginning comes from being connected to Him. Faith is not simply believing He does powerful things; it is trusting that He is the source of life itself.
Finally, Jesus gives hope beyond death. Lazarus’ resurrection is a preview of something greater. One day, Jesus Himself will walk out of His own tomb, and His victory over death will be complete. His words still stand: “The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.” That doesn’t cancel grief; Christians still cry, still miss people, still feel the ache of goodbye. But it reframes death. It is no longer a solid wall; it becomes a doorway. There is life beyond it, and there is new life available even now for the parts of us that feel dead inside.
So what does this mean for you?
It means you can bring your grief and brokenness to Jesus honestly, like Mary and Martha did. You don’t have to tidy up your emotions first. You can say, “Lord, if You had been here…” and know that He hears you and weeps with you. It means you are invited to trust His identity, not just chase His miracles ; to stake your hope on the One who is resurrection and life. And it means your “tombs” are not the final word.
Imagine that scene in Bethany: the stone rolling away, the cold darkness inside, the crowd holding its breath. Then hear Jesus call, not just “Lazarus,” but your name: “Come out.” Come out of numbness, out of despair, out of the belief that this is as good as it gets. He invites you into a life where death doesn’t get the last line, where hope survives even in the shadow of the grave.
The Lion King gives us a moment that looks like the end. John 11 introduces us to a Saviour who steps into endings, weeps with us in them, and then speaks life. With Him, the story doesn’t stop at “It’s over.”
It moves on to an invitation:
“Come out. There is still life.”
