Untie Him and Let Him Go

When life closes in and the air feels thick with grief, anxiety, or injustice, we can start to believe that nothing will ever change. We see “tombs” in our own community—flooded homes never repaired, families without housing, neighbors with mental illness sitting in jail instead of in treatment—and our hearts whisper, “It’s hopeless.” Into that heaviness, the Gospel of John speaks a disruptive word of life.

In the story of Lazarus, Jesus does more than call a dead man out of a tomb. He turns to the gathered crowd and commands, “Untie him and let him go.” That single sentence is the heart of this reflection. It reveals that resurrection is not only God’s work in the hidden depths of the soul; it is also God’s work through a community willing to roll away stones, loosen the bandages of fear and injustice, and refuse to leave anyone bound in circumstances that smell like death. This is the call placed on us in Lent: to hear Jesus’ voice, step toward the tombs in our midst, and become his hands untying our brothers and sisters so they can walk free.

Sent to Unbind: Being the Body of Christ

This is where the Gospel becomes intensely practical. We are not spectators at the tomb; we are the ones Jesus addresses when he says, “Unbind him.” We are the ones he sends.

We are the woman at the well.
We are the man born blind.
We are Lazarus, called from our own tombs of fear and resignation.

But we are also Martha and Mary and the gathered neighbors, given the holy task of unbinding one another and anyone in our community who is wrapped in death-dealing circumstances.

That means our faith cannot stop at words. “I love my neighbor” is empty if we ignore the neighbor whose house flooded and never got fixed. It is hollow if we shrug when those with mental illness are jailed instead of healed. It rings false if we praise God on Sunday and look the other way when families can’t afford a place to live on Monday. Love that never leaves the couch, never leaves the pew, never leaves the comfort zone—Jesus does not recognize that as love.

We never stop fighting for our own. And in the kingdom of God, there is no “them”—only “us.” The people who are poor, displaced, imprisoned, or forgotten are not “those people.” They are “our people.” They are us.

One Night, One Yes, Real Change

That is why one particular night—one specific “yes”—matters. When our wider community gathers for the Action Assembly, it is not just another meeting on a busy calendar. It is an opportunity to be the body of Christ together, to stand shoulder to shoulder with churches, neighbors, and leaders, and to insist: “These tombs will not have the last word. We will not accept systems that smell like death. We are here to unbind.”

We may be tempted to stay home. “I’m tired. I worked all day. I have other plans. I’ll watch it online. I’ll pray from here.” We can always find a reason. But Jesus did not send us into the world with the words, “Stay comfortable.” He said, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When Jesus approaches the tomb, he doesn’t stay back at a distance; he comes close. If we call ourselves his disciples, we do the same.

Showing up matters. Numbers matter. When hundreds of believers gather in one place, speak with one voice, and ask for specific, concrete changes—for housing, for mental health care, for fair treatment, for mercy and justice—officials listen. Policies shift. Doors open. Stones roll away. Bandages come off.

And every person in those pews is part of that. Every ride given, every friend invited, every family brought along is a small act of resurrection. It is our way of saying to our neighbors, “You are not alone in that tomb. We will come stand beside you until you are free.”

“We Never Stop Fighting for Our Own”

This is the heart of the Gospel and the heart of Lent. Lent is not only about giving something up; it is about taking something on. It is about taking up the cross of our neighbor’s burden, taking up the cause of those the world forgets, taking up the call to act when everything in us would rather stay safe and uninvolved.

We are Easter people living in a Good Friday world. We know the story does not end at the tomb. We know that stones roll away. We know that death does not have the final word, even when it looks and smells like it does. That means we cannot give up on anyone. We cannot shrug and walk past the suffering of our brothers and sisters. We never stop fighting for our own.

If Jesus has called us out of our tombs, then we are called to help others out of theirs. If God has helped us, then we bear his name—Eleazar, “God helps”—in our actions. When we show up for justice, when we stand with those on the margins, when we refuse to let anyone remain bound and forgotten, we become a living sign that in Christ, God still helps. God still raises. God still unbinds.

So the question for us is simple and searching:
Will we be there?
Will we show up—not just in sentiment, but in person?
Will we answer Jesus when he looks at us and says, “Unbind him, and let him go”?

May we hear that call.
May we bring others with us.
And may our community glimpse, in our presence and our persistence, the One who is still, forever, the resurrection and the life.