Lazarus’ community believed that his soul hovered near the body for three days, hoping to return. But by the fourth day, everyone knew the death was final. The body had started to decompose, the spirit had departed, and it was time to move on. Jesus has repeatedly communicated that this death will reveal the glory of God. It’s a puzzling statement. So Thomas says he is prepared to die as well. Martha expresses confidence that God will raise Lazarus in the distant future. Mary confesses that Jesus could have prevented the death if he had come earlier. If, like them, I had never seen someone rise from the dead, these are the kinds of responses I might offer, too. I’ve left many funerals quietly wondering how much to grieve and how much to hope. I’m sad to have lost someone I loved, but I know I will see them again soon. The problem is that I can see their body go into the ground, but I can’t see them in heaven. It’s easier to grieve than it is to hope. Jesus is surrounded by professional mourners who have filled the air with wailing for days. He’s looking at his dear friends, Mary and Martha, and he knows they are struggling with the sting of death and the ache of disappointment. He’s come so that they might believe, but no one understands. Jesus’ response is a guttural mix of anger, grief, and sadness. It’s directed at the entire system of sin and death that causes those he loves to suffer. He weeps. Then he takes in the stench of Lazarus’ dead body, looks into the darkness of the tomb, and says the most powerful prayer of his ministry. It’s followed by the simple, straightforward command: “Lazarus, come out.” A dead man, bound in burial cloth, shuffles out. He didn’t just say, “I am the resurrection and the life.” He showed it. In his presence, a dead man’s only option was to come back to life. Our world is filled with more suffering and death than I care to read about. If there is any hope at all, it is because Lazarus walked out of the tomb.