Lessons from Lazarus’ Tomb
Where is God when it hurts?
Where is He when the diagnosis lands, when the door slams shut, when the tomb is sealed?
John 11 doesn’t offer an abstract answer to suffering. It gives us Jesus standing at the edge of a grave—with tears in His eyes and glory on His mind. It reveals a love that doesn’t always rush to rescue but always moves with purpose. Through the story of Lazarus, we don’t just see a miracle—we encounter a message: God’s love is not the absence of pain. It’s the presence of Christ in the middle of it.
Christ’s Glory and Our Good (John 11:3–6, 11–15)
“This illness is not unto death, it is for the glory of God.” That’s a sentence most late-modern people - even Christians - will stumble over. How can our pain, our suffering, and that of those we love glorify God? Surely the absence of pain and sorrow, and the presence and easy life free from all grief and characterized by instant answers to our prayers is what God wants for us. Right? Wrong! Not here. Not yet.
One of the most vital truths we can ever embrace is found in the answer to question one of the Westminster Shorter Catechism, which asks, “What is the chief end of man?” The answer -
“Man’s chief end is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.”
But let’s be honest: we often reverse this. We live like God’s main job is to glorify us—to bless us, protect us, make our lives smoother and happier. And when pain strikes, our fallen, rebellious hearts strike out at God. We believe our great end is self-glory, that expressive individualism calls us to pursue whatever is in our hearts and make the kingdom of self supreme, all for God, of course.
That’s the tension Mary and Martha felt. “Lord, the one you love is sick,” they said (John 11:3). And Jesus… waits. He doesn’t rush to heal. He stays two days longer. Why? Because love doesn’t always look like immediate relief. Sometimes it looks like a delay that leads to a deeper glory.
There’s no doubt that Jesus loved Lazarus and his family. “Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister, and Lazarus” (John 11:5). That’s why the next verse is so hard to comprehend for us - “So when he heard that Lazarus was sick, he stayed two days longer where he was…”
We tend to measure God’s love for us by the presence of what we count as “good” - the good house, the salary hike, the perfect children, winning the championship, and great health.
If God’s love for us were measured by the absence of suffering, sorrow, grief, or even death, He owes Paul an apology. And Mary. And Perpetua. And Jan Hus. And Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley. And generations of Chinese and Korean believers. And millions more believers.
But Jesus' delay wasn’t indifference—it was divine strategy. As Romans 8:28 reminds us, God works all things—especially the painful ones—for the good of those who love Him.
“If we again ask the question, ‘Why does God allow evil and suffering to continue?’ and we look at the cross of Jesus, we still do not know what the answer is. However, we know what the answer isn’t. It can’t be that he doesn’t love us.” — Tim Keller
Jesus didn’t forget Lazarus. He had something better than healing in mind: resurrection.
“Lazarus is dead”, Jesus informed his disciples, adding (incredibly), “I’m glad I wasn’t there so that you may believe” (John 11:15). More important than the immediate relief of Lazarus’ suffering was the salvation of Lazarus, of the disciples, of Mary and Martha, indeed, of the entire world. God’s delay was not a denial of his love
Christ’s Call in Our Calamity (John 11:28–30)
The voice that called Lazarus from the tomb is the same voice that calls us in our calamity—not to crush us, but to raise us. That’s the voice that summoned Mary in her sorrow. “The Teacher is here and he is calling you.”
He doesn’t promise to spare us from pain. He promises to transform it.
He will use something painful in you to do something powerful through you.
That’s not just a nice line—it’s the rhythm of life in Christ. Jesus said, “Take up your cross and follow me.” That means death to sin, to pride, to control—and the birth of something new on the other side.
It’s a path the saints have walked for centuries. The hymn “Jesus, I My Cross Have Taken” captures the heart of that journey:
“Jesus, I my cross have taken, all to leave and follow Thee;
Destitute, despised, forsaken, Thou from hence my all shall be;
Perish every fond ambition, all I’ve sought or hoped or known;
Yet how rich is my condition! God and heaven are still my own.”
That is not resignation. That’s resurrection faith.
“I asked God for health that I might do greater things. I was given infirmity that I might do better things… I got nothing that I asked for but everything I hoped for… I am, among all men, most richly blessed.” — Abraham Kuyper
God doesn’t waste suffering. He shapes saints with it.
Christ’s Presence in Our Pain (John 11:39–40)
“Roll away the stone,” Jesus said. But Martha hesitated. “Lord, there’s a stench…”
That’s us, too. We try to cover the rot. Hide the mess. Keep up appearances. But grace doesn't work through fig leaves and sealed tombs. It works when we open what we’ve tried to bury.
The smell of death isn’t too much for Jesus. He walks into the stench and brings life. He doesn’t deny the presence of the odor of death, he steps right into it and heals its cause. Mercy meets the reality of our fallenness and undoes death and hell. The bouquet of saving grace is greater than the stench of sin and death.
From the first cry in Eden—“Adam, where are you?”—God has been drawing us out of hiding, out of our fig-leaf camouflage and into the light of confessing our sin so we can be healed and forgiven. His mercy meets us not in the perfect places, but in the honest ones. When we move the stone.
“The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation—this story begins and ends in joy.” — J.R.R. Tolkien
The term “eucatastrophe” means a sudden, joyful turn that doesn’t ignore the darkness—but overwhelms it. That’s what happened at Lazarus’ tomb. That’s what happens in every life touched by Jesus when we expose to the light of the gospel the stench of the darkness we hide.
Christ’s Worship in Our Wonder (John 12:1–3)
Fast forward to the next chapter: Lazarus is alive. The tomb is behind him. And Mary, overwhelmed with gratitude and awe, takes a year’s wages worth of perfume and pours it out on Jesus’ feet.
The whole house is filled with fragrance.
That’s what worship does. When we lay down what’s most precious to us—not out of obligation, but out of love—the air shifts. The scent of heaven fills the room.
We worship, not because life is perfect but because Jesus is present. He is worthy.
God’s love for you isn’t proven by the stuff you own, the goals you hit, or the pain you avoid. It’s proven by the cross. He gave His Son. He held nothing back. And because of that, we can trust Him—through the delay, through the suffering, through the grave.
Resurrection Still Speaks
The worst news that could ever be spoken—the final sentence of everlasting death—has not been uttered over you. Why? Because Jesus took it. And He buried it.
“I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live.” — John 11:25
Why was Jesus’ delay working for God’s glory and the good of God’s people?
Lazarus’ resurrection was the event that triggered the plot to kill Jesus, to crucify him a week later. You can draw a straight line from Lazarus’ resurrection to the death and resurrection of Jesus - that saved the world! The death that saved Lazarus and his sisters - and you and me. It was GOOD that Jesus delayed Lazarus’ healing. Far from denying his love, that delay revealed Jesus' love for them, for us, and for the world.
This is not the end. Jesus still calls names. Stones still roll. Grace still breaks into sealed tombs and forgotten places. The delays are not denials. The pain is not punishment. The Savior is not absent.
He is the resurrection. He is the life. And He is here.