As we come to this 5th Sunday of Lent, I find myself looking back over these weeks of Lent almost as if retracing steps on a path. Each Sunday has carried its own grace. On the first, I was drawn into the wilderness, into Jesus’ hunger, his thirst, and that quiet question of where do I place my trust? On the second Sunday, standing with Jesus on Mount Tabor, I sensed again how deeply I long for hope and for glimpses of God’s glory in ordinary life. On the third Sunday, sitting with Jesus and the Samaritan woman, I recognised my own thirst—sometimes hidden, sometimes aching—for the Living Water. And last Sunday, when Jesus healed the man born blind, I realised how often I need my own eyes opened to compassion, possibility, and truth.

And so, on this 5^th Sunday, we meet Lazarus—a friend Jesus loved—and we enter the rawness of Mary and Martha’s grief, the fragile tenderness of hope, and the surprising promise of new life.

This Gospel touches me in ways I didn’t expect until two years ago, when I received the sudden news that my younger brother had died. He was only sixty-four. Even now, remembering that moment stirs something deep in me—the shock, the disbelief, the feeling that the world had tilted. When I arrived at his home the next morning, my sister-in-law, nieces, nephew, and sister came out to greet me. We simply held each other. There weren’t really words—just tears, grief, and the strange silence that follows when someone you love has slipped from this world.

During his Requiem Mass, we listened to the Gospel account of Jesus raising Lazarus to life. I remember hearing Martha and Mary’s voices differently that day. Their words—“Lord, if you had been here…”—felt painfully familiar. And Jesus’ grief felt familiar too. The Gospel doesn’t hide his tears. He loved Lazarus, and he felt the weight of death just as we do.

Reading the account again today, the one line that jumps out to me, more than any other occurs after Lazarus steps out of the tomb—still bound in strips of cloth—Jesus says: “Untie him and let him go.”

These words went straight to my heart. I felt Jesus speaking not just to Lazarus, but to me. Because even though life moves on, grief can wrap itself around us. It can bind us in ways no one else sees. And it’s not only grief.

Over the years, I’ve noticed many things that can bind my heart:

• Memories of mistakes I wish I could undo.
• Moments of hurt that still ache when touched.
• Worries about the future I can’t control.
• Responsibilities that feel heavy, even while done with love.
• Loneliness that appears unexpectedly, even among people.
• The quiet fear that I haven’t lived up to what God hopes for me.

We all have our own “burial cloths”—those hidden knots of sorrow, regret, fear, or fatigue. Sometimes we get so used to them that we forget they are there.

What moves me in this Gospel is not only that Jesus calls Lazarus into the light, but that he invites the community to help. Lazarus doesn’t free himself. Jesus doesn’t unbind him alone. It is the hands of others—ordinary hands—that loosen the knots.

I felt that at the time of my brothers’ death. I felt it in the embraces, the shared stories, the gentle presence of people who simply showed up. Their kindness helped me breathe again. It helped me step forward, even in small ways, toward life.

As we enter these final days of Lent, I find myself listening again for Jesus’ voice—steady, compassionate, calling me by name. Calling you by name. Inviting each of us to step out of whatever darkness we’ve settled into. Even if our steps are slow. Even if we still feel bound.

And I pray that we, too, might be people who help unbind one another—through patience, through forgiveness, through simple kindness, through showing up. Small gestures that say: “You are not alone. New life is possible.”

As we walk together toward Easter, may we discover again the freedom Jesus longs for us: to live unbound, to live renewed, to live in the warm light of hope.