There is something striking about the stone in front of Lazarus's tomb. It was not placed there carelessly. It was a declaration — a signal to everyone who passed by that this chapter was closed. No one intended to go back in. Whatever was inside was meant to stay there.
Many of us have stones just like that. Not in front of literal tombs, but in front of dreams, passions, relationships, and parts of ourselves that we quietly laid to rest somewhere along the way. And in some cases, we placed those stones ourselves.
What if the story of Lazarus isn't only history — what if it's a mirror?
The miracle of John 11 is easy to read as a past event, something Jesus did for someone else. But what happens when we stop watching from the outside and put ourselves in the tomb? What if we are Lazarus? What if there are parts of us — our fire, our sense of adventure, our hope, our purpose — that have gone cold and dark, and God is standing outside calling us to come out?
The Anatomy of What Gets Buried
When we think about resurrection, we tend to think big: a dream career, a broken relationship that needs mending, a lifelong goal we abandoned. But sometimes what gets buried is more intimate than that. Sometimes it's a part of our personality — a carefree nature, a creative spirit, a joy in taking risks — that we unknowingly entombed when life shifted or our faith deepened.
The physical events in John 11 map almost exactly onto what happens when something in us dies and waits to be revived.
Four Stages of Resurrection
Resurrection is not passive. Even in the story, things had to happen in a specific order. The stone had to move before Jesus called out, and the grave clothes had to come off before Lazarus could walk freely. There is a process — and each stage requires obedience.
Acknowledge the parts of yourself — dreams, passions, traits — that have been laid to rest but through which God could still receive glory.
Undo whatever barrier you've erected. This might mean changing a mindset, breaking a silence, or reaching out to someone you swore you never would again.
When something has been dormant for years, revival is disorienting. Expect the friction — the discomfort, the awkwardness of re-familiarizing yourself with a fire you forgot you had.
Discard the old evidence — outdated benchmarks, past-tense language, worldly expressions of the thing God is reviving. What comes out of the tomb doesn't have to look like what went in.
What Is Your Stone?
I don't know what your stone looks like. For some of us it's a mental block — a hardened belief that says that season is over. For others it's a silence we've accepted, an unspoken compromise where we quietly agreed to let a dream die. For some it might even be a person: someone we said we'd never speak to again, a connection God might want to restore.
Whatever form it takes, the stone is what prevents the light from getting in. And here is what Martha teaches us: even when unsealing the stone feels uncomfortable — even when it might smell — we roll it away anyway, because we trust that what Jesus is about to do is worth it.
On the learning curve
If a dream has been buried for 20 years, waking it up is not going to feel graceful. There will be a catch-up period: attempting to execute on something untouched for decades, re-familiarizing yourself with skills that have gone stiff. That friction isn't a sign you were wrong to unseal the stone. It's just what waking up feels like.
Shedding the Grave Clothes
When Lazarus walked out, he was still wearing what he'd been buried in. The miracle was complete, but the wrappings remained. Jesus told the people standing there to take them off.
When God revives something in us, remnants tend to cling. These are the things we carry out of the tomb that actually belong in it.
Old benchmarks that say "I should have achieved this by now." Let them go. Update the evidence to reflect who you are today, not who you thought you'd be.
Past-tense language keeps a dream in the tomb: "I used to be adventurous." Swap it for present and future framing that treats the resurrection as real.
The metrics of success you set in a different season of life. What God is reviving may look different now — update how you measure it.
The secular expression of a passion doesn't have to come back with it. God revives the core. The grave clothes — the worldly version — can stay behind.
The Mary and Martha in Your Life
In John 11, Mary and Martha are the ones who go to Jesus. They are the ones who notice that something is wrong, that someone they love is gone, and they bring that grief before him. We need people like that in our lives — people paying close enough attention to notice when our light dims, when our compassion fades, when the spark that once defined us quietly disappears.
If you have those people, lean on them. Let them pray on your behalf and carry the parts of you that can't carry themselves right now.
And if you don't have those people yet — the part of you that is still here, still listening, still functioning — that part can do the interceding. The part of you reading this right now can take the unfunctioning parts before the Lord and ask him to move.
We don't have any breath in ourselves to breathe into something dead. But God does.
Your Core Is Not the Grave Clothes
One of the most tender things about this story is what Jesus doesn't say when Lazarus walks out. He doesn't say "now become someone different." He says take the grave clothes off. The man who walks out is still Lazarus — but no longer bound.
When God resurrects something in us, he is resurrecting the core of who he created us to be. The adventurous spirit. The creative fire. The bold love for people. Those things don't have to die just because we stepped into faith. God doesn't want you to leave the best of who you are in the tomb. He wants to show you what that part of you looks like walking in the kingdom.
You are not losing yourself when God resurrects you. You are finally becoming yourself — without the burial wrappings.