“Unbind Him and Let Him Go”
The crowd gasped. What they saw could not be explained, only believed.
Lazarus stood there blinking in the daylight of mercy, wrapped head to toe in the fabric of his own funeral.
He was alive—but still bound.
And Jesus said, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
I love that detail. Jesus did what no man could—He gave life. Then He turned to the people and said, Now you do what you can—set him free.
That’s the partnership of grace and discipleship.
God gives life; the church helps remove the grave clothes.
He speaks resurrection; we speak release.
He brings you out; we help you live free.
Every revival must go beyond the shout of “Come forth” to the ministry of “Unbind him.”
That means restoring those who’ve been wounded, forgiving those who failed, embracing those who smell like the tomb they just left.
Because revival isn’t measured by how loud we sing, but by how lovingly we unbind.
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The Voice That Still Calls
The miracle in Bethany didn’t end with Lazarus; it continues in every heart that hears that same voice today.
The grave may look different—a habit, a bitterness, a fear—but the voice is the same.
Still gentle, still strong, still calling:
> “Come forth.”
He doesn’t wait for us to clean ourselves up first.
He calls while the stone is still in place.
He calls while the smell of death still hangs in the air.
He calls because His word creates what it commands.
Maybe that’s you this morning.
Maybe you’ve been wrapped up in disappointment or exhaustion.
You’re showing up in church but feeling like the life has leaked out.
Listen—He’s still calling your name.
And when He calls, no stone can stay rolled, no past can stay sealed, no darkness can stay dark.
The same Jesus who shouted in Bethany still speaks in Wildomar, in Riverside, in Temecula, in every place where someone whispers, “Lord, I’m tired of this tomb.”
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A Personal Resurrection
Every revival begins when somebody decides, “I don’t belong in this grave anymore.”
It’s when the Spirit stirs something deep and says, “You were made for life, not for layers of linen.”
We often think revival is thunder and spotlight.
Sometimes it’s just a whisper in the heart: “Come forth.”
You feel the pull, the warmth, the remembering of who you were before the stone rolled over your joy.
That’s the same power that raised Lazarus working in you right now (Eph. 1:19–20).
When Jesus stood at that tomb, He wasn’t performing a show; He was previewing the cross.
Within days, He Himself would enter a tomb—and walk out again.
Bethany was a rehearsal for Calvary’s victory.
He raised Lazarus with a word.
He raised Himself with His own life.
And because He lives, we too shall live.
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Why He Calls by Name
If you’ve noticed, God’s revivals are always personal.
He didn’t say “Mankind, come forth.”
He said “Lazarus.”
Because salvation isn’t mass-produced.
Grace always comes with a name tag.
He called Abram out of Ur,
Moses out of Midian,
Zacchaeus out of a tree,
Mary out of despair,
and you out of whatever cave you crawled into when life got too hard.
You’re not a file number in heaven’s database; you’re a name spoken on the lips of the Son of God.
And the sound of that name, spoken by Him, is enough to undo every knot the devil ever tied.
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The Testimony After the Tomb
Scripture says in John 12 that crowds came to see Jesus and Lazarus, whom He had raised from the dead.
People wanted proof that life could come from loss.
Lazarus didn’t have to preach long sermons; he was the sermon.
Every believer is meant to live like that—
a walking witness that grace works,
that God still brings beauty from burial,
that darkness doesn’t get the last line.
Your story may have tombstones in it, but if Jesus is in the narrative, those stones become altars of praise.
Revival isn’t pretending we’ve never been dead; it’s proclaiming that death didn’t stick.
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Faith That Keeps Singing
That’s where the hymn “Until Then” finds us—between the miracle that was and the miracle that’s coming.
We live in the waiting time.
We bury loved ones and weep; we face setbacks and sigh; yet we keep singing.
Because we know something the world forgets:
The voice that once said “Lazarus” will one day drop the name.
He will simply say, “Come forth,” and every grave will answer.
John 5:28–29 (ESV):
> “An hour is coming when all who are in the tombs will hear His voice and come out—those who have done good to the resurrection of life, and those who have done evil to the resurrection of judgment.”
That’s not fantasy; that’s the blessed hope.
The same power that raised Lazarus is on reserve for you.
And when that day breaks, death will have to hand over every believer it ever borrowed.
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Carrying On with Joy
But what about now?
What do we do until then?
Jesus said, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
That’s our calling in the meantime—to live unbound.
We carry on with joy, not because life is easy, but because eternity is sure.
We work, we witness, we forgive, we sing, because resurrection life has already begun inside us.
You can tell who’s heard the voice of Jesus—they walk lighter.
They forgive quicker.
They laugh easier.
They live like tomorrow is already guaranteed.
Friend, if the grave couldn’t hold Lazarus, what right does fear have to hold you?
If death couldn’t silence Christ, why should doubt silence your praise?
You’re a resurrection in progress.
Walk like it.
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When Love Calls Your Name
Maybe this morning you feel like Martha—faithful, but frustrated.
Or like Mary—tired of weeping.
Or like Lazarus—trapped in something you can’t escape.
Hear Him. He’s calling.
He’s not calling to shame you; He’s calling to show you the glory of God.
When Love calls your name, every chain loses its purpose.
You don’t have to figure out how to live again; just start moving toward the sound of His voice.
And as you do, others will help unbind you.
That’s what the church is for—resurrected people helping other resurrected people walk in freedom.
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Until Then
Until the day He calls your name,
keep singing.
Keep loving.
Keep serving.
Keep carrying on.
Because the Christian life isn’t waiting for heaven in misery; it’s living heaven’s melody in the midst of earth’s mess.
The hymn says it best:
> My heart can sing when I pause to remember,
A heartache here is but a stepping stone,
Along a trail that’s winding always upward,
This troubled world is not my final home.
> But until then, my heart will go on singing;
Until then, with joy I’ll carry on;
Until the day my eyes behold the City;
Until the day God calls me home.
That’s more than poetry—that’s a posture of faith.
It’s the sound of a soul that’s already tasted resurrection and refuses to quit rejoicing.
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A Revival Appeal
So here’s my question:
Have you heard Him call your name?
Not the name your job uses, or your mistakes call you by—but the one heaven knows.
If today you hear His voice, don’t stay in that tomb.
Step out. Walk free. Begin again.
Let this Sabbath be your resurrection morning.
Let the same power that rolled a stone in Bethany roll away whatever’s been sealing your heart.
You don’t have to understand it; you just have to move when He calls.
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Closing Benediction – “Until Then”
When Jesus stood at the tomb of His friend,
He didn’t whisper into the darkness—He shouted into it.
And death had to listen.
If He had not said Lazarus, every grave would have opened that day.
Because that’s how strong His love is—
it can raise the world and still call you by name.
And so, until the day your own name is called,
my heart will go on singing.
Until the day your eyes behold the City,
with joy you’ll carry on.
Until the trumpet sounds, until the eastern sky breaks, until the King returns—
keep walking in hope, keep living in joy, keep singing the song of resurrection.
And may the love that called you into life
hold you,
heal you,
and send you out in joy—
until then.
