Come to Me: When Hope Feels Lost
Ezekiel 37:1–6, 11–14 ~ John 11:17–27, 32–44
There are seasons in life when hope feels like it has slipped through our fingers. We don’t plan for those seasons. They arrive quietly, or suddenly, or slowly over time, and before we realize it, we’re standing in a place we never expected to be.
Sometimes it’s a diagnosis that changes everything, or a relationship that’s worn thin, or the slow erosion of joy…the kind of grief and exhaustion that makes holding everything together feel impossible.
And sometimes it’s not one big thing at all…it’s the accumulation of a hundred small disappointments that leave us feeling brittle, tired, and unsure of where God is in the middle of it all.
The Fifth Sunday of Lent invites us to stand in that honest place. Not pretending everything is fine. Not rushing to Easter joy. Not skipping over the ache.
Lent gives us permission to name the places where hope feels lost. And into that space, Scripture gives us two powerful stories: a valley full of dry bones, and a tomb sealed by a stone. Two places where life seems impossible. Two places where God shows up.
Ezekiel 37:1–6
The hand of the Lord was on me, and he brought me out by the Spirit of the Lord and set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry. He asked me, “Son of man, can these bones live?”
I said, “Sovereign Lord, you alone know.”
Then he said to me, “Prophesy to these bones and say to them, ‘Dry bones, hear the word of the Lord! This is what the Sovereign Lord says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life. I will attach tendons to you and make flesh come upon you and cover you with skin; I will put breath in you, and you will come to life. Then you will know that I am the Lord.’”
Ezekiel is led by God into a valley—a place of devastation. Bones scattered everywhere. Not just dead bodies, but long-dead bodies. Sun-bleached, brittle, forgotten.
This is not a battlefield waiting for healing. This is a graveyard of dreams. A place where hope has been dead for a long time. And God asks Ezekiel a question that feels almost cruel: “Mortal, can these bones live?”
Ezekiel gives the only honest answer he can: “O Lord God, you know.” Not yes. Not no. Just… “God, only you know.”
That’s the prayer of someone who has run out of answers. Someone who has seen too much. Someone who doesn’t have the energy to pretend anymore.
Maybe you’ve prayed that prayer. “God, I don’t know what to do.” “God, I don’t know how to fix this.” “God, I don’t know how to keep going.” “God… only you know.”
And God doesn’t rebuke Ezekiel for his uncertainty. God doesn’t demand optimism. God simply invites him to speak…to prophesy…to declare life in a place where life seems impossible.
[Ezekiel 37:11–14]
Then he said to me: “Son of man, these bones are the people of Israel. They say, ‘Our bones are dried up and our hope is gone; we are cut off.’ Therefore prophesy and say to them: ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: My people, I am going to open your graves and bring you up from them; I will bring you back to the land of Israel. Then you, my people, will know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves and bring you up from them. I will put my Spirit in you and you will live, and I will settle you in your own land. Then you will know that I the Lord have spoken, and I have done it, declares the Lord.’”
Israel says, “Our bones are dried up. Our hope is gone.” And God responds, “I will put my Spirit within you, and you shall live.”
This is not a story about people who were rebellious. It’s a story about people who were exhausted. People who had lost hope. People who felt cut off. And God meets them there.
Now we turn to John 11, where another story of despair unfolds. A story of sisters who send word to Jesus because their brother is sick. A story of waiting. A story of disappointment. A story of grief.
[John 11:17–27]
On his arrival, Jesus found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days. Now Bethany was less than two miles from Jerusalem, and many Jews had come to Martha and Mary to comfort them in the loss of their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went out to meet him, but Mary stayed at home.
“Lord,” Martha said to Jesus, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask.”
Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.”
Martha answered, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”
Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?”
“Yes, Lord,” she replied, “I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who is to come into the world.”
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” That sentence is grief distilled. It’s disappointment wrapped in faith. It’s lament spoken in love. And Jesus doesn’t correct her.
He doesn’t say, “Don’t talk like that.” He doesn’t say, “You should trust me more.” He receives her grief. He listens to her pain. He honors her honesty. And then Mary comes, and she says the exact same thing.
[John 11:32–37]
When Mary reached the place where Jesus was and saw him, she fell at his feet and said, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. “Where have you laid him?” he asked.
“Come and see, Lord,” they replied.
Jesus wept.
Then the Jews said, “See how he loved him!”
But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”
“Lord, if you had been here…”
And Jesus weeps.
This is one of the most important moments in Scripture. Before Jesus raises Lazarus, before he calls him out of the tomb, before he shows his power…he stops and weeps.
He weeps because grief is real. He weeps because loss matters. He weeps because love is costly. He weeps because he is not distant from our pain. Jesus does not rush past sorrow. He enters it.
And that truth…that God meets us in the places where hope feels lost is not just something we see in Scripture.
It’s something we see in real lives, in real people who have walked through valleys that felt like dry bones and tombs that felt sealed shut.
There’s the story of Andrew Brunson, the American pastor who served in Turkey for more than twenty years. In 2016 he was suddenly arrested, accused of crimes he didn’t commit, and thrown into a high-security prison. No trial date. No clear charges. No idea if he would ever see his family again.
Later, when he told his story publicly, he said something that struck me deeply. He said, “I lost all sense of God’s presence. I prayed, and nothing. I worshiped, and nothing. I begged God to speak, and nothing.”
He said he felt like his soul had dried up. Like he was becoming a different person…someone brittle, someone afraid, someone who didn’t know if he could hold on.
At one point he wrote in his journal, “I am broken. I have no more strength. I am like dry bones.”
That’s Ezekiel’s valley. That’s Mary and Martha’s grief. That’s the place where hope feels lost.
But even in that place, something quiet began to happen. Not a miracle that opened the prison doors. Not a sudden burst of joy. Not a dramatic moment of rescue. Just… breath. Just the smallest stirring of life.
He said, “I didn’t feel God, but I chose to turn toward Him anyway.” And slowly…very slowly…strength returned. Not the strength to escape, but the strength to endure. Not the strength to rejoice, but the strength to trust.
When he was finally released two years later, he said, “I walked out of prison with scars, but also with a deeper knowledge that God meets us in the valley, even when we can’t feel Him.”
His story isn’t about triumph. It’s about presence. It’s about the God who sits with us in the tomb. The God who breathes into dry bones. The God who weeps with us before He calls us out.
And that is exactly what happens next in the story of Lazarus.
[John 11:38–44]
Jesus, once more deeply moved, came to the tomb. It was a cave with a stone laid across the entrance. “Take away the stone,” he said.
“But, Lord,” said Martha, the sister of the dead man, “by this time there is a bad odor, for he has been there four days.”
Then Jesus said, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?”
So they took away the stone. Then Jesus looked up and said, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me.”
When he had said this, Jesus called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face.
Jesus said to them, “Take off the grave clothes and let him go.”
Jesus stands before the tomb and calls Lazarus by name. “Lazarus, come out!” And the dead man walks out…still wrapped in grave clothes, still bound by the trappings of death…and Jesus says, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
This is resurrection before Easter. This is hope before the empty tomb. This is life breaking in where life seemed impossible.
These two stories…dry bones and Lazarus…are not just ancient miracles. They are mirrors held up to our lives.
They show us how God meets us where hope feels lost, how God breathes life into what seems dead, and how Jesus calls us out of the tombs we settle into.
Many of us know what it’s like to face dry-bone moments, to stand outside our own tombs, to wait for Jesus to show up, to whisper ‘Lord, if You had been here,’ and to wonder if God is running late.
Both stories reveal the same truth: God meets us in the valley and at the tomb. God steps into the places where hope feels lost…not waiting for us to be strong or to pretend. God breathes, God calls, God restores.
And notice something else: in both stories, God invites human participation. Ezekiel is told to speak. The people at the tomb are told to roll away the stone.
Sometimes the first step toward hope is simply being willing to speak…to pray…to ask…to trust again, even when we don’t feel it.
Sometimes the first step is rolling away the stone, even when we’re afraid of what we’ll find.
Sometimes the first step is opening ourselves to the possibility that God might still move.
And notice this too: in both stories, God moves first. Before Israel believes, God breathes. Before Lazarus walks, Jesus calls. Resurrection is God’s work, hope is God’s gift, life is God’s initiative. We don’t raise ourselves or breathe life into our own dry bones…God does. God always has.
But we do have a part. We listen. We respond. We step forward. We let ourselves be unbound. We let the breath of God fill us again. We let the voice of Jesus call us by name.
Maybe today you’re carrying something that feels like dry bones or a sealed tomb…something too heavy to name, a prayer you’re tired of praying, a grief that sits deep, or a faith that feels brittle.
Hear this: God meets you there. God breathes there. God calls and restores there. The God who raised Lazarus breathes life into dry bones, weeps with Mary, restores hope, and calls you by name.
Lent isn’t about pretending we’re fine…it’s about telling the truth, naming where hope feels lost, and trusting that God is already moving there.
So hear Jesus’ invitation: Come to me. Even now. Even here. Even in this.
Come with your grief, your questions, your exhaustion, your dry bones and sealed tombs, your ‘Lord, if you had been here,’ and your ‘God, only you know.’
Trust that the God who breathes life into bones and calls the dead to rise is still at work. There is no valley too dry, no tomb too sealed, no grief too deep, no hope too lost.
Resurrection is coming. Hope is rising. Life is stirring. Breath is moving. And Jesus is calling your name.
Come to me, he says. Come to me when hope feels lost. Come to me, and you shall live.
AMEN
