Mar. 22, 2026 -The Resurrection and the Life

There's something deeply human about keeping God at arm's length. We do it in the most sophisticated ways—through theological debates, political arguments, and intellectual discussions about faith. We construct elaborate defenses that allow us to engage with God's truth without actually letting it transform us. But what happens when God breaks through our carefully constructed barriers and asks us the most personal question imaginable: "Do you believe?"

The story of Lazarus presents us with one of the most profound encounters between human doubt and divine power. Here we find Mary and Martha, two sisters Jesus knew well, facing the unthinkable—their brother Lazarus is deathly ill. They send word to Jesus, certain that their friend will rush to help. After all, they've seen His miracles. They know His power.

But Jesus doesn't come immediately. He waits. Days pass. And Lazarus dies.

By the time Jesus arrives, Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days. The grief is palpable. The disappointment is crushing. Martha meets Jesus with words that cut straight to the heart: "If you had been here, my brother would not have died."

Haven't we all been there? In that place where God's timing doesn't match our desperation? Where the miracle we needed didn't arrive when we thought it should?

In the midst of this raw grief and disappointment, Jesus makes one of His most powerful declarations: "I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die."

This isn't just theological poetry. This is an invitation into impossible possibility.

But notice what Jesus does next. He doesn't leave the statement hanging in the air as abstract truth. He personalizes it. He looks at Martha and asks: "Do you believe this?"

That question changes everything. It transforms a theological concept into a personal challenge. It moves faith from the realm of intellectual agreement into the territory of lived trust.

Martha's response is fascinating and painfully relatable. She says, "Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world." She affirms that she believes in the resurrection—the general resurrection that will happen at the end of time, when everyone will be raised.

In other words, she takes Jesus's intimate, personal invitation and turns it into a theological position she can defend. She distances herself from the immediate, impossible thing Jesus is offering by retreating into the familiar debate of her time.

During Jesus's era, there was significant theological controversy about resurrection. The Pharisees believed in it; the Sadducees didn't. People argued about it constantly. Martha knew these arguments well. So when pressed to trust Jesus for the impossible in her immediate situation, she defaulted to the theological framework she understood.

We do the same thing constantly.

When God invites us into deeper trust, we often respond by engaging in debates. We argue about politics and faith. We discuss Christian nationalism versus authentic Christianity. We divide over issues of inclusion and doctrine. We want to know where churches stand on controversial issues before we'll even consider walking through their doors.

None of these conversations are inherently wrong. Theology matters. Beliefs have consequences. But when these debates become our way of avoiding God's personal question—"Do you believe?"—they become barriers rather than bridges.

The question isn't whether we can articulate correct doctrine about resurrection. The question is whether we trust the God of resurrection to do the impossible in our actual lives, right now, today.

There's a powerful illustration of this trust in the concept of Sabbath. For those who grew up on farms, the idea of not working one day a week seemed impossible. Cows don't take Sundays off. Animals need care seven days a week. Emergencies happen.

But the Sabbath principle asks a radical question: Do you trust God enough to stop? Do you believe God can handle what you can't control?

If your livestock escape on Sunday morning, can you trust God with that situation while you worship? Or do you believe everything depends entirely on your constant intervention?

This isn't about being irresponsible. It's about recognizing where our trust actually lies. Do we believe God can work in the spaces where we stop trying to control everything?

Real faith isn't about believing God can do miracles in general. It's about trusting God with the specific impossibilities in your life right now.

Maybe you're facing an addiction that feels unbreakable. Maybe you're experiencing profound loneliness that seems unconquerable. Maybe you're dealing with a relationship that appears beyond repair or a situation that looks absolutely hopeless.

The resurrection and the life isn't just a concept for the distant future. It's a present reality. It's the power that can bring life where there is death, hope where there is despair, possibility where there is impossibility.

But it requires something from us: actual belief. Not intellectual assent. Not theological correctness. But the kind of trust that allows God into those broken, impossible places.

So here's the question that echoes across the centuries from that conversation between Jesus and Martha: Do you believe?

Do you believe that the God who raised Lazarus from the dead can resurrect the dead places in your life? Do you believe that the One who is life itself can breathe new life into your impossible situations?

Or will you retreat into comfortable theological discussions that keep God at a safe distance?

The invitation stands. The resurrection and the life is not just coming someday. He is here now, asking if you believe. Not in a doctrine. Not in a theological position. But in Him—personally, intimately, impossibly.

The question demands an answer. Not with words, but with trust. Not with arguments, but with surrender.

Do you believe?