HOMILY – Alice Feiker Funeral

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There is a saying that every family has a heart—a place where everyone knows they are welcome, where holidays happen, where stories are told, where grandchildren wander in and out of the kitchen, and where somehow there is always enough food, enough laughter, and enough love.

For the Feiker family, that heart had a name: Alice.

Today, as we gather in faith and love, we remember a woman whose home was the hub of family life, whose hands were rarely still, whose faith was deep and steady, and whose greatest joy was bringing people together. We come with sorrow because we will miss her. But we also come with hope because Alice herself taught us where to place our trust: in Jesus Christ.

In the Gospel today, we hear the Beatitudes. At first glance, they seem strange. Jesus says, “Blessed are the poor in spirit… Blessed are those who mourn… Blessed are the merciful… Blessed are the pure of heart.” These are not descriptions of the world's most powerful people. They are descriptions of holy people.

And as I listened to the story of Alice's life, I could not help but hear echoes of those Beatitudes.

Blessed are the merciful.

Alice spent countless hours serving others. She volunteered through her parish, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, with the Altar Society, St. Vincent de Paul Food Bank, religious education, schools, Camp Fire, and children's art programs. She didn't seek recognition. She simply saw a need and responded. Her basket of thank-you cards tells a story not of accomplishments but of generosity. She understood that faith is not merely something we believe—it is something we live.

Blessed are the pure of heart.

For Alice, faith and family were never in competition. They belonged together. Her family said that family was her number one love and faith was a very close second. In truth, the two nourished one another. Her Catholic faith shaped the way she loved her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and all who entered her life.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

Alice knew grief. She experienced the loss of siblings. She mourned her beloved husband John after more than fifty years of marriage. She carried the heartbreaking loss of her son Todd and daughter-in-law Gina. Yet even through sorrow, she continued to love, to serve, and to care for others. When Todd and Gina died, Alice and John stepped forward and raised their young grandchildren, Keyera and Michael as their own. That is not simply duty. That is sacrificial love. That is the love Christ speaks of in the Gospel.

And finally, blessed are the poor in spirit, those who know their need for God.

Alice's life reminds us that holiness often looks ordinary. It looks like cooking meals, keeping a home, helping a neighbor, volunteering at church, making crafts for family members, teaching children, caring for grandchildren, and quietly persevering through hardships. Holiness often wears an apron instead of a halo.

In our second reading, St. Paul tells us: “Whether we live or die, we are the Lord's.”

That is the great truth we celebrate today.

Alice belonged to the Lord in life, and she belongs to the Lord now.

For ten years she carried the heavy cross of dementia. It is a cruel disease that slowly takes away memories and abilities. Families often feel as though they lose their loved one little by little before death ever comes. Yet even in that struggle, Alice's dignity never disappeared. The image of God within her remained. The woman who spent her life caring for others was herself cared for with love and dignity in her final years.

And now we entrust her to the mercy of God.

The Book of Revelation gives us one of the most beautiful promises in all of Scripture:

"He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there shall be no more death or mourning, wailing or pain."

Imagine what those words mean for Alice today.

No more confusion.

No more suffering.

No more loss.

No more separation.

Today she sees the face of Christ whom she served throughout her life. Today she is reunited with John, with Todd and Gina, with Bryan, with her parents, siblings, and all those loved ones she longed to see again.

The Christian faith does not ask us to pretend that death is easy. Jesus Himself wept at the tomb of Lazarus. We grieve because love is real.

But we do not grieve without hope.

Because the final chapter of Alice's story is not death.

The final chapter is resurrection.

The woman who baked Christmas goodies, welcomed family into her home, served her parish, cared for children, raised grandchildren, loved deeply, laughed often, and trusted God faithfully has now heard the words every disciple longs to hear:

"Well done, good and faithful servant."

And perhaps that is the image I would like all of us to carry today.

Somewhere in heaven there is a great family gathering. The table is full. The loved ones who went before her are there. The laughter is familiar. The welcome is warm. And standing at the center of it all is Christ Himself.

Alice is finally home.

 

HOMILY – Pentecost 2026 – St. Kateri Tekakwitha

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Tonight we gather in the holy fire of Pentecost — a night of wind and flame, of longing and fulfillment, of the Spirit descending upon the world like living fire.

And tonight, as we celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit, we also remember a special saint whose life became a quiet flame of holiness among the Native peoples of this land: St. Kateri Tekakwitha whose relics and icon we are honored to have in our midst.

The relic with us tonight is the same one placed by a Catholic nun on the leg of a young Lummi boy named Jake Finkbonner at Seattle Children’s Hospital in late February 2006. His body was being consumed by a flesh-eating bacteria. Doctors didn’t think the boy would live through the night. But the minute Jake was touched by a saint, the flesh-eating bacteria halted.

The miracle of his healing is the reason her canonization in 2012 came through the Archdiocese of Seattle.  

What a blessing to have her and her escorts, and former St. Anne’s parishioners Kiara and Sophea with us tonight.

St. Kateri’s life story and journey to sainthood belong especially to the Native people of this region and to the Native communities of North America.

She reminds us that the Gospel did not come to erase cultures, but to heal, purify, and fulfill what God had already planted within them.

In our first reading from Genesis, humanity gathers at Babel. Everyone speaks one language. Yet instead of glorifying God, they seek to glorify themselves:
“Let us make a name for ourselves.”

Pride always divides.

Self-centeredness always scatters.

The tragedy of Babel is not their confused language itself. Diversity was never the problem. The problem was the human heart trying to rise without God.

And does that not still happen today?

We build towers of wealth, towers of politics, towers of technology, towers of ego — believing we no longer need the Creator. Yet despite all our advancements, the human heart remains restless, wounded, divided.

But Pentecost reverses Babel.

At Babel, humanity was scattered by pride. At Pentecost, humanity is reunited by the Holy Spirit.

The Spirit does not erase differences in culture or language. Instead, the Spirit allows every people and every nation to hear the mighty works of God in their own voice.

That is why St. Kateri matters so deeply.

Kateri did not stop being Mohawk when she became Catholic.

Grace did not destroy her identity.

Grace sanctified it.

The Creator had already placed within her people reverence for creation, respect for elders, silence, endurance, and spiritual awareness. When the Gospel reached her heart, those gifts blossomed into extraordinary holiness.

She became a bridge — between Native tradition and Catholic faith, between suffering and hope, between loneliness and divine love.

Kateri’s life was marked by suffering from the beginning. As a child she lost her parents and brother to smallpox. The disease scarred her face and weakened her eyesight (not unlike Jake’s face today). She grew up an orphan in a world marked by grief, conflict, and uncertainty.

Yet suffering did not harden her heart.

It purified it.

The world often mistakes holiness for power or success. But the saints teach us something different. Holiness is allowing God to love through us.

Kateri was quiet. Hidden. Simple.

She never preached to crowds. She never traveled widely. She never held power.

And yet the Holy Spirit burned within her with astonishing strength.

Tonight’s Gospel speaks directly to her life.

Jesus stands and cries out: “Let anyone who thirsts come to me and drink.”

Kateri understood that thirst.

She thirsted for belonging. She thirsted for peace. She thirsted for God.

And when she encountered Christ, she discovered the living water that no suffering could take away.

The Gospel says:

“Rivers of living water will flow from within (those) who believes in me.”

That is exactly what happened in Kateri’s life.

Though physically frail, spiritually she became a river of grace flowing through Native America. Her witness continues to water the faith of countless Indigenous Catholics today.

And notice this: Jesus says the Spirit flows from within.

The Holy Spirit does not merely visit us occasionally. The Spirit desires to dwell within us.

Saint Paul tells us tonight that “creation itself groans.”

We know that groaning.

We hear it in wounded families.

In addiction.

In violence.

In loneliness.

In the pain carried by Native communities across generations.

In the grief of lands and waters exploited without reverence.

Creation groans because the world longs for healing.

And the Spirit groans with us.

What a beautiful truth:
even when we cannot pray,
even when words fail,
even when grief is too deep,
the Holy Spirit intercedes for us “with sighs too deep

for words.”

I think St. Kateri knew those silent prayers very well.

She spent long hours in quiet prayer before the Blessed Sacrament. She loved the Cross of Christ not because she loved suffering itself, but because she recognized in Jesus someone who understood her wounds.

And that is why her holiness still speaks today.

In a noisy world, Kateri teaches silence.

In a violent world, she teaches gentleness.

In a world obsessed with image and status, she teaches purity of heart.

In a divided world, she teaches reconciliation.

Most importantly, she teaches that sanctity is possible for every people and every culture when the Holy Spirit is welcomed.

Tonight, on this Pentecost Vigil, the Church asks us the same question posed to the first disciples:

Are we open to the Holy Spirit?

Not just occasionally.

Not only emotionally.

But truly surrendered to it?

The Spirit who transformed frightened apostles into saints …

the Spirit who strengthened martyrs …

the Spirit who guided St. Kateri through loneliness and suffering …

… is the very same Spirit given to us tonight.

Perhaps many of us feel spiritually tired.
Perhaps we carry grief, anger, fear, or disappointment.

But Pentecost reminds us:

          God has not abandoned His people.

The fire still falls. The living water still flows. The Holy

Spirit still renews the earth.

           And maybe tonight St. Kateri whispers to us from heaven what she once lived on earth:

Do not be afraid to belong completely to Christ.

For when the Spirit truly enters a human heart, even the quietest life can become holy fire.

By the way, Jake Finkbonner is currently in medical school. Another St. Kateri miracle!

St. Kateri Tekakwitha, Lily of the Mohawks, pray for us.

Homily - Jesse Garcia Funeral

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Today we gather in sorrow, but also in gratitude for the life of our friend and brother Faustino “Jessie” Garcia – known to his family at Junior. 

We commend to God a man who was known not by titles or applause, but by the steady witness of his life — a net setter for tribal fishermen, a talented artist, a father, a friend, a beloved brother, and humble soul who made his home among the Tulalip people for many years.

Though Texas first gave him breath, Tulalip became the waters where his spirit learned to belong.

And maybe that is one of the great mysteries of God’s providence: sometimes the Lord plants us far from where we began so that we may become exactly who we were meant to be.

The readings chosen today speak deeply to the life of this good man.

In the Book of Job, we hear the cry of a man acquainted with hardship:

“I know that my Redeemer lives.”

Job says these words not in comfort, but in suffering. He speaks them while standing in grief, confusion, and loss. Yet somehow faith still burns beneath the ashes.

Anyone who has worked the waters understands something about that kind of faith. A tribal fisherman knows patience. He knows uncertainty. He knows early mornings in cold weather, tides that do not cooperate, storms that come unexpectedly, and long hours when there seems to be little reward for hard labor.

Yet every fisherman returns to the water again.

Why?

Because hope is stronger than discouragement.

That same perseverance shaped the life we honor today. Jessie was not a loud man. Not someone demanding attention. He simply kept showing up — setting nets, creating beauty through his art, helping where needed, living quietly among the people he loved. And his smile was a gift to everyone he met.

There is holiness in that kind of ordinary faithfulness.

The world often celebrates power, wealth, and fame. But Jesus, in today’s Gospel, gives us a very different vision of greatness.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit.”

“Blessed are the meek.”

“Blessed are the merciful.”

“Blessed are the clean of heart.”

Those Beatitudes sound very much like the man we remember today.

The humble rarely realize their own greatness because they are too busy loving others.

Jessie knew how to work with his hands. He understood the rhythm of nature and tide. He created art because beauty lived inside him. And he lived close to the earth and water — places where God often speaks most clearly.

Artists and fish net setters actually have much in common. Both require patience. Both require vision. Both depend upon mysteries larger than themselves.

A fisherman casts nets into waters he cannot fully see.

An artist reaches for beauty that cannot fully be explained.

And both acts, in their own way, become prayers.

Psalm 23 tells us:

“The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.”

For a man who lived close to the waters, these words carry special meaning. The Shepherd leads us beside restful waters. He guides us through dark valleys. He prepares a table before us.

And finally, when our work is done, He brings us home.

That is what we trust today.

Not that death has won.

Not that life simply ends.

But that Christ, who died and rose again, has gone ahead of us.

Saint Paul tells us in Romans:
“If we have died with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with him.”

Through baptism, our brother Jessie was united to Jesus. The waters, poured over him long ago, became a promise — that death would never have the final word.

The nets he set throughout his life gathered fish from the sea. But now Christ, the true Fisherman, gathers him into eternal life.

And perhaps that image is fitting today.

After years of labor…
after years of tides and seasons…
after carrying burdens quietly…
after creating beauty and giving love in humble ways...

the Lord now says:

“Well done. Come and rest.”

To his family and friends: grief is real because love is real. The empty chair, the silence, the memories — these hurt because Jessie mattered deeply.

But do not forget this:
the Beatitudes promise that the gentle ones are never lost to God.

The world may overlook humble men.
God never does.

And so we entrust Jessie Garcia now to the Creator who formed him, to the Savior who redeemed him, and to the Spirit who guided him through every tide of life.

May the angels lead him into paradise.

May the saints welcome him home.

And may Christ, the risen Lord, grant him eternal rest.

Amen.

 

HOMILY- 4th Sunday of Easter - “The Door and the Voice” (English & Spanish versions)

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Have you ever answered a phone call from a number you didn’t recognize — and the moment you heard the voice, you knew exactly who it was? No introduction needed.

Something in the tone, the rhythm, the familiarity — it just clicked.

Jesus says in today’s Gospel, “The sheep hear his voice… he calls his own sheep by name and leads them.” The Christian life, at its heart, is not about mastering a rulebook — it’s about recognizing a voice.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus gives us two powerful images: He is both the Shepherd and the Gate. That means two things at once: He calls us personally, and He protects us completely.

He knows your name — not just the version of you that others see, but the real you. And He stands at the entrance of your life, guarding what comes in and what leads you out.

But here’s the tension: there are many voices in our lives. Some promise success, others comfort, others power, others approval.

And not all of them lead to life.

Jesus is blunt: “Whoever does not enter through the gate is a thief and a robber.” Not every voice deserves your trust.

So how do we recognize His voice?

Look at the first reading from Acts of the Apostles. Peter stands up, filled with the Holy Spirit, and speaks clearly: “God has made both Lord and Christ, this Jesus whom you crucified.”

The people are cut to the heart.

That’s one sign of the Shepherd’s voice — it pierces, it challenges, it calls us to change. It’s not always comfortable, but it is always truthful.

And what do they do? They ask, “What are we to do?”

And Peter answers: “Repent and be baptized.” In other words: turn around and come in through the door. Three thousand people walked through that gate that day — not into a building, but into a whole new way of life.

Then we hear from 1st Peter: “By his wounds you have been healed.”

This is the second sign of the Shepherd’s voice — it heals.

Jesus does not drive us with fear; He leads us with love, even love that suffers. “When he was insulted, he returned no insult.” The Shepherd doesn’t shout us into obedience — He draws us in by example.

So here is the question for us today: Which voice are you following?

The voice that tells you that you are only as valuable as your successes?

The voice that tells you to hold onto resentment and anger?

The voice that says you must carry your burdens alone?

Or the voice that calls you by name, that tells you that you are loved, and invites you to walk through Him into life?

Jesus says, “I came so that they might have life and have it more abundantly.” Not just survival. Not just getting by. Abundant life.

But abundance begins with a decision: to trust the voice, and to step through the door.

Today, maybe that means repentance — letting go of something that is not leading to life.

Maybe it means listening more intentionally in prayer.

Maybe it means trusting that even in suffering, the Shepherd is still leading you.

Because here is the truth: you are not wandering alone.

You are known.
You are called.
And the gate is open.

  

Homilía – IV Domingo de Pascua–“La Voz y la Puerta

¿Alguna vez te ha llamado alguien desde un número desconocido, y en cuanto escuchas la voz sabes inmediatamente quién es? No hace falta presentación. Hay algo en la voz que se reconoce al instante.

Jesús nos dice hoy en el Evangelio: “Mis ovejas escuchan mi voz… yo las llamo por su nombre.” La vida cristiana no se trata principalmente de reglas, sino de reconocer una voz.

En el evangelio de san Juan hoy, Jesús se presenta como el Pastor y también como la Puerta. Es decir, Él nos conoce personalmente y también nos protege completamente.

Él sabe tu nombre, conoce tu historia, tus luchas, tus heridas. Y Él es la entrada segura hacia la vida verdadera.

Pero hay un problema: en nuestra vida hay muchas voces. Voces que prometen felicidad fácil, éxito rápido, placer inmediato… pero no todas llevan a la vida. Jesús lo dice claramente: los que no entran por la puerta son ladrones.

Entonces, ¿cómo reconocer la voz de Cristo?

En la primera lectura de los Hechos do los Apósteles, Pedro habla con valentía, y la gente queda “compungida de corazón”. Esa es una señal de la voz de Dios: toca el corazón, incomoda, nos invita a cambiar. No siempre es fácil, pero siempre es verdad.

Y ellos preguntan: “¿Qué debemos hacer?”

Pedro responde: “Conviértanse y bautícense.” Es decir: cambien de dirección y entren por la puerta. Ese día, miles aceptaron la invitación.

Luego, en la primera carta del apóstol san Pedro, escuchamos: “Por sus heridas ustedes han sido curados.” Esta es otra señal de la voz del Buen Pastor: sana.

Jesús no nos obliga, no nos empuja con miedo; nos atrae con amor, con un amor que llega hasta la cruz.

Hoy la pregunta es muy concreta: ¿Qué voz estás siguiendo?

¿La voz que te dice que no vales suficiente?

¿La voz que te invita al rencor o al egoísmo?

¿La voz que te hace creer que estás solo?

¿O la voz de Cristo que te llama por tu nombre, que te ama, que te guía?

Jesús dice: “Yo he venido para que tengan vida, y la tengan en abundancia.” No una vida mediocre, sino plena, verdadera.

Pero esa vida comienza con una decisión: escuchar su voz y atravesar la puerta.

Tal vez hoy necesitas convertirte de algo concreto.

Tal vez necesitas volver a la oración y aprender a escuchar.

Tal vez necesitas confiar en medio del sufrimiento.

Recuerda esto: no estás perdido.
Eres conocido.
Eres amado.
Y la puerta está abierta.

 

HOMILY – Good Friday – Pilate’s Wife

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Ever heard the story of the wife of Pontius Pilate?

She played an important, yet understated role in the crucifixion of Jesus.

Her warning to her husband not to have anything to do with Jesus should stand as a warning for all husbands to listen to your wives!

About the time Jesus was being brought in, we hear the wife of Pontius Pilate was having a troublesome, fitful sleep. 

Legend has it she was being haunted in a dream by Jesus.

Historians say her name was Claudia Procula.

Greek scholar and early Christian theologian Origen was the first to mention THAT Claudia may have converted to Christianity.  

In fact, in the Eastern Orthodox Church and Ethiopian Orthodox Church, she is known as St. Claudia.

In last Sunday’s Passion narrative, we heard this passage:

“While he was still seated on the bench, his wife sent him a message, “Have nothing to do with that righteous man. I suffered much in a dream (last night) because of him.” 

Some may have a vivid image of Claudia from the movie The Passion of the Christ.  In it she is seen pleading with her husband Pontius Pilate to leave this innocent, holy man alone.

When she realizes her failure to prevent Christ’s crucifixion, we see her tearfully and shamefully giving the mother of Jesus a fresh, white linen to clean up the blood of her Son's scourging. 

Catholic philosopher and director of the New Saint Thomas Institute Director Dr. Taylor Marshall offers an interesting perspective on Claudia.

  In an examination of the tradition of Pontius Pilate’s wife, he found something remarkable, something astounding.

 He said “there is a ‘tradition’ that Pontius Pilate’s wife Claudia Procula had a dream of billions of people chanting ‘sub Pontio Pilato’ over and over and over.”

Anyone remember their Latin? 

What’s the meaning of the word “sub?” 

(That’s right.) The word means “under.”

In her dream she was hearing billions of people chanting “under Pontius Pilate.”

 Now think about that for a moment. Sound familiar?

 How many Catholics exist on the planet today?  

Estimates now place the number at about 1.4 billion.  There are another 300-million Orthodox Christians in the world today.  Add to that all the Catholics and Orthodox Christians who have come before us. And you have Billions! Billions of people chanting “under Pontius Pilate.”

 Starting to see what Dr. Marshall is seeing?  Or better yet hear what Dr. Marshall is hearing?

In both the Nicene Creed and Apostles Creed there is the same line: “under Pontius Pilate.” 

Dr. Marshall contends “What (Claudia) was hearing (in her dream) was the billions of Christians who recite ‘He was crucified (and suffered) under Pontius Pilate’” in the two Creeds voiced each week by Catholics and Orthodox Christians around the world. 

Dr. Marshall thinks, “Most women would be honored to know that their husband’s name would be on the lips of billions over a period of 20 centuries. But in the case of this Prefect of Judea, it is the notorious reputation of being the … cause of Christ’s crucifixion” that haunted her sleep and eventually may have converted her to living a Christian life.

As Dr. Marshall reminds us “Pontius Pilate’s name is in the Creeds because it anchors the life of Christ into human history, specifically Roman history.”

The story of Jesus has reverberated throughout two thousand years of human history.

Today, we do not rush past the cross. We stand before it. We venerate it. Because by the wood of the cross, Jesus did something remarkable for us. He opened the doors of heaven for all his believers. He reconciled us to God the Father. He set us free from the chains and bonds of the evil one in our lives.

His suffering is for us. That served as a wake-up call for a pampered and privileged Claudia Procula.   

Jesus hopes it serves as a wake-up call for all of us as well.

 

HOMILY – 5th Sunday of Lent 2026 – Come Out!

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Imagine standing in a cemetery at dawn. The air is still. The ground is quiet. Nothing moves. Nothing speaks.

If someone told you that life was about to come out of those graves, you might freak out! Or you’d probably assume they were speaking poetically — about memories, about legacy, about the way love lives on.

But today’s readings insist on something far more radical: God brings life precisely where everything appears finished.

That is the theme running through all three readings today.

In the first reading, the prophet Ezekiel has a vision of Israel as a field of graves. The people had lost their land, their temple, and their hope in the Babylonian exile.

Spiritually and politically, they felt dead.

And into that hopelessness God declares: “I will open your graves and have you rise from them.”

Notice what God does not say. God does not say, “I will give you encouragement,” or “I will help you cope.” God says, “I will bring you back to life.”

For people who felt like a forgotten nation, this promise sounded impossible. Yet God promises to place His Spirit within them so that they may live again.

That promise echoes in the second reading from Romans. St. Paul says that the Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead now dwells in us.

The same Spirit that conquered death is already at work within believers. In other words, resurrection is not just a future event—it is a present power.

But it is the Gospel that brings this truth into sharp focus.

We meet Martha and Mary grieving the death of their brother Lazarus. Their sorrow is raw and painfully familiar.

When Martha sees Jesus, she says words that many grieving people have whispered to God: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

It is a statement of faith… mixed with disappointment. She believes in Jesus — but she also believes He came too late.

And then Jesus says something extraordinary:
“I am the resurrection and the life.”

Notice that Jesus does not say, “I will bring resurrection someday.”

He says “I am” the resurrection.

Life itself is standing in front of the tomb.

Yet even after that powerful declaration, Jesus does something surprising: He weeps.

The shortest verse in the Bible — “Jesus wept” —reveals something profound about God. Christ does not stand at a distance from human grief. He enters into it. He feels our loss. He shares our tears.

But grief is not the final word.

Jesus walks to the tomb and commands, “Take away the stone.” Martha protests—because by now the body has begun to decay. In other words, the situation is not just bad; it is irreversible.

Yet that is exactly where Jesus chooses to act.

“Lazarus, come out!”

And the dead man walks out of the tomb.

This miracle is not only about Lazarus. It is a sign pointing forward — to the resurrection of Jesus Himself, and ultimately to the promise of eternal life for all of us who believe.

But it also speaks to something closer to our daily lives.

Because not all tombs are made of stone.

Some people live in a tomb of discouragement.
Some live in a tomb of addiction. Some live in a tomb of resentment or guilt or grief.

We all know what it feels like when something in our lives seems beyond repair.

The Gospel today reminds us that Christ specializes in places that look hopeless.

Think about the pattern in today’s readings:

-        A valley of dry bones.

-        A world ruled by death.

-        A sealed tomb.

These are not settings where life normally appears.

Yet God says, “I will open your graves.”

St. Paul says, “The Spirit will give life to your mortal bodies.”

And Jesus says, “Come out.”

The message is clear: God’s power is greatest precisely where human hope ends. 

And notice one more detail in the Gospel. When Lazarus emerges, Jesus tells the people around him, “Untie him and let him go.”

Resurrection brings freedom.

Christ not only raises us — He frees us from the things that keep us bound. Think about that one for a moment… 

As we approach Holy Week, the Church places this story before us for a reason. The raising of Lazarus points directly to the cross and the empty tomb.

Soon, Jesus Himself will enter the darkness of death.

But we already know the ending to the story.

The same voice that called Lazarus from the tomb will rise again in glory.

And that voice still speaks today.

It calls us out of whatever tomb we may be living in.

“Come out:”

-        Out of fear

-        Out of sin

-        Out of despair

“Come out.”

Because the God we worship is not a God of graves.

He is the God who opens them.