Worship - 22 March 2026

Summary of this week's theme

A few weeks ago Bishop Richard Harries spoke about a new exhibition at Tate Modern, Tracey Emin: A Second Life. It reflects on the artist’s recent work and her recovery from cancer, which left her living with lasting physical difficulties. At one point she believed she would die, but as she put it, it was as though someone said, “Let’s give her another go.” She gave up alcohol and her fifty cigarettes a day, threw herself into her art, and began supporting young artists in her hometown of Margate. “I realised,” she said, “I could have my time back again.”

Bishop Harries’ reflection came at the beginning of Lent — a season that reminds us we don’t need to wait until death stares us in the face to begin again. Lent invites us to turn around, to recognise where we have lost our way, and to trust that God can breathe new life into the dry bones of our lives.

Many people know what it is to feel like those dry bones: after abuse, addiction, loss, illness, or grief. In such times, survival alone can feel like an achievement. The prophet Ezekiel’s vision of a valley of dry bones spoke to a people who had lost everything — their homeland, their security, their hope. Into that desolation God speaks: “O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord.”

In the Gospel, Jesus calls Lazarus from the tomb. But what brings Lazarus fully back into life is not only Jesus’ command, “Come out,” but also the instruction to those around him: “Unbind him, and let him go.” God’s life-giving work is so often carried out through ordinary human hands — through kindness, friendship, presence, and care. Many of us have known how a timely word, a phone call, or quiet companionship can feel like oxygen to someone struggling to breathe.

As Teresa of Ávila wrote, Christ has no body now on earth but ours. Through our hands, Christ blesses the world; through our voices, Christ speaks; through our presence, Christ offers love and companionship. God breathes life into dry bones through the lives of ordinary people.

In Liverpool Cathedral, above the west doors, a pink neon installation by Tracey Emin reads: “I felt you and I knew you loved me.” It is a powerful expression of life rediscovered and of what it means to feel truly alive again.

Our calling as a community of faith is not only to worship, but to be that body of Christ in the world — bringing others to know that they are seen, known, and loved by God. Jesus’ call to Lazarus is also his call to us: “Come out.” Come out of whatever entombs you, and make the most of the life you have been given.

We mourn, but we mourn in hope. The God who weeps is also the God who resurrects, and our journey is not to the grave, but through it — into new and transformed life