There is a story in John’s Gospel about a man who had been in the tomb for days. His name was Lazarus. He was wrapped in burial cloth, shut away in darkness, separated from the world of the living. When Jesus came to the grave, he cried out with a loud voice,
“Lazarus, come out.”
And the man who had been in the tomb walked out.
For a long time I thought this was only his story.
Now I know it is mine.
I am Lazarus.
As a gay Christian living in East Africa, where the situation for LGBTQ people is perilous, I know what it means to live in a tomb while still breathing. The closet can become that place of darkness where you survive, but you do not fully live. You learn to hide your truth, hide your questions, hide even the parts of your soul that long to stand in the light. You pray, you worship, you smile, but inside there is a stone that has not yet been rolled away.
As a gay Christian, I know what it means to live in a tomb while still breathing.
Some stay in the tomb because of family. Some because of church. Some because of culture. Some because of fear. And some because they are simply trying to stay alive.
When the call finally comes—come out—it is not always loud. Sometimes it comes quietly, deep in the heart, where you realize that living half a life is no longer enough. You step forward, unsure, shaking, not knowing what waits outside the grave.
And when you come out, you discover something the story already told us.
Lazarus came out alive, but he was still wrapped. The cloths of the dead were still around him. The smell of the tomb was still on him. The darkness had not left him all at once.
And the Gospel says something else that we often forget—he had been dead for days. His body had not moved. His limbs had been still. His breath had stopped. Everything in him had learned the silence of the grave.
When someone has been in the tomb that long, you cannot expect them to walk like nothing happened.
Even those who try to unbind us sometimes forget this. They forget that the body had been immobilized in death. They forget that the mind had learned to be silent. They forget that the heart had stilled just to survive the darkness.
So when we come out slowly, when we hesitate, when we struggle, when we do not move the way they expect, they wonder what is wrong with us.
They ask why we are not stronger. They ask why we are not braver. They ask why we are not already whole.
But they forget how long we were in the tomb.
They forget that healing muscles takes time after they have not moved. They forget that eyes need time to adjust after darkness. They forget that a heart that has learned fear cannot suddenly live without it.
Those of us who have been called out are still learning how to live. Still learning how to breathe. Still learning how to move.
And while we are still learning to stand, the world around us sometimes reacts to the smell of the grave. People hold their noses. People step back. People whisper that it would have been better if the stone had never been rolled away.
Some are already ready to push us back inside, to seal the tomb for good, so they do not have to deal with the discomfort of our story. They see the stench, but they forget the miracle. They see the cloths, but they forget the voice that called us out. They see the weakness, but they forget we were dead.
Yet the command of Christ has not changed.
He did not say, “If he walks perfectly, then free him.” He did not say, “If he smells clean, then accept him.” He did not say, “If he acts like he did before, than let him live.”
He said, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
Unbind him while he is still weak. Unbind him while the smell is still there. Unbind him while his steps are uncertain. Unbind him even when the world wants the tomb closed again.
Those of us who have been called out are still learning how to live. Still learning how to breathe. Still learning how to move. Still learning how to believe that life is allowed for us too.
I am still being set free. I still bear the stench of death. My mind is still awakening. My eyes are still adjusting to the light. My body is still learning to move after being still for so long.
Do not be surprised that I walk slowly. Do not be shocked that I tremble. Do not rush me back into the grave because my healing makes you uncomfortable.
The world may hold its nose. Some may want the tomb closed forever. But I heard the voice that called my name.
I am Lazarus.
And I am still coming out.
