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Light in the Depths
A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC March 22 2026. “Ignite the Light” series.
Text: John 11:1-45
It is Women’s History Month.
And right now, there are real reminders that the struggle for women’s full dignity—in society and in the church—is not behind us.
Legislation like the SAVE Act (being debated this very weekend in the Senate) threatens to create new barriers to voting, not just for women, but most certainly barriers that will disproportionately affect women, especially those whose legal names no longer match their birth certificates.
At the same time, there is a growing movement in some corners of Christianity to restrict women from preaching and leadership. And I know this part isn’t abstract. In the clips of my sermons regularly getting posted these days on social media, it’s common to receive comments discrediting anything I say only because I’m a woman saying it.
Arguments against women in church leadership are often justified by appeals to scripture—some reflecting the norms of the time, others drawn from how women show up (or don’t) in the Gospel stories. You know the ones: “All the disciples were men!” //
Today, our Gospel story has a lot going on in it. Yes, the big reveal is Lazarus coming out of that tomb. But there is so much more: There is a political crisis. A theological crisis. And—if we look closely—a buried story. A buried female story. Because at the heart of this story is a question about who gets to speak the truth about who Jesus is—and what happens when that truth comes from a voice some would rather not hear.
John’s Gospel is organized around seven astonishing “signs.” The raising of Lazarus is the seventh.
And it is the one that gets Jesus killed. Right after Lazarus is raised, the religious authorities decide: “He must die.” Which makes me wonder—Jesus has healed before. Fed thousands. Turned water into wine. Why is this sign the turning point?
To understand that, we look back to the prophet Ezekiel. In chapter 37, he sees a valley of dry bones—an image of a defeated people. God speaks, breath enters them, and they rise. God says, “I will open your graves… and bring you back to your land.” This is not just about individual resurrection. It is about national restoration. Liberation. The defeat of oppression.
Now imagine living under brutal Roman occupation. And then hearing about a man who has just… opened a grave.
Do you see the connection?
This would not just look like a miracle. It would look like Ezekiel’s vision coming true. A sign that God is about to overturn the order of things. And hope—especially hope among the oppressed—is always dangerous.
So when the authorities say, “If we let him go on like this… the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation,” they are not being irrational. They’re being realistic. They’re thinking of how to keep the crowds from “poking the bear” of the empire. Because if the crowds start mobilizing around Jesus as the one who will raise Israel from the dead—Rome will respond with violence. Better, they think, for one man to die than for the whole nation to be destroyed. (John 11:50)
This is the political crisis. But there is another layer to this story. Another kind of burial.
New Testament scholar Elizabeth Schrader Polczer has spent years studying the earliest manuscripts of John’s Gospel—especially this chapter. And what she noticed is that in many of the texts, there are signs of disturbance. In more than one of our oldest copies, there are edits—visible ones. Names changed. Words scratched out. Singular turned into plural.
In particular, the name Mary appears to have been altered to Martha.
And in some places, what was once a single woman becomes “the sisters.”
Schrader Polczer’s careful reconstruction of the text from the most ancient copies suggests that Lazarus had one sister—Mary. One sister, not two.
Now, that might sound like a technical detail. A scholarly footnote. But stay with me—because this matters.
Schrader Polczer’s claim is this: that the Mary in John 11 may actually be Mary Magdalene—and that her role was later divided by introducing Martha into the story. Not invented out of thin air, but imported—brought in, she suggests, from the Gospel of Luke, where a different Mary and her sister Martha (no mention of Lazarus) appear in a completely different story in a completely different place—Galilee in the north, not Bethany near Jerusalem in the south.
In Luke 10, this Mary sits at Jesus’ feet as a disciple while Martha is busy serving. It’s a well-known scene. Early scribes would have known it well. And so, over time, it seems possible that this familiar pair—Mary and Martha—was inserted into John 11. And here’s what that does: It takes one central woman, Mary Magdalene, sister of Lazarus, and turns her into two. It diffuses her presence. It redistributes her voice.
Because if you read John 11 without Martha—if you imagine the earlier version of the text—Mary becomes the central figure. And not just any Mary. Mary Magdalene—Mary “the Tower”—a name that already suggests strength, presence, witness.
And suddenly, connections begin to emerge.
Mary is the one at Lazarus’s tomb in chapter 11.
And in chapter 20, Mary Magdalene is the one at the tomb again.
Mary weeps at the tombs of Lazarus and in the garden.
Mary encounters the power of life over death. In both places.
Mary anoints Jesus for his burial. (John 12)
Mary stands at the cross. (John 19)
Mary is the first witness to the resurrection. (John 20)
Mary is the first sent to proclaim the good news.
And if Mary not Martha is also the one who makes the great confession—then the implications are profound. Because in John 11:27, the one who says, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God,” is making one of the central declarations of the entire Gospel.
And if that confession originally belonged to Mary Magdalene then the first to confess who Jesus is and the first to witness his resurrection are the same person.
A woman. A central apostolic voice.
And here’s where things get tense. Because that kind of authority—in the voice and witness of a woman—has not always been easy for the church to hold. //
Polczer’s argument is not uncontested. This is real scholarship—debated, tested, ongoing. And it’s not about claiming certainty of intent. But it does suggest that the text may have been shaped in ways that had the effect of softening Mary Magdalene’s prominence, shaping a story in a world not yet ready to center a woman’s authority.
Polczer calls it a “wound in the text.” Not something that destroys the Gospel, but something that reveals its vulnerability.
And I want to be really clear here: This is not about discrediting scripture. It’s about taking it seriously enough to study it closely, to notice what is happening, to ask why it matters. Because what’s at stake is not just who was in the room in John 11. What is at stake is the theological issue of who gets to speak, who gets to lead, who gets to bear witness to the truth of who Jesus is.
And when you place that alongside the fear we see in the authorities—the fear that Jesus is stirring up too much hope, too much possibility, too much disruption—you begin to see a pattern. Because just as the raising of Lazarus threatens political systems, the elevation of Mary threatens religious ones.
But here is the good news. The Gospel of John tells us: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” Not will not. Did not.
Which means that even if something was buried in the past, even if something was obscured, the light is still there, still shining, still waiting to be seen.
So what does all of this mean for us right now in this Women’s History Month. In a time when laws are being debated that could make it harder for women to fully participate in our democracy. In a time when some are still arguing that a woman’s voice in the pulpit is somehow less faithful, less authoritative, less true.
It means that we have seen this before. When voices that carry truth and possibility begin to disrupt the status quo, those voices are sometimes resisted outright. And sometimes, more subtly, they’re… adjusted. Edited. Qualified. Split in two. Not erased completely—but reshaped into something easier to manage.
This is not just about Mary.
This is about all the ways God’s truth has been buried. And the question is not simply, “Did this happen in the text?” The question is: Where is it happening now?
Because the call of the Gospel is not just to notice the light, the call is to join it.
The same Jesus who stood at Lazarus’ tomb and called life out of death is still standing at the places where truth has been buried—and saying:
“Come out.”
“Unbind them.”
“Let them go.”
So this Women’s History Month, hear this clearly: The work is not finished.
But neither is the story. Because the light that shone in Mary Magdalene—a light that could be obscured but not extinguished—is still shining. And the darkness has not overcome it. So when you see something buried—a voice dismissed, a calling denied, a truth diminished—do not look away.
Call it forth.
Unbind it.
Let it go.
Because in the end, what God brings to life—a body, a truth, a voice—will not stay in the grave. Amen.
References
https://nwlc.org/press-release/house-passes-save-act-2-0-to-suppress-millions-of-eligible-voters/
https://www.christiancentury.org/interviews/signs-mary-magdalene-john-11#:~:text=Polczer%20has%20also%20studied%20John%2011%2C%20where,Martha%20was%20not%20a%20sister%20of%20Lazarus.
https://dianabutlerbass.substack.com/p/mary-in-john-11
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By Foundry UMC DC
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A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli with Foundry UMC March 22 2026. “Ignite the Light” series.
Text: John 11:1-45
It is Women’s History Month.
And right now, there are real reminders that the struggle for women’s full dignity—in society and in the church—is not behind us.
Legislation like the SAVE Act (being debated this very weekend in the Senate) threatens to create new barriers to voting, not just for women, but most certainly barriers that will disproportionately affect women, especially those whose legal names no longer match their birth certificates.
At the same time, there is a growing movement in some corners of Christianity to restrict women from preaching and leadership. And I know this part isn’t abstract. In the clips of my sermons regularly getting posted these days on social media, it’s common to receive comments discrediting anything I say only because I’m a woman saying it.
Arguments against women in church leadership are often justified by appeals to scripture—some reflecting the norms of the time, others drawn from how women show up (or don’t) in the Gospel stories. You know the ones: “All the disciples were men!” //
Today, our Gospel story has a lot going on in it. Yes, the big reveal is Lazarus coming out of that tomb. But there is so much more: There is a political crisis. A theological crisis. And—if we look closely—a buried story. A buried female story. Because at the heart of this story is a question about who gets to speak the truth about who Jesus is—and what happens when that truth comes from a voice some would rather not hear.
John’s Gospel is organized around seven astonishing “signs.” The raising of Lazarus is the seventh.
And it is the one that gets Jesus killed. Right after Lazarus is raised, the religious authorities decide: “He must die.” Which makes me wonder—Jesus has healed before. Fed thousands. Turned water into wine. Why is this sign the turning point?
To understand that, we look back to the prophet Ezekiel. In chapter 37, he sees a valley of dry bones—an image of a defeated people. God speaks, breath enters them, and they rise. God says, “I will open your graves… and bring you back to your land.” This is not just about individual resurrection. It is about national restoration. Liberation. The defeat of oppression.
Now imagine living under brutal Roman occupation. And then hearing about a man who has just… opened a grave.
Do you see the connection?
This would not just look like a miracle. It would look like Ezekiel’s vision coming true. A sign that God is about to overturn the order of things. And hope—especially hope among the oppressed—is always dangerous.
So when the authorities say, “If we let him go on like this… the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation,” they are not being irrational. They’re being realistic. They’re thinking of how to keep the crowds from “poking the bear” of the empire. Because if the crowds start mobilizing around Jesus as the one who will raise Israel from the dead—Rome will respond with violence. Better, they think, for one man to die than for the whole nation to be destroyed. (John 11:50)
This is the political crisis. But there is another layer to this story. Another kind of burial.
New Testament scholar Elizabeth Schrader Polczer has spent years studying the earliest manuscripts of John’s Gospel—especially this chapter. And what she noticed is that in many of the texts, there are signs of disturbance. In more than one of our oldest copies, there are edits—visible ones. Names changed. Words scratched out. Singular turned into plural.
In particular, the name Mary appears to have been altered to Martha.
And in some places, what was once a single woman becomes “the sisters.”
Schrader Polczer’s careful reconstruction of the text from the most ancient copies suggests that Lazarus had one sister—Mary. One sister, not two.
Now, that might sound like a technical detail. A scholarly footnote. But stay with me—because this matters.
Schrader Polczer’s claim is this: that the Mary in John 11 may actually be Mary Magdalene—and that her role was later divided by introducing Martha into the story. Not invented out of thin air, but imported—brought in, she suggests, from the Gospel of Luke, where a different Mary and her sister Martha (no mention of Lazarus) appear in a completely different story in a completely different place—Galilee in the north, not Bethany near Jerusalem in the south.
In Luke 10, this Mary sits at Jesus’ feet as a disciple while Martha is busy serving. It’s a well-known scene. Early scribes would have known it well. And so, over time, it seems possible that this familiar pair—Mary and Martha—was inserted into John 11. And here’s what that does: It takes one central woman, Mary Magdalene, sister of Lazarus, and turns her into two. It diffuses her presence. It redistributes her voice.
Because if you read John 11 without Martha—if you imagine the earlier version of the text—Mary becomes the central figure. And not just any Mary. Mary Magdalene—Mary “the Tower”—a name that already suggests strength, presence, witness.
And suddenly, connections begin to emerge.
Mary is the one at Lazarus’s tomb in chapter 11.
And in chapter 20, Mary Magdalene is the one at the tomb again.
Mary weeps at the tombs of Lazarus and in the garden.
Mary encounters the power of life over death. In both places.
Mary anoints Jesus for his burial. (John 12)
Mary stands at the cross. (John 19)
Mary is the first witness to the resurrection. (John 20)
Mary is the first sent to proclaim the good news.
And if Mary not Martha is also the one who makes the great confession—then the implications are profound. Because in John 11:27, the one who says, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God,” is making one of the central declarations of the entire Gospel.
And if that confession originally belonged to Mary Magdalene then the first to confess who Jesus is and the first to witness his resurrection are the same person.
A woman. A central apostolic voice.
And here’s where things get tense. Because that kind of authority—in the voice and witness of a woman—has not always been easy for the church to hold. //
Polczer’s argument is not uncontested. This is real scholarship—debated, tested, ongoing. And it’s not about claiming certainty of intent. But it does suggest that the text may have been shaped in ways that had the effect of softening Mary Magdalene’s prominence, shaping a story in a world not yet ready to center a woman’s authority.
Polczer calls it a “wound in the text.” Not something that destroys the Gospel, but something that reveals its vulnerability.
And I want to be really clear here: This is not about discrediting scripture. It’s about taking it seriously enough to study it closely, to notice what is happening, to ask why it matters. Because what’s at stake is not just who was in the room in John 11. What is at stake is the theological issue of who gets to speak, who gets to lead, who gets to bear witness to the truth of who Jesus is.
And when you place that alongside the fear we see in the authorities—the fear that Jesus is stirring up too much hope, too much possibility, too much disruption—you begin to see a pattern. Because just as the raising of Lazarus threatens political systems, the elevation of Mary threatens religious ones.
But here is the good news. The Gospel of John tells us: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” Not will not. Did not.
Which means that even if something was buried in the past, even if something was obscured, the light is still there, still shining, still waiting to be seen.
So what does all of this mean for us right now in this Women’s History Month. In a time when laws are being debated that could make it harder for women to fully participate in our democracy. In a time when some are still arguing that a woman’s voice in the pulpit is somehow less faithful, less authoritative, less true.
It means that we have seen this before. When voices that carry truth and possibility begin to disrupt the status quo, those voices are sometimes resisted outright. And sometimes, more subtly, they’re… adjusted. Edited. Qualified. Split in two. Not erased completely—but reshaped into something easier to manage.
This is not just about Mary.
This is about all the ways God’s truth has been buried. And the question is not simply, “Did this happen in the text?” The question is: Where is it happening now?
Because the call of the Gospel is not just to notice the light, the call is to join it.
The same Jesus who stood at Lazarus’ tomb and called life out of death is still standing at the places where truth has been buried—and saying:
“Come out.”
“Unbind them.”
“Let them go.”
So this Women’s History Month, hear this clearly: The work is not finished.
But neither is the story. Because the light that shone in Mary Magdalene—a light that could be obscured but not extinguished—is still shining. And the darkness has not overcome it. So when you see something buried—a voice dismissed, a calling denied, a truth diminished—do not look away.
Call it forth.
Unbind it.
Let it go.
Because in the end, what God brings to life—a body, a truth, a voice—will not stay in the grave. Amen.
References
https://nwlc.org/press-release/house-passes-save-act-2-0-to-suppress-millions-of-eligible-voters/
https://www.christiancentury.org/interviews/signs-mary-magdalene-john-11#:~:text=Polczer%20has%20also%20studied%20John%2011%2C%20where,Martha%20was%20not%20a%20sister%20of%20Lazarus.
https://dianabutlerbass.substack.com/p/mary-in-john-11