If you somehow forgot to change your clocks this morning and “spring forward,” you can blame a man named William Willet.

It was Willet, an English builder and outdoorsman, who is responsible for Daylight Saving Time. In 1905, while horseback riding before breakfast, he noticed that a lot of fellow Londoners slept through the best part of the summer day. So he proposed moving the clock forward an hour during the summer months. His idea caught on, and it was eventually adapted by England in 1916, and by the United States two years later.

You’ll find a lot of debate these days about whether or not Daylight Saving Time is efficient, or if it saves money, or costs us.

But one thing that can’t be debated: it gives us something we desperately need right now:

Light.

I remember being shocked back in the middle of the fall when we first changed the clocks to “fall backward,” and I noticed how dark the church was at the Saturday evening mass at 5 pm.

Now, even on this bleak day, you can see hints of light. Spring is fast approaching. We are about to turn a corner. And it is happening to us in the liturgy, as well. In this weekend’s gospel, Jesus speaks of light: “If one walks during the day, he does not stumble, because he sees the light of the world. If one walks at night, he stumbles, because the light is not in him.”

It is a light that will soon shine on all of us. And not just because of Daylight Saving Time.

Next week, incredibly, we mark Palm Sunday. And then Easter. The ultimate celebration of Light, and Life.

And this Sunday, we get a beautiful foreshadowing of that feast, and Christ’s own resurrection.

In John’s gospel, we find ourselves standing outside the tomb of Lazarus, and watching the dramatic scene unfold – Christ calling out to a man who has been dead for four days. And we watch in wonder as that dead man staggers out.

During this gospel reading, we encounter such a range of human emotions. Martha’s frustration – “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Jesus’s reassurance – “Your brother will rise.” Mary’s deep sorrow. Even Christ’s own emotions, as he weeps for someone he loves.

But the most powerful emotion may be astonishment, as what seems impossible becomes possible, as life is restored to the dead. Disbelief becomes belief. Doubt is transformed into faith.

And it begins with Christ’s dramatic call to his friend:

“Lazarus, come out!”

As we near the final days of Lent, and we encounter this gospel, I look back on what this season has meant to us. It’s been a time of repentance and reconciliation. Prayer and perseverance. A time of sacrifice.

And when I read these words of Christ, spoken to his dead friend, I can’t help but think that he is addressing them not just to Lazarus, but to all of us.

It is the call that he has offered to us from the very first day of Lent, when we stood with ashes smeared on our foreheads. “Remember you are dust,” we were told. Turn back to the gospel.

In other words Christ was saying to us: “My friend, come out.”

Come out from your personal tomb. Come out from sin. Leave what is familiar, and dark, and dead. Come out. And I will restore you to life.

The tears that Christ shed for Lazarus are ones he sheds for all of us who are buried in caves of human weakness and sin. And so he calls to us. And he beckons us – not with a whisper, but with a cry.

“Come out!”

Have we heard him?

Have we answered him?

Christ’s final words in the gospel are words of quiet but profound hope: “Untie him and let him go.” Like Lazarus, we stand before God – bandaged, wounded, tied with our own personal burial cloths. We are prisoners, bound by brokenness. But he wants us to be free. He wants us to breathe again. To live again. To walk again in the Light.

Come out, he says.

Are we willing to take those first faltering steps?

Our 40-day Lenten pilgrimage is almost over. There is still time to rediscover the zeal that we all had on Ash Wednesday, when we proudly wore that mark of penitence on our foreheads. Maybe it’s a mark a lot of us left in the bathroom sink. But we should continue to carry it. In our hearts. And on our consciences. Striving, with every day, to continue our journey. To reconcile ourselves with one another, and with God.

At the beginning of Lent, I talked about how “giving up” begins with “giving.” Now might be a good time to do a little spiritual inventory. To ask ourselves what we have given. To our families. To one another. And to God.

Starting tomorrow, we’ll have another hour of light. What will we do with it?

And in two weeks, we will be embraced by the Light of Christ at Easter.

What will we do with that?

Now is the moment to reconsider. And to recommit. To open our hearts, and our ears.

Listen for the call of Christ.

It is a call to Light.

And a call to life.

Image: Raising of Lazarus by Juan de Flandes, 1500