March 2026
Highways to Zion
Easter is not simply a day we arrive at. It is a road we are carried along.
Lent teaches us that we do not travel as the strong, but as the needy. We do not
move toward the Most High because we finally found the right emotions, the
right discipline, the right resolve. We move because He has already set His face
toward Jerusalem—and He brings His people with Him.
The readings ahead of us draw that road in several images, and they all have the same confession underneath: of ourselves we have no strength.
First, there is thirst.
Israel camps where there is no water, and the question
rises like dust: “Is the Lord among us or not?” It is an old
question, but it always feels new when your mouth is
dry and your patience is thin. The wilderness does that.
It takes what we hide and brings it to speech.
But notice what the Most High does. He does not answer
their grumbling with an argument. He does not hand
them a lecture. He places Himself where they least expect
it: “I will stand before you there on the rock.” And
the rock is struck, and water comes out—water not
earned, not deserved, not negotiated. The thirsty live
because the Most High provides where there is nothing.
Then John’s Gospel places another thirsty soul before
us—not in a desert, but at a well. And the Samaritan
woman does what we all do: she tries to keep the conversation
on safer ground. She circles around worship
locations, traditions, history. But Jesus is not there to
keep things safe. He is there to save.
He asks for a drink, and then He offers what no one else
can: living water. Yet before He comforts, He tells the
truth: “Go, call your husband.” Not to shame her, but to
uncover her. Because the deepest thirst is not in the
throat. It is in the heart. And Christ does not merely
soothe the surface—He goes after the wound.
And the moment He names her life, she does not run
away from Him. She runs to others with Him. She leaves the
jar behind—because when living water is present, the
old containers suddenly feel small.
Another week, the theme shifts from thirst to light.
The blind man does not climb upward into sight by
effort. Christ comes down into his darkness. Mud.
Water. Washing. And then conflict—because when the
Light shines, it exposes what preferred to remain unchallenged.
That is Lent too. We do not only confess the sins we
committed. We confess how much we love the darkness
because it lets us keep our own explanations. But
Christ does not give explanations first. He gives eyes,
and then He gives Himself: “You have seen Him… it is
He who is speaking to you.”
And then the road becomes even heavier: bones.
Ezekiel is led into a valley of very dry bones—
hopelessness made visible. And the Most High asks
the question we cannot answer: “Can these bones
live?”
We know the answer from our own strength: no.
We know the answer from our own experience: not
anymore.
But Lent keeps teaching us this: what is impossible to
us is not impossible to the One who speaks. The Word
is preached to bones. Breath is commanded to enter.
And the dead stand up—not because they cooperated
well, but because the Most High is faithful to His own
promise: “I will put My Spirit within you, and you
shall live.”
Then comes Lazarus.
Here, the road bends toward Holy Week with full
weight. Jesus does not hurry. He waits. He walks into
grief that has already settled into the house. He sees
the weeping. He feels it. He does not act like death s small. He does not pretend loss is an illusion.
Jesus weeps.
And then He does what only the Lord of life can do: He calls the dead by name. Lazarus comes out.
But that miracle does not end the conflict. It sharpens it. John shows us the quiet line that always forms when
Christ brings life: some believe—and others begin to plan His death. The closer we get to Easter, the clearer it becomes:
the resurrection of Lazarus is not only mercy for one family. It is also the final turn of the road toward the
Cross.
And here is the strange comfort: this road is not driven by our strength, but by Christ’s obedience.
But that miracle does not end the conflict. It sharpens it. John shows us the quiet line that always forms when Christ
brings life: some believe—and others begin to plan His death. The closer we get to Easter, the clearer it becomes: the
resurrection of Lazarus is not only mercy for one family. It is also the final turn of the road toward the Cross.
Isaiah says it with terrifying tenderness: “I gave my back to those who strike… I hid not my face from disgrace and
spitting.” Philippians says it plainly: He humbled Himself to the point of death—even death on a cross.
So Lent is not a motivational climb. It is a following.
A being-led.
A being-kept.
The Introit says it beautifully: “Blessed are those whose strength is in You, in whose heart are the highways to Zion.”
These highways are not paved with our victories. They are paved with His mercy. We are traveling toward a King
who comes through gates not to be honored by the worthy, but to rescue the unworthy. Toward a sacrifice bound
to the horns of the altar. Toward a tomb sealed and guarded. Toward a morning no guard can stop.
Easter is coming.
And the anticipation is not this: “We will finally do enough.”
It is this: He has already done what the Law, weakened by our flesh, could not do.
So lift up your eyes.
Bring your thirst.
Bring your darkness.
Bring your dry bones.
Bring your grief.
And come.
Not because you are strong—
but because He is faithful.
Pastor Quick
