Ezekiel 37: 1-14 Marianne Niesen April 10, 2011
This scripture text from the prophet Ezekiel inspires all kinds of interesting images and responses and one of the most colorful is the song we just heard -Dem Dry Bones.Certainly, that image of a grizzled old prophet being set down in the midst of a valley of bones perks up even the driest of imaginations. We hear the deathly silence of the exposed graveyard of bones. They are white, bleached by the sun. Empty skulls stare at us. Bones are everywhere. Then, God asks a question of the bewildered prophet – who, even in a dream, had to be a bit (as they say) ‘weirded out’ by the whole thing . . . So, Zeke, can these bones live? Now, face it, what kind of question is that from the God of all the universe? I imagine as Ezekiel, a bit stunned even in the vision, throws up his arms and cries in desperation . . . You’re asking me? That’s your department! You tell me. Can these bones live?
To which God replies . . . tell them Zeke . . . live again they will. And the wind begins to blow and that’s when the rattling starts as bones come together (the toe bone connected to the heel bone and the heel bone connected to the ankle bone and the ankle bone connected to the leg bone and - so on) and flesh forms and muscles connect and breath billows forth. Life is restored. This is a graphic vision of resurrection. The impossible made possible. And the point?To bring hope in the midst of despair. To herald a future for a people who could only remember the tragedies of the past.
You see, Ezekiel was a prophet of the Exile. In the 6th century BCE, Judah had fallen to an invading army – the Babylonians. To these Jews, the Babylonians were a heathen people. Barbarians. Unbelievers. And they had lived up to their reputation . . . they had ravaged the women, pillaged the towns, destroyed the temple and then taken away the priests and religious leaders, the wealthy and powerful, the skilled workers and the educated to Babylon where they lived in exile from their beloved homeland. Ezekiel, a priest, was one of those carted away, condemned to a future without Jerusalem, without a temple – and, so, without a job!As the psalmist wrote…by the rivers of Babylon, there we sat and wept as we remembered Zion; there we hung up our harps ... for how can we sing the songs of the Lord in a foreign land?
We don’t really know what life was like for them in exile. Certainly they were probably fed and clothed and given places to live. But, it was still a foreign land, bereft of so much of what gave life meaning. Not only that, among their last memories would have been seeing their homes and the temple destroyed. Even if they could have gone back, what would they have gone back to? Scenes of violence and fire were etched in their memories. They smelled the smoke of destruction in their dreams. Like all exiles, they must have struggled with loneliness and despair. Most of all, they must have felt hopeless at that deepest level of the human spirit – that place where we ask questions like why?Where are you God? And for how long must we endure here?Truly their exile would have seemed endless and they would have felt abandoned, wondering if God was even listening anymore. Hope is a powerful emotion in the human heart. It is what compels us forward against all odds. It is that thing that keeps us living and breathing even in the midst of great suffering or pain. But when we see our temples destroyed, our ‘promised lands’ laid waste, our loved ones taken away, hope can become an elusive commodity. When the exiles remembered the distance (spiritual, emotional, physical) between themselves and home, hope was a blessing they felt they could ill afford. We are lost. Dried up. Dead. Like bones in a desert – discarded and barren.
And so, God called Ezekiel, the newly unemployed priest to a new job. He would be a prophet. It was like a divine re-tooling plan. Ezekiel, who had been a steward of holiness as a priest, would becomea steward of hope as a prophet. And so it happened that he, who - as a priest - would never have dreamed of going anywhere near bones found himself plopped right in the middle of them. Dirty. Unclean. Lifeless. Hopeless. Could a priest of God find himself in a worse place than among a bunch of bones?This was truly a ‘re-education’! And yet it is precisely there, in the center of ‘worseness’ that the priest-turned-prophet hears God’s voice and is assured of God’s presence. Right therein the midst of death. Be my messenger, Zeke! Prophesy to these bones, Zeke! Life abounds even here. Hope will win out. Tell them. Tell them! And, when Ezekiel told the people his vision, they must have known it was divine – no priest of the Lord would have made something like that up! If there is hope amidst bones, there is hope! If those bones – these bones – our bones can live, nothing is impossible!
Several years ago on one of our journeys to the Holy Land, Lyle and I had the opportunity to visit St. George’s Monastery in the WadiKelt. (Picture #1)It was here in the 5th century that several hermits went to live. They lived solitary lives, fasting and praying in small caves carved into the rock walls above the wadi –a dry river bed. (Picture #2) The gathering of monks must have grown in size and eventually there was a communal living area – also carved into the rock wall. It is quite a sight to see and is accessible from the old road that goes from Jerusalem to Jericho. (Picture #3) It is a road no longer used so we haven’t been able to even get close to it for the last few years.
The monastery was destroyed by the Persians in 614 as their armies made their way to conquer Jerusalem, laying waste all they could along the way. All the monks were killed. Several hundred years later, the monastery was rebuilt and then fell into ruin and was eventually rebuilt again in the early part of the 20th century. (Picture #4) Greek Orthodox monks live and pray there now and, we were told,are very hospitable toward the few visitors that venture to the place. It is about a mile walk on a rugged – and somewhat treacherous - rock path. The day we went seemed cool until we experienced the relentless heat of the sun bearing down on us. There was no shade. And there were no sounds, really, except those of our feet on the rocks. We all wondered what our reception would be. (Picture #5) Above us, we could see the small hermit caves, some clearly still in use. As we approached the front iron gate, any anxiety we had quickly dissipated when a bearded monk with a broad smile held out his arms and welcomed us – in English – and offered a cool drink – lemonade, I think. Then, we were shown around. Every part of the place was austere, simple and yet elegant. After the heat of the desert, it was surprisingly cool inside. There was an air of eternal holiness about the place – and nowhere did I feel that more than when we visited the chapel. The mosaic floor was the original one, dating from around the 6th century. (Picture #6) But we were all speechless when we saw the bones and skulls in display cases around the room. They are the bones of the monks massacred by the Persians in 614. The monks who live there now pray every day surrounded by the bones of their spiritual ancestors.
Imagine the day those men were killed. Surrounded by a foreign army, they knew their lives on earth were over. I don’t imagine them begging for mercy. I imagine them praying for their killers – just as Jesus had done. Their bodies were left where they fell as their murderers made their way to the bigger prizes in Jerusalem. And aprofound silence fell on the monastery that day – a very different silence from the prayerful quiet the monks kept. And it remained that way for several hundred years. The sun shone and the wind blew and the bones dried out. And the question that must have echoed in the silence was… can these bones live? (Picture #7) Is there hope when even peace-loving monks can be so easily slaughtered? Will anyone find this place again? Live here? Love here? Pray here? As we visited the monastery that day, the presence of those bones was not eerie. Instead, they gave witness to the eternal hope that death and hatred and violence will never have the final word. (Picture #4) The monks who died there then and those who live there now give witness to God’s assurance that somehow, life breathes on. Love wins. God endures. Hope holds fast.
Today is confirmation Sunday. This story of the dry bones must seem a strange one to choose when we welcome our newest members of the church. Life looms ahead for them. They are full of hope and plans for the future. Surely there is a better prophet than old Ezekiel and a better image than dry bones for this day. Perhaps there is. But, as I thought about it, I also realized that our young people know more than we’d like to admit about the challenges of life today. They face them every day at school. They hear the news. Our nation has been at war most of their lives. They have seen more pictures of death and suffering on television and in movies and the media than I ever witnessed growing up. They know about dry bones. The dry bone challenges of living that our youth will face are different from the ones of the past but life will always pose challenges. I hope that a grounding in faith will help them find a solid place to stand. I hope that our young people confirmed today are assured that the breath of life and hope that God promised and that Ezekiel prophesied was not just for the exiles of long ago but is for all of us as well. God still promises that the bones of our lives will be connected and that life and love win. Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones never need have the final word.
Just a couple days ago, I received a booklet from the Alumnae Association of the College of St. Teresa where I did my undergraduate work. I haven’t had any mail from them for several years. The college itself is closed now and has been for over 20 years. Most of the buildings were sold to another college in town and to a local high school. There are good things happening but, still, the place as I knew it is gone. So, I was rather disinterestedly flipping through the mailing when I came across little news blurb about one of the nuns I had known. Sr. Vera. Interesting, I thought. I wonder where she is now… and then I read . . .
“A party was held for Sister Vera’s 99th birthday. This party, hosted by the St. Mary’s Hospital Auxiliary Volunteers, celebrated the woman whose patient-care career began in 1941, and is showing no signs of slowing down. Sister Vera started as a surgical nurse at the hospital during World War II. Today, she’s a volunteer chaplain, dispensing comfort and cheer to patients and their families. In fact, on her appointed rounds, this Franciscan nun still logs 12 miles of hospital corridor per day . . . when Sister Vera was asked about the secret of her long and productive life, she was quick in her response. “Say yes!” she said. “Do not miss anything. If someone asks you to a ball game, say yes! If you are asked to a dance, say yes! Be ready to go. Be ready to go where the Lord leads you. Be ready to give to others!”[1]
Dem is not dry bones in this lady! And her words are every bit as powerful a prophecy as those of Ezekiel. How do we bring dry bones to life? We say ‘yes.’ And in our yeses, we try again. We hang our hats on hope. If Sr. Vera continues to say yes to dancing and ball games and 12 miles of hospital corridor, so can we! And deeze bones will live too!
