Can these bones live?

5 min read

Picture a valley. Not a green one. A valley covered in bones — dried out, scattered, bleached by the sun. Not just the odd skeleton here and there, but the remains of a multitude of people. Every bone a life. Every skull a story, a set of hopes, a collection of possibilities — all gone. Reduced to a vast pile spread across the valley floor.

Is it a sight of wonder and awe? Or one of deep sadness?

Over the past weeks of Lent, we've been offered some of the most memorable stories in all of scripture. Nicodemus coming to Jesus and being told he must be born again. The woman at the well being offered living water. The blind man having his sight restored. And now the raising of Lazarus. All of them point to the truth found in Christ's statement: "I am the resurrection and the life" (John 11:25, NIV).

As much as we could stay in the New Testament and pull apart the story of Lazarus, it is the Old Testament reading from Ezekiel that I want to focus on this morning. Because it is just as dramatic in its message of resurrection.

A valley full of questions

Stand in Ezekiel's shoes for a moment. Take in the vision that lies before him. This is the attitude of reflection we carry through the season of Lent as we consider our faith. How are we relating to God? Where does our trust in him sit? Are we still open to his voice and his leading?

Is there still spiritual life in these old bones of our faith?

The same question applies if we turn our eyes outward. Consider the state of the congregation we are part of, and the church as a wider entity. Aging congregations. A lack of young people and ministry agents. An increasing decline in the relevance and authority of the church as it sits in the 21st century. Is there life in — or any hope for — the old girl?

And it is this question that God asks of Ezekiel: "Can these bones live?" (Ezekiel 37:3, NIV).

Don't you love the prophet's response? "Sovereign Lord, you alone know." In other words: I haven't got a clue.

Daring to imagine life

What God is really asking is this: Can you see past all of this? Past the lament of what has been lost, past the darkness that pervades the future? Can you imagine that life still lingers there?

Do you dare to believe — even trust — that the power of life never evaporates to an extent that God's living water cannot revive it?

The message, whether we draw it from the dry bones or from Lazarus, is that even in our moments of exile, our deserts of hopelessness, even in death itself, God is present. And with him comes the promise of restoration, resurrection, and new life.

As we stare out into this valley of dry bones, or into a burial tomb, his grace breaks forth. It brings light and life. Words of hope that draw us from our tombs and from those places where we have laid down devoid of hope and a way forward.

Words that bring hope and life to us as individuals as we struggle with all that is around us — all that sucks the life from us. Words of hope and life to a faith community that is tired, a shell of its former self, and seemingly rejected.

Not an excuse to sit back

Here's the thing about the Ezekiel story. While God is capable of doing all things himself, and while we cannot do anything without him, we are not to see this — or our reliance on the Spirit's moving — as an excuse to sit back and presume that God will do it all.

We remain the hands of God. It is only reasonable to assume that we have a responsibility to participate in both the prophesying to and the practicality of God's restoration.

In the living out of our faith and hope, we are to be the evidence of the new life, the living water, which is Christ. We are to speak of the hope that is possible. For this is what the bones need to hear — whether those bones are individuals, our community, or our church.

Speaking to what we have witnessed

As much as we see desolation and death, if we are the people of God who are being called forward, if we are to see with the blind man's new eyes, if we are the Marys and Marthas who hold unwavering faith in Jesus, then we are to speak to what we have witnessed in our lives.

Speak to the hope which the empty tomb brings us. Speak to the hope of the resurrection life which we are offered.

The hope that shattered lives can be restored. That dignity can be reclaimed and self-worth rediscovered. The hope that our society can look with outward eyes and love with open arms. That anger and greed can be replaced by grace. That fear and suspicion can be replaced by love and trust. That lifting others up replaces our own self-elevation.

The hope that the church comes to the understanding that God's kingdom will survive — in forms which may well be far different to what we have held or can imagine. For it is not our church but his. It is not our kingdom, but Christ's.

Walking toward Calvary

As we draw near to the end of Lent, walking through the valley of dry bones that leads us to Calvary's hill, let us seek out the hope that will stir in us and sustain us through the extremes of Holy Week. The darkness of the cross. The apparent forlornness of the tomb.

May we recognise God's spirit of light and life. May we speak of it and be evidence of it.

For it is in this hope that we, our church, and our community will find the resurrection and the life offered by the risen Christ.

So here is the question to sit with as Lent draws to a close: When God asks you — can these bones live? — what do you say? Not what you think you should say. What do you actually believe? And what would it look like to live as though you believed it?

Based on a sermon for Lent 5, Year A, by Pastor Geoff Battle — Project Reconnect