We Had Hoped -- Third Sunday of Easter

Luke 24:13-35

April 26, 2020

            18 was not an easy time for me. I was going to college at a Junior College in Nashville, but I had not yet left home. I was technically an adult, but I could not have told you what being an adult meant. I loved my parents, but I was not relating to them very well, especially my father. Life seemed to be getting more and more confusing, so I went to see a counselor for the first time, to try and help me sort through my struggles. After seeing him for a couple of months, my counselor gave me an assignment. My dad and I had to go to dinner, just the two of us. He wanted us to spend time in a situation where there were no distractions of television or the newspaper or homework. We had to be in a place where we could not leave the table and disappear into another room. My assignment was to go to dinner with my dad, and we had to talk with one another.

            I went home and told my dad this, and he took it seriously. He made a reservation for us at a restaurant. You remember going to restaurants, don’t you? Those were the days. Anyway, Dad and I went to Maude’s Courtyard. It was a nicer sort of place, and I was 18 and awkward already. Being on a dinner date with my dad at a nicer restaurant where the maître d did things like pull my chair out for me and help me take off my jacket made me feel even more awkward and embarrassed.

            The evening started off a little uncomfortably – the last time my dad and I had eaten out like this was when I was nine – but as we ate our meal, something changed. We relaxed. My dad, who was very shy relaxed and opened up. He started to talk, and he started to tell me things about himself; things I never knew. I relaxed and started to listen to him. I do not remember everything we talked about that night, but I do remember that he confessed he almost failed geometry in high school. This was a revelation for me: first, because I barely passed geometry as well. Secondly, because I never considered that my dad might fail – or almost fail – at something, at anything. My dad was such a responsible, get stuff done person, I never thought about him struggling to understand something. Up until that night, I had not thought about him being anyone more than my dad. He was the guy who worked really hard, traveled a lot and went to endless meetings, took us to church on Sundays, helped my mom with cleaning the house, worked in the yard, killed bugs when necessary, etc. I loved him, but I had never really seen him before. But in sharing that meal together, my eyes were opened to my father. It was in the breaking of bread that I finally saw him.

            It was in the breaking of the bread that Cleopas and his companion realized that this stranger they had invited to dinner was Jesus, their Teacher. Phrases from this story in Luke’s gospel are often used to preface our coming to the communion table together.

            According to Luke’s gospel, when Jesus took the bread and blessed and broke it, their eyes were opened and they recognized him.

            But scholars that I turn to for help in preaching emphasized that this meal Jesus shared with the two he met on the road to Emmaus was not necessarily a eucharistic meal. This story was not told with the purpose of instituting something. It was just another meal that they shared with a stranger they met on the road to Emmaus.

            Hospitality was and is the mandate of that land and that culture, so it should not surprise us that Cleopas and the other one asked this stranger to join them for a meal when they reached the village.

            Cleopas and – I hate that I don’t have a name to use, so I’m going to call him Burt – Cleopas and Burt were walking to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles away from Jerusalem. As they were walking, they were discussing all the things that had happened in the last three days. Jesus, their beloved Teacher, was executed by the state. His body was placed in a tomb. Some women who had come with Jesus from Galilee, went back to the tomb with their spices to take care of Jesus. But they didn’t find Jesus, they found the stone rolled away and Jesus’ body gone. Two men in dazzling clothes suddenly appeared next to them and asked them why they were looking for the living among the dead. The women ran back and told the male disciples what they had seen and heard, but the men thought their words were nothing more than an idle tale. Peter did get up and go to the tomb to see for himself, and yes he was amazed, but there was nothing more he could do so he went home.

            As Cleopas and Burt were discussing these things, Jesus himself came near them. But Luke tells us that their eyes were kept from seeing him, recognizing him. So when he asked what they were talking about, they both just stopped walking. And they looked as bereft and sad as they felt. And they were clearly astonished that this stranger did not know what they were talking about; the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth was the biggest news in Jerusalem and the surrounding areas. They said as much to Jesus.

            “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?”

            Jesus encouraged them, “What things?”

            “The things of Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”

            They give Jesus a summary of what happened, of what the women said. And Jesus responds with his own astonishment at their foolishness and slowness of heart to believe all that the prophets have said about the Messiah. So he interprets the scriptures concerning the messiah for them. They reach the village, he starts to leave them, they invite him for a meal. At the table he does something that they had seen him do hundreds of time. He takes bread and blesses and breaks it, then their eyes were opened. The man that they knew, the Teacher they followed, the prophet they learned from, the Messiah they put all their hopes into, was with them again. Then he was gone from their sight.

            And the two look at each other and smack their foreheads at their inability to recognize him. “Were not our hearts burning within us?”

            There’s a lot more that is said, but what stood out to me in this time of preparation of this familiar and beloved passage are the words, “We had hoped.”

            One colleague of mine said this week that hope is tied to anticipation. In spite of what the women had seen and told the men, in spite of what Jesus himself had been telling and teaching to the disciples while he was still with them, in spite of the promises of scripture that they both knew, their hope was tied to their anticipation that Jesus would be the messiah they thought they wanted. But Jesus was killed, and even though recent evidence pointed to the contrary, dead is dead. So with their anticipation at who Jesus might be gone, so was their hope.

            We had hoped.

            I bet we had hoped for a lot of things by now, hadn’t we? We had hoped that the church would be open. We had hoped that all of this strangeness and uncertainty would be behind us. We had hoped that we would have returned to normal, whatever our normal might be, by now.

            But even without a pandemic, I hope for so much in the days leading up to Easter. And every year it feels as though my hopes are not only disappointed, but severely dashed.

I had hoped that I would be different, that I would feel different, more like the Easter person I am supposed to be. I had hoped that I would act more like an Easter person is supposed to act, joyful, grateful all the time, hopeful all the time.

I had hoped the world would be different, reflecting the resurrection. I had hoped that the whole world would reflect new life! Love! Peace! Joy! But the world never seems to get the memo.

Yet, maybe just maybe, this year, this Eastertide more than any other we have ever experienced, is really a tremendous gift. We have been given the gift of seeing that Jesus really does meet us wherever we are. Jesus meets us in this sanctuary, and Jesus meets us in our family rooms and living rooms and kitchens. We see that the risen Christ is not bound to the walls we build. We see that God is alive in strangers and visible in the breaking of bread or in the breaking of a Triscuit.

We are walking down a road we never expected or wanted. We hoped to be on a different road, a normal road, but isn’t that Jesus walking with us? Are not our hearts burning? Jesus is here, and Jesus is there. We had hoped, but maybe what we hoped for was limited by our anticipation of what we think is normal and to be expected. In this time when normal no longer exists, Jesus meets us where we are. Our hopes are not only fulfilled, they are expanded. Jesus meets us where we are. Jesus meets us.

Amen and amen.

Peace Be With You -- Second Sunday of Easter

John 20:19-31

April 19, 2020

            Sometime in the years after Mother Teresa died, private writings of hers came to light. They were journals and letter, in which she wrote about her doubt. She wrote about her struggles with her faith. She wrote about trying to reconcile what she believed with what she saw on a daily basis in her work. And what she saw on a daily basis was some of the most extreme poverty in the world. She saw people who were outcasts because of their caste, because of physical disease and deformities, because of the terrible, gut twisting, mind blowing poverty in which they suffered. Mother Teresa, who was considered a saint long before she died, had doubts.

            I remember when these papers first came out, that there was an outcry. Mother Teresa confessing to doubt rattled the faith of some. Others saw this as proof that this humble woman was really a victim of the abusive institution that we call the church. But I’ll be honest, when I first heard about this I thought, “She was real. She was a real human being, a real person, who struggled and questioned and pushed back at God just like so many people … just like me.

            Doubt and I walk hand-in-hand. But that is something I hesitated to admit for a long, long time, especially as a pastor, and also because of stories like this one from John’s gospel; the story that I grew up hearing referred to as “Doubting Thomas.”

            I have been called a lot of things in my life; been given a few nicknames, some that I don’t mind and some that I hope have been forgotten. But one thing I never wanted to be called was “Doubting Thomas.” Whoever might be referring to you as a Doubting Thomas made it clear from their tone, their expression, the downward, disapproving turn of their mouth, that to be a Doubting Thomas was to be bad. If you were a Doubting Thomas, that meant that you didn’t believe, that you didn’t have a good, strong faith. It meant that you were somehow not right with God. Doubt equaled bad. Faith equaled good.

            But it seems to me, and I have said this before and I will say it again, the interpretations of this passage over the centuries has given Thomas the short end of the stick. Because in truth, Thomas was no different than the other disciples.

            When Jesus first appeared to them, they were hiding in a locked room, fearful that the authorities would come for them the same way they came for Jesus. And this is after the empty tomb. This is after Mary Magdalene ran to them and cried, “I have seen the Lord!” Easter had not changed them much. They were hiding. They were scared, and I suspect they were filled with doubt.

            But locked doors could not keep Jesus out. He came to them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he showed them his hands and his side. Again, he said, “Peace be with you. As my Father has sent me, so I send you.” And he breathed on them, giving them the Holy Spirit. This is John’s Pentecost.

            But Thomas was not there. For whatever reason, he was not with the other disciples behind those locked doors. He didn’t witness Jesus risen. He didn’t see the wounds on Jesus’ hands and side. The others told him the same thing Mary told them, “We have seen the Lord.” But Thomas has the boldness to say out loud what he wants, what he needs for belief.

            “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

            Thomas wanted to see what the other disciples saw. Did that mean he was doubtful? Maybe, but doubt and faith are not opposites. Doubt and faith are different sides of the same coin. The opposite of faith is not doubt, it is certainty. Faith is, as William Sloan Coffin wrote, “Trusting without reservation.” Certainty is more about wanting to be right than it is about being faithful. And faithful is not just about what we believe or don’t believe. Faithful is also about what we do, about how we try to live.

            Mother Teresa saw some of the worst consequences of sin imaginable. And I’m not referring to the sin of the people she served and cared for. I am referring to the sin that values some lives more than others. The sin that states that some lives are expendable. The sin that places the material over the person. And because of what she saw, what she lived, she struggled with doubt. But heres’ the thing, she never stopped being faithful. She never walked away because of her doubt. She never turned her back on God because of her doubt. Doubt and faith and not opposites.

            And as for Thomas, when Jesus does to come him and gives him what he asked for, he responds with the most extraordinary confession of faith in scripture, “My Lord and my God!” Joy J. Moore, a professor at Luther Seminary and a contributor to WorkingPreacher wrote that “when the other disciples saw Jesus, they rejoiced. When Thomas saw Jesus, he praised. There’s a difference.”

            We are living through a time of unprecedented uncertainty, and if you are struggling with doubt you are not alone. But when Jesus came to the disciples and then again to Thomas, he didn’t say, “Here I am. Believe in me!” He said, “Peace be with you.”

            Peace be with you. It was not just a greeting or even a blessing. It was a gift. It was nourishment. It was healing. It was, along with the Holy Spirit, what they would need the most to do what they were called to do. It gave them the courage and the sustenance to go forward. It was forgiveness so they could also forgive. It was grace. It was love. It was peace.

            Peace be with you. Jesus comes into the places that we lock off from others. Jesus comes into the places where we hide our fear, our disappointments, our pain. Jesus comes into our broken places and says, “Peace be with you.”

            We can have peace without certainty. We can have the peace of Christ even if we doubt. We can have Christ’s peace even when everything around us is chaos. Jesus assuages our doubts not with a demand for belief and allegiance, but with peace. Peace be with you. Peace be with you. My Lord and my God.

            Let all of God’s children joyfully exclaim, “Alleluia!”

            Amen.

What I Don't Want to Do

What I don’t want to do

is work on my novel

or practice my mandolin

or try to learn Spanish

What I don’t want to do

is read all the important

books I said I would read

as soon as I had time

What I don’t want to do

is organize my garage

or create some fabulous

recipe from cans in the pantry

What I don’t want to do

is practice yoga

with YouTube

or watch educational tv

What I don’t want to do

is pretend that this isn’t

affecting me, my family,

our health, our minds, our moods

What I don’t want to do

is act like I’m not scared,

scared of getting it

more scared of giving it

What I don’t want to do

is believe those who say my faith

is overshadowed by

my fear

What I don’t want to do

is give up

or give in

or lose hope

What I will do

is keep going, keep trying

keep getting out of bed

every morning

 What I will do

is allow myself

to feel everything I feel,

the good, the bad, the ugly

And maybe,

just maybe,

I will take a

nap

Empty -- Easter Sunday

John 20:1-18

April 12, 2020

            Standing here in a relatively empty sanctuary on Easter Sunday feels like something that every pastor fears – not just fears, but has active, cold sweat nightmares about. It is Easter Sunday, and no one comes to the church. Even in the smallest and quietest of churches, you can generally expect to have somewhat of a crowd on Easter. So standing in this relatively empty sanctuary on this Easter Sunday – well throw in some snakes, a math class that apparently I signed up for but never attended and a final exam I didn’t know about, and this could be a customized Amy anxiety dream.

            Except for it’s not. Outside of myself, Teresa, Charlotte, and my husband, Brent, this is it. The rest of you are home and hunkered down and waiting. What we are waiting for, normalcy, leaving our homes, going to work, going to church, to school, to playgrounds and parks, to Target or Walmart, unmasked and unafraid, well none of us knows when that time will return. We don’t have an end date. We can’t predict the future or how things might turn out. So we are waiting.

            More than one commentator and biblical scholar has made the point in the last weeks that we are experiencing an Easter much more like the first Easter than we ever have before. Our Easter services before this year, this Easter, tended to be filled with pomp and pageantry, wonderful music, flowers, bonnets, bright raiment, joyful singing and so on. Don’t get me wrong, when we can back to that, I will be leading the way in pomp, pageantry, etc. But the first Easter – the followers of Jesus did not even know it was Easter.

            Rolf Jacobsen of WorkingPreacher.org made the point that what so many of us do these days is wake up and look to see what Death has done during the night. Mary did the same thing. She went to the tomb, looking to see what Death had done in the darkness of the tomb to her beloved Teacher.

            But instead of seeing the consequences of Death, she saw the action of the Divine. She found the tomb empty.

            She found the tomb empty. The stone had been rolled away. She did not understand what she was seeing at first. She responded how any of us might have – she thought someone had come and taken away his body. Her grief at his execution must have been compounded by the grief she felt at finding him gone.

            So she ran. Maybe she ran blindly, tears stinging her eyes, stumbling as she went. She ran to find Simon Peter and the other disciples and told them what she had seen, what she thought she had seen. She must have been breathless and crying and scared and grieving when she reached them. Her words must have come out like a plea, like a command, like the anguished cry of a woman who has lost everything.

            “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.”

            Peter and the other disciple ran then. They ran together, but the other disciple reached the tomb first. He looked into the tomb and saw the linen that had wrapped his Teacher, but he did not go in. Peter came up behind him. He did not stop with just looking. He went inside. He also the linens, rolled up and left. The other disciple followed Peter in. He saw what Peter saw. The gospel says that he believed, but neither one of them understood.

            How did Mary make her way back to the tomb? Did she run after the two men? Or did she walk behind, slower, weeping harder now. What was the point in running? He was gone. She could not make him ready for a proper burial. He was just gone.

            She was weeping when she reached the tomb for the second time. She was weeping when the two male disciples inspected the emptiness. She was weeping when they left her there. She was weeping when she also bent down and looked inside. Maybe the angels in white were not there when Peter and the other disciple went inside; maybe they just couldn’t see them. But Mary saw them plainly. One sat where Jesus’ head had rested. The other sat where his feet lay.

            “Woman, why are you weeping?”

            Mary cried out once again,

“They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.”

With these words, she turned around and saw Jesus. She didn’t know he was Jesus. He was just a man standing behind her. He must not have looked like Jesus did, or else her grief kept her from truly seeing him. But Mary thought he was the gardener, the caretaker. And she cried out to him to tell her where her Lord had been taken. Please.

Jesus had only to call her name, Mary, and she knew. Her eyes were opened. Her heart was opened. Her mind was opened. She knew him. She saw him. He was alive! He was risen!

The tomb might have been empty, but the world was now full.

One of my Old Testament professors from seminary, William Brown, wrote a piece about lifting up the empty this day, this particular Easter day. The tomb where Jesus was laid was empty not because of what Death had done, but because of what God had done. The empty tomb launched resurrection into the world. The empty tomb launched new life into the world. The empty tomb was not really empty, and I am not talking about the angels who were there or the linen wrappings. The empty tomb was not really empty because God was there. It was empty only to those who could not see. The empty tomb was filled with the Holy and the power and mystery of our God. The empty tomb was filled with Life.

Our church is not empty this day. God is here. God is with you in your homes. God is in the world. And though the world still seems stuck in the darkness of Good Friday, and Death still seeks to do its worst, the grave does not win.

The. Grave. Does. Not. Win.

Christ is risen!

Christ is risen!

CHRIST IS RISEN!

What was empty is now full. Thanks be to God!

Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.

An Unlikely Parade -- Palm Sunday

Matthew 21:1-11

April 5, 2020

            The irony of reading scripture today that tells the story of a parade and a large, large gathering of people is not lost on me. We could not be living through a time that is more opposite than the one being described in our gospel lesson. In fact, as I read this familiar story again this week, it was hard for me not to be uncomfortable as I thought about all of these people lining the road, so close together. All those germy germs being passed around. All those unseen organisms being shared. As I read it, I really wanted to shout back through time and declare to them,

            “You need to keep at least 6 feet apart! Social distancing, people! Social distancing!”

            Since the beginning of this pandemic, people in different venues have been proclaiming that this was the Lentenest Lent people have ever experienced. Forget giving up chocolate or ice cream or fasting from social media, it feels like we’ve given up everything! But if this was the Lentenest Lent, then surely this will be the Holiest Holy week we’ve ever experienced as well.

            This is the week when Jesus will drive money changers and profit makers out of the temple. This is the week when Jesus will run head on into confrontation with the powers that be. This is the week when he will be betrayed by one of his own. This is the week where his time in the wilderness, fasting, praying, preparing, being tempted will come to its fruition. This is the week when everything that he has been trying to teach to the disciples will come to pass. This is the week where he will meet a prophet’s fate and a criminal’s execution. Holy does not equate to happy. In so many ways, this holy week will be a terrible, awful, sad, dispiriting and heartbreaking week. And for us, with the threat of this virus still raging, and so much of the future – I mean the future as in the next minute – completely uncertain, I suspect that this will indeed be the holiest holy week we have ever experienced.

            And it all begins with an unlikely parade.

            That is the event that we mark this day. That is the parade that we read about and preach and reflect on. An unlikely parade.

            I say the word unlikely, but in some ways, it was anything but. In particular, Matthew’s telling of the story lifts up the elements of this event that were foretold in the prophets. Jesus was well aware of the scriptures, and he knew what he was doing. He knew what his entry on a donkey and her colt would bring to mind, how it would look and how it would be interpreted by the people around him. In many ways, Jesus staged this event. When I say “staged,” I don’t mean that Jesus was being mercenary or manipulative. I think he was trying to drive home a point, the same point that he had been making all along. I am the one that you have been told about for so long. I am here. I am he.

            And the crowds seem to get it – at first. They quickly created their version of a red carpet. Some lay their cloaks down on the ground, and others cut leafy branches from the trees and laid those down before him. And all along the route, the cries were heard from the people who went ahead of him and the people who followed behind him,

            “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

            Hosanna, a word from Aramaic meaning “Save us.” Hosanna – save us! Save us, Son of David! Save us, O one who comes in the name of the Lord! Save us!

            You would think that all of Jerusalem would be thrilled at the throng of folks headed into the city. But the opposite was true. This parade, this strange and even somewhat crude procession into Jerusalem, the holy city, was greeted not with banners flying and accolades and shouts of welcome. This procession had the whole city of Jerusalem in turmoil. The word that we translate into turmoil is from the Greek seio. Our English word, seismic comes from that Greek root.

            Seismic, as in earthquake. Seismic as in ground shaking and rolling and roiling and undulating. The whole city of Jerusalem was shaking. The people were trembling and quaking. Earthquakes, for those of us who have experienced them, are unlike any of the other natural phenomena. They are loud and shaking and quaking and unnerving. They have the potential to cause a great deal of damage and certainly a whole lot of turmoil. So did Jesus.

            The crowds who processed with him were shouting, Hosanna, save us! But I don’t believe they fully understood what they were asking for. Jesus was coming to save them, true. But his salvation would shake things up, just like an earthquake. It would cause great turmoil to those who saw him as a threat. It would turn the world upside down. Jesus would not be the Messiah they expected. He would be the Messiah they needed. But many of them could not or would not see it that way.

            Those crowds, those fickle crowds, who threw their cloaks and branches before him, would also be the crowds who shouted,

            “Crucify him!”

            Jesus would shake up their whole world, but not in the way they wanted or expected, and they would turn – turn on him. Judas was not the only one to betray him.

            As we walk into this holiest of holy weeks, many of us are mourning what we are not doing this day. There is no procession of palms with our children. There is no greeting one another with hugs and handshakes. There is no gathering together for what lies ahead. And next week, next Sunday, Easter Sunday, will be more of the same.

            We know what its like to have our world turned upside down, don’t we? I suspect that virus or not virus, many of us already knew what it’s like to have our world turned upside down and fallen apart. Life turns our worlds on their heads over and over again, but this particular shaking is happening on a global scale. And some of us may feel as these weeks of isolation continue, along with everything else that is missing, that God is missing as well. It may feel as though God is absent. It may seem that God has left us to our own sad and inadequate devices.

            But the reason the week ahead is proclaimed Holy is because God was and is most definitely in our lives. It’s called Holy not because we say it is, but because God made it holy. Holy is not sweetness and light. Holy is not tranquil. Holy shakes things up. Holy turns our lives, our world on their heads. Jesus came into Jerusalem and the whole city trembled and shook because I think they knew that with his entry, nothing would ever be the same. And it wasn’t, it truly wasn’t. Thanks be to God.

            So even though we are afraid and anxious and wondering when and how all of this will end, we also trust – we must trust – that God is with us. God is with us in these uncertain and anxious days. God is leading us into this week, this holy week, and calling us to follow and to have faith. So we will. We will follow. We will go forward, together in spirit if not in body, and we will trust.

            In this holiest of holy weeks, we will trust that we are not cut off from our God. We will trust that God will stay with us through the betrayal of Maundy Thursday and the darkness of Good Friday. We will trust that Resurrection will come on the other side.

            Amen and amen.

           

           

Can These Bones Live -- Fifth Sunday In Lent

Ezekiel 37:1-14

March 29, 2020

            Our son Graham’s girlfriend has spent the last year working for an archaeological firm. She started off on site at the dig near Chattanooga. She told us that within the first days of the dig, they struck archaeological gold. They not only found remnants of a people: shards of pottery, tools, etc., they found remains. Bones. Human bones. And the testing on these bones found that they date back thousands and thousands of years. The archaeologists are learning and will continue to learn about these ancient people through the study of these bones.

            Bones tell a story. Bones can tell how tall or how short a person might have been. They tell of any diseases or accidents the person might have had. They tell the story of that person’s nutrition or lack thereof. Bones can give clues as to whether a person was a hunter or a gatherer; if they belonged to a group of people who stayed put and farmed, or lived a nomadic life, perhaps following herds of animals. Bones cannot tell the whole story of a person’s life, but they can lift up details that might otherwise be missed. Bones tell a story.

            What is the story being told by the bones in this valley the prophet Ezekiel saw? What is the story being told by these bones?

            Ezekiel had a vision. The hand of the Lord came upon Ezekiel, and then through the spirit of Lord, led him to a valley that was littered with bones. Ezekiel was brought to the middle of that valley. And he didn’t just stand there and take a cursory look at the shocking and even a little grisly site before him. No, God led Ezekiel all around the valley to look at these bones. What we have translated as led all around is correct, but we lose the ongoing sense of it. God led Ezekiel around and around and around this valley of dry bones. God wanted Ezekiel to see them. God wanted Ezekiel to see how dry they were, to see how bleached they were, to see that there was absolutely no life left in them. They were dead bones. They were dry bones. They were nothing but the bones.

            Then God asked Ezekiel what has to be the most astonishing, and dare I say nutty, question ever,

            “Mortal, can these bones live?”

            Can these bones live?! Can they live?! This is an entire valley filled with dry, dead bones. There is no life left in these bones. There is no life here in this valley at all. These are nothing more than the remnants of lives that once were. Can remnants live? Can bits and pieces be brought back together again into life? God, did you really just ask if these bones can live?

            But if Ezekiel had any of these thoughts, he did not express them. He answered God’s question with one simple, brief sentence.

            “Oh Lord God, you know.”

            Oh Lord God, you and only you know if these bones can live. If they are to live again, then only you can accomplish that. If these bones can live, God, then they will live because of you.

            So God told Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones. Prophesy to them to hear the word of the Lord. Ezekiel did as the Lord commanded. He prophesied to the bones. And with his prophesying, the bones came together: foot to ankle, ankle to leg, fingers to hand, hand to arm, vertebra to vertebra. The bones came together with a great rattling sound. Imagine the noise of that moment. Imagine the terrible sound of so many dry bones rising up from the dust of the valley floor and reconnecting, bone by bone by dry bone.

            Ezekiel looked and saw that not only had the bones reknit themselves, one to the other, they were also covered with sinew and flesh. But although they looked more like the beings they once were, there was still no life in them.

            God told Ezekiel,

“Prophesy to the breath, mortal, and say to the breath: Thus says the Lord God: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.”

Ezekiel did what God commanded and prophesied to the breath. And the breath of the Lord, the breath of life, filled them and they stood up, alive, a vast multitude. Than God told Ezekiel the story of these bones.

God told Ezekiel that these once dry bones were the whole house of Israel, exiled from their homeland, exiled from the land God have given them. These bones were the whole of Israel whose lives had been stripped down to nothing, whose hope had dried up; hope as dry as the dry, dead bones. But God told them that God would bring them up out of their graves, God would restore them to their own soil. God would breathe life into them again. God would put God’s spirit within them, and they would once more live.

Can these bones live?

I said before that this has to be the nuttiest question ever. But you know, I’m not so sure that’s true anymore. I realized in my study of this passage this week – a passage that I love and that I have studied and preached on before; in fact the conference I attended last fall in Montreat was focused on this passage – but this week I came to realize that the question for me is NOT can these bones live, but for what will they live now that they are actually alive again? Let me amend that, for whom will they live now that they are alive once more?

Can these bones live? Yes, God, if you want them to live, to come together again, bone upon bone, sinew upon sinew, they will. If you breathe your spirit of life into them, they will live. They will walk and talk and think and feel and hurt and love and live. But for what purpose will they live? For whom will they live?

We are all talking about when things get back to normal; what we will do, where we will go. But I think that just live other major events in our lives, we will mark this time as before the pandemic and after. There was life before September 11, 2001 and there was life after. Not everything that seemed normal before this pandemic will be normal anymore. We are going to have to figure out a new normal. But I hope with all my heart that the new normal will look and be better than the old. When some semblance of normalcy – whatever that may look like – returns after this pandemic, when the bones are once again alive, what will we living for? Who will we be living for?

I’ve been seeing a story about anthropologist Margaret Mead circulating on social media these last weeks. I don’t know if this is true or anecdotal, but it is a good story, nonetheless. According to the quote, she was asked once what marked the beginning of a civilization. It was assumed that her answer would be when learning or art or literature began. Instead she said that the beginning of a civilization could be found in the bones. When someone found a bone that had been mended, that was the beginning. Too often, broken bones were a death sentence. Someone could not walk or use their hands or arms, they died. But a civilization began when someone else worked to mend the bone of another person. That was the beginning of civilization, of community.

I hope our bones will one day tell the story that we tried to mend one another, that we cared for one another, that we realized that being made alive again was not about living for ourselves but for the One who made us, who created us, who loves us, who brought us back from the valley of dry bones. I hope our bones tell the story that we tried to mend one another because God first mended us.

Amen and amen.