Sermon: Presence in the Valley

Eva Englert-Jessen

Sermon: Presence in the Valley

Ezekiel 37: 1-14

There are few moments in human experience that can quite capture how profound a deep breath can be. I’m talking about the kind of breath full of expectation, that fills a body with energy, with fuel, with hope: the breath that the Mormon Tabernacle Choir takes together before the first note of the Hallelujah Chorus; the breath that Michael Phelps takes before plunging into a pool for a freestyle swim race; the breath taken before a big test, or while waiting for the results; the breath taken at the end of a long day, or when looking out on a beautiful landscape.

Breath has a very important place in our lives as people of faith, as well. We see a powerful example of this in our Old Testament reading for today, in the book of Ezekiel. Ezekiel is called to proclaim God’s presence in ways that seem rather... strange. His story begins when he is called in Babylonia by God through the image of a throne chariot of Yahweh. The entirety of the book is filled with images of Ezekiel’s visions of creatures and of a Jerusalem that is fraught with the aftermath of Exile.

In the story in Ezekiel 37, we are taken to a place most bizarre: a valley of dry bones. We read in verse 1, “The hand of the Lord came upon me, and he brought me out by the spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of a valley. [The bones] were very dry.”

This was not a happy place. It was desolate, a place pervaded with death; the bones had been there for a long time, as indicated by their dryness. The exiles who died in this place were cut off from their community, dragged into exile from their homeland by the Babylonians under King Nebuchadnezzar.  Where was God in this place? The text courageously asks this question. The first words spoken are by God, who is leading Ezekiel around the dry bones. God asks, “Mortal, can these bones live?” In other words, “What is possible in the midst of such despair?”

It is the same question God asks each of us- in our lives, in our church, our community, our world. Think of the dozens, the hundreds of examples of communities throughout history and into this very moment in this very nation and city and perhaps even in this very neighborhood--who have been cut off from one another, silenced or colonized and occupied by a foreign presence or nation, a coercive political power, or an empire? Think of the communities who throughout history have been removed from their homelands, forced to adapt to a culture and/or a language that is not their own? THis is what we are encountering in this story.

And then comes the spooky part in this story, after Ezekiel tells us God has placed him in this valley of dry bones. God commands the breath to enter, and the message is directly received  by the bones, which begin to rattle and quake and take on skin and flesh; bone becomes attached to bone, and after the Spirit- the ruah, which in Hebrew also means breath or wind--after the Spirit through Ezekiel puts breath in them, the exiles live. They stand together, “a vast multitude.” And they bear witness to their suffering: “we are cut off,” they say. “Our bones are dried up.” What is left, they utter? Have you ever asked that? Where are you, God? What is left?

And God, through Ezekiel, offers a message of the possibility of resurrection. “I will make my spirit, my ruah, come upon you. You shall live, and be placed on your own soil.” God through the prophet Ezekiel, who is intimately connected to this community of exiles, who experienced it himself, offers a powerful message of restoration and hope.

Can you imagine bearing witness to this story? Have you ever, in your own life and contexts? Have you experienced God as close as your breath, or experienced God in the midst of great desolation? Take a minute and think about that.

Now, this text in Ezekiel--this famous text of the valley of dry bones-- can be read at any time, and can carry meaning to a community on any Sunday or day of the year, especially depending on the circumstances of that particular community. But it is often custom to read it on the 5th Sunday of Lent, the last Sunday before Palm Sunday, during Year A,  of the three-year lectionary (I’m getting a little Bible geeky here… bear with me)... It is often read alongside the raising of Lazarus story. I’m preaching on it a little bit early, but in doing some prep work for today, it dawned on me that this text is completely appropriate for the middle of Lent.

Lent is a period of preparation, much like the season of Advent, but for a longer period of time and in anticipation of Jesus’ death and resurrection. It is a time to notice, to pay attention, to confront parts of ourselves and our communities that fall short, that are in need of God, that do not show the radical grace and love in the ways that God intends. It also means to uncomfortably come in contact with our own mortality, and our fear (and our culture’s fear) of death.

What this passage in Ezekiel offers us is both a glimpse of resurrection, and a reminder to acknowledge suffering: to name it. To be honest about it. What is more honest than a pile of newly stitched bones crying out that they are cut off, dried up,  feeling apart from God’s very presence? Ezekiel does not skip over this. Instead, he exemplifies a resurrection that is not brand new life, but renewed life; Life that bears witness to the suffering, the struggle, the experiences that have come before. Even Jesus himself does not resurrect without bearing scars. God knows deeply and intimately the suffering and exile that this community has experienced; God also participates in it, as Jesus does in his journey toward crucifixion.

If you’ve read the book of Ezekiel beyond this section, you have encountered some interesting (to say the least) images--a retributive God, a God who instructs Ezekiel to do some pretty strange things, like cook non-kosher food upon human excrement, and even some problematic texts that depict abuse against Israel as a wife. But perhaps the most important message that Ezekiel give us--no matter how strange--is that of the presence of God in the midst of terrible, alienating experiences. What makes Ezekiel such a striking prophet is that he dares to utter God’s presence, even in strange ways, to a community that is (perhaps justifiably) convinced that God is nowhere in sight. For if God were there, why would death and oppression and annihilation be so pervasive? And in this passage of the valley of dry bones, Ezekiel reminds us that it is our fear of death that makes it impossible to see God. For God is always present, as close to us as our very breath.

I do not believe that God ordains suffering, and in some circles that makes me unpopular. I am convinced through faith, however, that God promises to be there with us through it. In this time of Lent, as we journey closer to the cross, I pray for God’s presence in each of our lives, our communities, our world. I pray for courage and gentleness as we acknowledge the suffering and desolation that exists all around and within us-- even the suffering that we take part in-- I pray that we might face it as we can in the presence of God and community that loves us. And finally and perhaps most importantly, I pray that our eyes, our hearts, our minds, and our bodies might be opened to glimpsing the possibilities of renewed life that also exist all around and within us. May we know God’s presence in our very breath- and may we breathe out the Spirit, the wind, the breath of life in all aspects of our lives.