Ian Hodge
One of the most powerful images in all of the Bible comes from the Old Testament prophet, Ezekiel Ch. 37.
“The hand of the Lord was upon me, and he brought me out in the spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of the valley; it was full of bones. And he led me around among them, and look, there were very many on the surface of the valley, and they were very dry. And he said to me, “Son of man, can these bones live?”
What is this valley full of dry and bleached bones? Four chapters earlier, Ezekiel records the fall of Jerusalem, which signifies what must have seemed like the final destruction of the nation of Judah, the last of Ezekiel’s people who lived in the land that they understood God had promised to them.
The valley of dry bones, then, represented a real event and real casualties — the dead of the people of Judah and the end of hope. How must Ezekiel have felt? He had long called upon the nation to change its ways, begged and pleaded that they give up the path that they were comfortable upon, but Ezekiel knew led to judgment and destruction.
Although the dry and bleached bones are anonymous, they clearly represent the people Ezekiel had long loved and served. In the valley of the dry bones, Ezekiel must have known the double grief of loss and failure.
You and I can most likely identify with Ezekiel. We too have known the crushing weight of loss and failure, even if on a scale less spectacular than Ezekiel.
Loved ones lost to death, relationships lost to anger and hatred, close friends who have somehow drifted away, or perhaps become tangled in addiction, leaving us with the torturous desire to both have that person back and to never see them again.
Moments that play back over and over again in our memories reminding us of guilt and shame, actions left undone that could have changed things and made them better.
In Ezekiel’s moment of pain, God asks an audacious question: “Son of man, can these bones live?” In our grief we might wish that such a question never be broached. It could feel like another dagger, reminding us of our powerlessness, or worse, our failure. It could feel too dangerous to be entertained, that as much as we wish to be freed from our grief, the danger of raising our hopes only to have them crushed again would invite an even greater pain into our lives. Or we might respond with anger and indignation; “How dare you, God? This is your fault!”
But if we stop to listen, contained in that one question is a wealth of import. First, the name by which God calls Ezekiel is “Son of man.” God draws attention to Ezekiel’s humanity in his question, reminding Ezekiel that no, if it depends on a human being, these bones can’t live again. They are long dead, past the possibility of life.
Secondly, these bones represent people who made their own bed. People who, knowingly or not, chose their own fate. What good would it be to restore life to them? They would only end up again bleached and bare on the valley floor.
But God’s question also invokes Ezekiel’s belief that God has indeed brought life to dead bones before. God raised the widow’s son through the prophet Elijah, and the Shunammite women’s son through Elisha (yes, those are different guys).
God brought life to Eve through Adam’s rib. God made human beings from the dust of the ground – the dryness of the bones in the valley aren’t any obstacle to God raising the dead.
But Ezekiel’s response is somewhat non-committal; in light of all that has gone on, Ezekiel responds to God’s question by saying, “O Lord God, you know.”
Certainly, Ezekiel’s hope and understanding were at a low point. But no matter how low he was, God had the answer for him. Ezekiel’s life wouldn’t be about failure – although Judah didn’t listen to Ezekiel in life, now in ruin Ezekiel’s words would find a new power.
“Then God said to me, “Prophesy to these bones, and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord… I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live… So, I prophesied as I had been commanded; and as I prophesied, suddenly there was a noise, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone… sinew… flesh… skin… and the breath came into them, and the lived!”
Perhaps we give up too easily as human beings. Yes, we definitely come to the end of our own strength. Yes, we definitely come to the end of our own goodness. But God can, and has, and does give new life to dry bones.
Even when you and I come to the end of our hope, the end of our optimism, even there God will meet us and through us give life to dry bones. Friend, may you know the God of hope, and may he give you reason to hope this week!
Ian Hodge is pastor at First Presbyterian Church in Carson City.