5 Lent.A.26
Ezekiel, 37:1-14 & John 11:1-45
The Rev. Melanie McCarley

Death, it seems, surrounds us on every side. Most of us, I’ve concluded, take one of two routes in dealing with death—preventative measures, or denial. There are, of course, the extremes: those who exercise with a vengeance, pursue a fully organic diet, assiduously study “blue zones”, house a veritable vitamin and supplement store in their kitchen cabinets and keep themselves free from stress with a daily regimen of meditation and yoga. And then, there are those I call the free-wheelers. You can spot them on motorcycles. These are individuals who live in the fast lane, smoking, drinking, and making a daily habit of dining on fast food. We try to avoid it, yet even so, sooner or later, death finds us all in the end.

This morning we find the prophet Ezekiel standing in a Valley of Dry Bones. The bones are of those who have been cut down in battle and left to bleach on the ground. These bones haven’t even been given the dignity of a burial! The scene which Ezekiel beholds is desolate. And now, God speaks saying: “mortal, these bones are the whole house of Israel.” Ezekiel looks about him and, without a doubt, knows this to be true.

Surprising though it may seem, Ezekiel’s vision is a gift to the people of Israel. Ezekiel lived during the time when the people of Israel were in exile in Babylon. A conquered people, Israel had been exiled from her home and marched hundreds of miles to a strange land far from the ruins of their Temple and all that they knew and held sacred. So far had they been taken, that the people wondered if God would continue to hear them or to rescue them. And so, these words, spoken in the valley of the dead, were hopeful words.

For, you see, there was no denying the fact that the people of Israel were something akin to a heap of dry bones. So it’s important to listen to what God says: The Lord asks Ezekiel: “Mortal, can these bones live?” It’s an absurd question—really. Most of us would shake our heads and answer with a resounding “No.” Of course they can’t live—whatever it was that gave them life has long since departed. In fact, there is nothing but the faintest of human outlines to tell us that these bones had ever been anything but what they are at present—bleached and dry skeletal remains. And yet, this is not how Ezekiel responds. In my favorite line of this passage Ezekiel says to the Lord: “O Lord God, you know.” It might sound like a weary response to a question-and-answer game that has long since lost the quality of amusement—but held within Ezekiel’s response is faith. From a human perspective, there is nothing that can be done with a heap of dry bones. In them, there is no hope. And, truth be told, emotionally and spiritually this was the painful predicament in which the Children of God had found themselves. But the Lord responds: “I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.” And that, my friends, is a splendid vision of hope.

As we look at the Gospel lesson for today we find Martha and Mary mourning the death of their brother, Lazarus. In words which I cannot imagine being anything other than accusatory, Mary turns to Jesus and says: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” At this point in the passage disappointment is pervasive. By all appearances, Jesus has failed his friends and death has won. But Jesus proclaims: “I am the resurrection and the life.” And turning to the tomb, Jesus cries with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” and behold, a dead man emerges from the tomb.

Interestingly enough, these passages say nothing as to what happens after death. They speak only of the seemingly irrevocable nature of death “The Wall” as I like to call it. But, if you look closely, within these passages is something more—the reminder that as final and permanent as death appears to be—this is an illusion. For God speaks, and gives life to bleached and parched bones lying on a desert floor. Jesus speaks, and a dead man walks from the tomb. God holds final sway over the forces of death and decay.

These passages are a reminder that what meets our eyes is not always a clear picture of reality. We look at a chair, and proclaim it to be a solid object. But what our eyes cannot see are the billions upon billions of protons, neutrons and electrons moving beyond the speed of light binding that chair in place. In other words, as deceptive as it may seem, the pew you are sitting on and the pulpit upon which I am standing are, in actuality, moving objects. All of this is true enough, even though our eyes can do nothing but perceive them as permanent. All is not as it seems. Our human perception is limited. The passages from Ezekiel and John remind us of the reality which lies beyond what we think we know.

And about that life after death. Interstingly, Jesus spends over ninety percent of his time talking, not about heaven, but about how we treat our neighbors here on earth. In other words, he speaks of the present moment. Ironically, many Christians, on the other hand, spend about ninety percent of their time talking—not about life on earth, but about heaven (or hell) depending on their perspective. One is led to wonder that if perhaps Jesus had been a bit more specific about heaven (and the qualifications for entry) then we would be able to concentrate more fully on the importance of the present moment. But this is not the case, and again, I am led to wonder why. In the end, I’ve concluded that it comes down to this. You cannot preach quantum physics to a five year old. Oh, you can employ theories and nifty illustrations, but in the end, all you can do is hint at a broader reality. It’s something you can’t really explain. It’s like me and my car engine. I look inside, and all I see is a jumble of pipes, wires and lots of grease. It means very little. Trust me, there is no mechanic out there who is going to be able to explain a head gasket to someone like myself. In the end, I believe it is the same with heaven. We don’t have an accurate picture—no full-color tourist brochures for us. In the end, however, we are left with something far greater—the promise that God brings life to the dead. I close with a poem by Emily Dickenson:

Love is the person of the resurrection,
Scooping up the dust and chanting, “Live.”

For us, that person is Jesus Christ, for whom our hearts long during this season of Lent. Let us prepare ourselves for the gift of life which is bestowed upon us all as Children of the Living God. Amen.