Roger Lynn
April 7, 2019
5th Sunday in Lent
We understand about dry bones. Our world is full of them – both literally and figuratively. War zones both past and present, from Afghanistan and Iraq to Syria to various parts of Africa to the inner city streets of more than a few US cities. We find dry bones in court rooms everywhere that handle the thousands of divorce cases each year. We find them in hospitals and hospice centers and homes where people are dying of cancer and assorted other diseases. We find them in the desperation of the refugees fleeing from war and violence. Our world and our lives are filled with places and experiences of loss and death and grief. Like Ezekiel, we understand about dry bones. And like Mary and Martha, we know the grief of losing that which we hold dear. It can seem so hopeless and it can leave us feeling so helpless. Nothing we try seems able to turn the tide. Still there is more hate. Still there is more war. Still there is more killing. Still there is more death. Still there is more loss.
More than 25 years ago, in the summer of 1993, a close friend of mine died of AIDS. His wife had died the year before. And no one seemed to know even how to talk about it. The last time I saw him was just a few weeks before his death. It was a painful and disturbing experience. Some of that experience found its way into this poem.
One friend dead, another friend dying
And the winds of fearful silence blow across the land.
Conspirators of love talk in quiet whispers
of pain, frustration, and walls they can’t break down.
There are no maps to guide us
through this lost and lonely country.
Only fellow pilgrims who speak of paths they’ve tried.
In the end it’s love that wins.
In the end it’s God who triumphs.
But in this wilderness before then,
it’s hard to see that far.
One friend dead, another friend dying
And the winds of fearful silence blow across the land.
(“The Winds of Fearful Silence” by Roger Lynn ©June 4, 1993)
We understand about dry bones. And the Good News which comes through both Ezekiel and John’s Gospel is that God understands about dry bones as well. And with God, the dry bones are never the final word. Even the most hopeless of circumstances are never the end of the story. I believe God calls us to live our lives in such a way that we journey into the Heart of God. But such a journey is impossible when our existence is defined by dead, dry bones. So it stands to reason that if God calls us to such a faithful journey, then God will also provide us with the new life necessary to make that journey. God said to Ezekiel, “Can these bones live?” To which Ezekiel wisely replied, “O Lord God, you know.” And then God says to Ezekiel, “Speak my word to these bones, and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord God to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live.” (Ezekiel 37:3-5) Into the midst of our most desperate and hopeless situations, God’s breath – God’s ruach – God’s living, life-giving Spirit – is promised. Jesus arrives at the tomb of his friend, amidst the weeping of his family and the stench of death filling the air. “Lazarus, come out!” cries Jesus. And once again God’s response to death is revealed – new life.
If we focus on the literal features of these stories – dry bones being gathered together and covered again with flesh and filled again with breath – corpses walking out of the tomb – then we will have mostly missed the point. The message for us is deeper and more far reaching. God’s new life always comes into circumstances which seem beyond hope, in ways which are never what we would have guessed. On more than one occasion in my own life, the pain and grief have gradually given way to a renewed sense of hope and joy and abundance. God brings healing and new life through the caring of family and friends, and through the quiet indwelling of God’s own Spirit. The journeys of faith to which God calls each of us require both patience and trust that God will finally and ultimately bring the light of new life into the midst of the darkest corners of our lives and our world.
Along the way we are called to be not only recipients of God’s new life, but participants as well. When Lazarus walked out of the tomb he was still bound up in his burial clothes. And Jesus said to the community which was gathered in that place, “Unbind him, and let him go.” At the end of that very short sermon I preached in the midst of my own pain, I was able to see past the darkness just far enough to recognize this truth. “If there is good news, it is that faith is not lived out in solitude, but in community. And most of the time, the whole community is not in pain at the same time. Those not in pain have the privilege and the responsibility of bearing with those who are. In so doing, you become living witnesses to the love of God. For all those who find themselves overcome by pain in any moment: be God’s community of faith – love, don’t judge; comfort, don’t preach; bear with, don’t talk about. Because sometimes life is painful.”
We understand about dry bones. And so does God. May we be open to the new life which God offers as the alternative. May we look for it in the most unexpected of places. And may we share that new life with those who need it most.
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