I have known and loved the story of the valley of dry bones since I was a child.  Like our children this morning, I grew up singing about Ezekiel’s vision, and performing the hand and body motions of the bones receiving the breath of life and joining together to become whole.  As I revisited the story over the years, I became aware of a second layer of meaning to Ezekiel’s vision.  Much like Jesus’ parables, there is the real, and there is the “really real.”  Visions and parables can be about such ordinary things—mustard seed, bones, farmers, or bridesmaids—but below the surface, there is a layer of profound truth, of spiritual truth, and it is this layer that I want us to probe together this morning.

It is tempting to jump ahead in the story of Ezekiel’s vision to the giving of life, to the breath of God invigorating this pile of bones, but we miss something important when we do that.  We miss the valley of death which is the context in which the story is told.  After all, how did this valley come to be full of old bones?  There would be no valley of bones without there first being the experience of death, and according to the story, there had been a lot of death since our text makes a point of telling us that the valley was full of “very many” bones.  These bones had once been Israelites who had worshiped Yahweh, who had lived together in community, cared for young children and elderly parents, and provided for their families.  These bones had been vibrant and full of life, had married and been given in marriage, had conceived and borne children, had plowed, planted, and harvested the land.  But, no more.  Death had come and all that comes with it—pain, suffering, grief.  And, as if the loss of life wasn’t enough, there had also been the even more devastating loss of hope, as Israel loses her land and her way of life and is sent into exile.  There is nothing left now but bones: dry, old, dead bones. 

This is the context, then, in which God’s Spirit moves in his prophet Ezekiel.  This is the scene of suffering and devastation that God wants Ezekiel to see.  And, this is the backdrop against which God asks a most peculiar question, “Mortal, can these bones live?”  Now, why would God ask that of Ezekiel?  Don’t we expect that God likely knows the answer to the question already?  God’s question to Ezekiel reminds me a lot of God’s question to Adam in the garden.  After Adam and Eve had eaten the forbidden fruit, they heard God walking in the garden, and they hid themselves.  God then calls to Adam, “Where are you?”  God knew exactly where Adam was and also what he’d been up to.  God’s question to Adam was an invitation to talk to God not only about the “real,” about Adam’s physical location, but also about the “really real”—about Adam’s spiritual condition.  Where are you, Adam, spiritually?  How is your relationship with me?  Is there anything you’d like to tell me?  God’s question to Ezekiel is much the same.  Can these bones live is an invitation to Ezekiel to look at this pile of old, crumbling bones with his real eyes or with his spiritual eyes.  It is less a question about the physical condition of the bones than it is a question about Ezekiel’s spiritual condition.  God’s question penetrates the real to get to the really real.  It’s not a question of what Ezekiel believes about the bones, but what does Ezekiel believe about God? 

At his point in the story, Ezekiel displays an impressive sense of political correctness, long before being PC was fashionable:  “O Lord God, you know.”  This exchange between God and Ezekiel fascinates me, and I believe, largely determines how the rest of the story unfolds.  What might have happened, for example, if Ezekiel had responded with the obvious answer:  of course these bones can’t live.  That lack of spiritual sight and insight, that faith void, that inability to see the “really real” behind the real would have been what we might call a conversation stopper.  There would have been nothing else to say, the dialogue between God and Ezekiel ending right then and there. 

What if Ezekiel had responded with an unqualified and enthusiastic “Yes!  You bet ‘cha.  I’m sure they can live!”?  Isn’t that exactly the type of faith response we’d expect from one of God’s prophets and priests?  Wouldn’t that be a premiere example of a godly man or woman?  Perhaps.  But, then again, it strikes me that such a response has the potential to exclude God in just the same way as responding with a resounding “no.”  Have we as the church ever been guilty of dreaming up wonderful plans for God, plans that were sure will fill the church, sure to spread the Gospel, sure to serve our mission of feeding the hungry, taking care of the widow and orphan, sheltering the stranger?  We organize, we raise funds, we recruit volunteers, and we ask God to bless our efforts.  But, do we stop to ask the question, as these the right efforts?  Are these the endeavors that God has called us to?  Are we working God’s plan or are we asking God to rubber stamp ours?  Had Ezekiel responded with an unequivocal “yes,” already sure of what God was planning to do next, that response, rather than being a faithful one, might have precluded God from acting in just the same way as a “no” might have done.

Ezekiel, as it turns out IS a premiere example of a godly man and his response is precisely the type of faithful response that we can emulate.  “O Lord God, you know.”  Ezekiel does not presume to know God’s mind and does not presume to speak or act for God.  Ezekiel does not make assumptions about God’s purposes in showing him this vision or the purposes for this valley of dry bones.  However, neither does Ezekiel  foreclose the possibility that God will choose to act.  His response leaves open both the opportunity for God to move in this valley of death and for Ezekiel to have the opportunity to participate in whatever God may have in mind.  Ezekiel’s response doesn’t deny what he sees with his eyes, the real, but he also makes space for the “really real” to be revealed to him, for God to speak or act in ways that only God can.

In this space of anticipatory expectation, God does indeed speak and act in dramatic fashion, and Ezekiel is in the grand position of participating in God’s plan.  Upon God’s command Ezekiel makes three prophesies, one to the bones, a second to the breath, and the third to the vast multitude of the living community of faith.  Ezekiel prophesied, and God provided the power that enlivened this heap of dead, dry bones and brought the nation of Israel to its feet.  

If we carefully examine the beginning and the ending of Ezekiel’s prophecies, we will discover something extremely important.  His prophecy begins with the words, “Hear the word of the Lord,” and he ends by telling the people that the purpose of what God is doing in their midst is that the people will know that Yahweh is the Lord.  Ezekiel’s words were not his own, and Israel’s miraculous resurrection was not for its own purposes, either.  The point of Israel’s return as a nation was not so that they could pursue their own way, their own plans, their own ideas of what constituted the future they wanted to have.  Rather, their purpose was absolutely connected to the purposes of God.  They were to know that God is the Lord, and they were to bear witness to that fact to the entire world.  That is why God joined together these dead, dry bones, connected them with muscles and ligaments and cartilage and covered it all with skin.  That is why God gathered his breath from the four corners of the earth to blow into these shaped, but lifeless bodies, to breathe into them the gift of life. 

Can these bones live?  Looking at them with our physical eyes, the answer is easy:  of course, they can’t.  It’s impossible, just like it is impossible for a camel to squeeze through the eye of a needle.  Just like it’s impossible to turn a barrel of everyday, ordinary rain water into the finest Merlot you’ve ever tasted.  It’s impossible, just like it’s impossible that the royal family wants to sit down to tea with the wino in the alley, the homeless woman digging in the garbage, and with the prostitute on the street corner rather than with their rich and socially connected friends.  It’s impossible just like it’s impossible that a shepherd would put 99 of his sheep at risk in order to go search for the one that wandered off.

Mortal, can these bones live?  Can these bones pull themselves together and kick their addictions by themselves?  Can these bones forgive the family member who abandoned or abused or betrayed them?  Can these bones lift themselves out of the valley of grief or depression or anxiety?  Can these bones heal broken relationships, quell violence, or turn the tide of hatred or poverty or hopelessness?  Can these bones overcome the failures, the disappointments, the death and the loss that is the experience of each one of us?  If all we see is what our physical eyes can show us, all we’ll see is an endless valley of human suffering and need.  All we’ll see is the impossibility of it all, the impossibility of us healing our own hearts and lives, much less the overwhelming needs of the world.  

Mortal, can these bones live?  What a preposterous question.  Unless, of course, we have the eyes to see what God sees, to be part of God’s plan and purposes because with the wind of God’s breath entering our lives, all things are possible.