Andy James

Our Divine Companion

May 11, 2014 By Andy James

a sermon on Psalm 23
preached on May 11, 2014, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

The other night at Bible study, as we were looking at the story of Paul’s dramatic encounter with Jesus in a blaze of light on the road from Jerusalem to Damascus, someone asked a really important question that I suspect has crossed many more minds before: Why doesn’t Jesus appear to us like that anymore? Why is the Bible filled with stories of God appearing so directly to people, yet so few of us experience such a gift for ourselves? It’s a really wonderful question, yet we couldn’t find a particularly satisfying answer. In this day and age, we’re left with these biblical stories of encounters with God, stories of people from the past who have felt the fullness of God’s presence, yet we ourselves so often struggle to feel it. The Bible promises us that God will be with us, no more clearly than in today’s reading of Psalm 23, yet we still reasonably wonder how God will do it, how God will be our divine companion in these days without us knowing God’s direct and real presence.

These words of Psalm 23 are quite likely the most familiar words of scripture in our world, reaching across the boundaries of time and place to strengthen the lives of people of faith everywhere. These beautiful and comforting words come upon our minds and hearts and lips in times of uncertainty, confusion, pain, hurt, and sorrow as a strange and wonderful embodiment of God’s presence in our world where God’s distance often seems so strong. While we question how God doesn’t show up in the same way anymore, these words of scripture in Psalm 23 give us a sense of the possibilities of God’s presence in our midst.

But I’m honestly a bit surprised at how meaningful these words remain for us in these days. We are city folk, not just in New York City but all around the world. In 2010, the percentage of the world’s population living in urban areas surpassed 50% for the first time, although in the United States, we’ve been over 50% urban for nearly 100 years and now over 80% of us live in urban areas. Even so, the predominant image of God’s presence for so many of us is this one so deeply rooted in the rural, agricultural image of the shepherd. On top of that, when you get down to it, shepherds are not all that personally present with the sheep. They certainly know their flocks well, but there are only a few shepherds for the entire flock of sheep, so there are most certainly moments when any particular sheep is very distant and disconnected from the shepherd. So if you start to think about it more carefully, there may be less comfort in these words than we would care to think.

It is quite likely, then, that what makes us feel connected to these beautiful and wonderful words is less the actual image of the shepherd and more then the description of what the shepherd does. The divine one described here as a shepherd is an amazing companion, beyond the best imaginable spouse or friend, even more than the best cat or dog. This companion on the journey first provides all that we need, wherever the journey may lead. If that weren’t already enough, like those gifted mothers and mother-figures we celebrate today, this divine companion leads us out of our confusion and into those beautiful and simple places where life makes sense again, into green pastures, still waters, and right paths where we can pause to know the fullness of God’s comfort.

This doesn’t mean that we completely avoid pain and hurt and sorrow, though. There is no promise to avoid suffering here, but the psalmist is secure nonetheless. When we “walk through the darkest valley,” there is nothing to fear. Our divine companion is there with us, guiding us and directing us, keeping all that would hurt us or harm us at bay. In fact, when we least expect it, in the presence of our enemies, our divine companion prepares a table for us, inviting us to share a feast beyond compare and to enjoy blessings so abundant that they overflow. And at the end of the day, when we look back upon our journey, our divine companion assures us that goodness and mercy will have been with us all along the way and that we will dwell secure in the presence of God each and every day.

These are the things that give us comfort from Psalm 23, the promise of a divine companion who will provide all that we need, lead us into places that make us whole, keep us safe amidst all trouble, feed us at a table of abundance, bring us through goodness and mercy, and stay with us each and every day. Even when our increasingly urban world doesn’t quite need or understand shepherds anymore, we can still appreciate the gift of one who bring us all this. But that first question still applies a bit: Since God is no longer directly among us in Christ, how does God appear to us now? In what form does God bring us all these things?

We’re not likely to find a particularly human shepherd who does all this, and God doesn’t always stand up to be identified in doing these things. Even so, we can be confident that a shepherd, our divine companion, will journey with us along the way and show us God’s presence in places and ways and people that we may not understand or expect. The presence of God is with us in those who are not afraid to walk with us along the journey, whether the pastures be green or gray, whether the waters be still or stormy, whether the path be easy or hard. The presence of God is with us in those who help us to confront the fearful moments in life, who keep evil and uncertainty at a distance, who give us perspective and offer us hope. And the presence of God is with us in those who show us mercy and grace in measures small and large, who prepare feasts of plenteous food and drink, who give us safety and comfort and love for living wherever we go.

While God may not appear to us in such a distinctive form anymore, I believe that we can see God no less clearly now in people who show us these things, in people who walk even a little way with us along the journey, in friends who are unafraid to walk through both the green pastures and the dark valleys, in sisters and brothers who sit with us in the presence of those who seem to be set against us, in companions who make us feel at home amidst anything and everything that we might face. God is our shepherd in ways beyond how God seems to have worked in days past, beyond the limitations of a rural and agricultural image of a shepherd, beyond our expectations of human friendship, acting in and through those who walk with us each and every day to show us that God’s goodness and mercy really do follow us all the days of our lives.

With this shepherd going with us, working in us and around us, what do we have to fear? How can we ignore the presence of those who walk with us even a little way on the journey? How do we deepen our trust in this God whose faithfulness is sure and whose guidance is certain? Whatever comes our way, it is our gift and our challenge to trust our divine companion to go with us, working in the people around us, known and unknown, to guide us through all that threatens to harm us, support us through the difficult and joyous moments, comfort us in every grief and sorrow, feed us amidst all uncertainty, and assure us of God’s mercy and peace and hope each and every day.

So may the Lord our shepherd, our divine companion, walk with us each and every day, guiding us through all uncertainty and fear, bringing us mercy and peace and goodness, and showing us the fullness of God’s love wherever we may dwell all our days. Thanks be to God! Amen.

Companions Along the Way

May 4, 2014 By Andy James

a sermon on Luke 24:13-35
preached on May 4, 2014, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

It started out as a simple Sunday afternoon journey, a way to ease back into a routine after a devastating week, a step toward finding a new normal after the death of a cherished friend and beloved teacher. But when those two disciples set out from Jerusalem to Emmaus on that first Easter afternoon, they had no idea that they would encounter such a companion along the way. By then they had heard the rumblings of resurrection from a couple women who had visited the tomb, but they clearly didn’t trust that news—it was pretty unbelievable in the first place, and on top of that, it came from unreliable sources—women!

Their conversation along the road surely started out with some sadness and pity, though I suspect that it quickly turned to discussion of what was next for them now that Jesus, the man who had brought them together, was dead. In the meantime, though, it had to be good for them to have each other as companions along the way, to be with even one other person who had known Jesus and his teaching, who had been a part of the joyous procession just a week before, who had watched as he was led away to be crucified, who had witnessed his execution at the hands of the religious and political authorities of the day. So they talked and walked together, sharing their grief and sorrow and confusion and hurt, airing their feelings with each other, lifting up all the things that had happened in those days.

Then a strange man overheard their conversation and joined in. “What are you talking about?” he inquired. They were stunned. He had clearly overheard part of their conversation, but he didn’t know what had been going on? How could he not have heard about what happened to Jesus? How could anyone in Jerusalem not have been aware of this injustice? They “stood still” and stopped in their tracks, overcome with even more grief. But soon they found the words to explain to this stranger everything that had happened to Jesus—the proclamation of the kingdom of God that he offered, his strange arrest and conviction, his crucifixion and death, and now the empty tomb.

Having heard all this that was making them sad, the stranger offered a surprising word. Rather than just moving along beyond the grieving friends on the road or comforting them with simple platitudes, he explained everything that had happened. Even though he had not heard about the events of the past week, he took their few details and put them into the bigger story of God’s work. So as they walked on toward Emmaus from Jerusalem, these three found themselves as new companions along the way as this stranger opened the scriptures to the two disciples, explained how all that had happened was in fulfillment of the prophets, and described how the Messiah had to suffer in order to be glorified.

After an enlightening afternoon of conversation among new friends, the time came to stop again. The two disciples had reached Emmaus, their destination, and the stranger who had joined them was prepared to go on, but they encouraged him to stop a little longer: “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” It was a different day and age, with little or no light to guide and protect those who traveled at night, so it was certainly time to bring the day’s journeys to an end, and the stranger agreed to stick around with his new companions on the way.

As they sat down together for dinner, the stranger offered the blessing over the bread, then he broke it and gave it to them to eat. Suddenly they realized that this stranger they had met on the road was no stranger at all: he was Jesus. The man who had eased their minds about everything that had happened was none other than the crucified and risen Lord. The new companion along the way who broke bread with them that night had done the same thing just three nights before. Before they could really say anything more, the stranger disappeared from their sight, but they knew exactly what had happened: Jesus was alive! The rumors of resurrection were realities, and they had spent the afternoon with him without even knowing it.

Even though it was evening and time to settle in for the night, they got up and ran back to Jerusalem. They found the disciples gathered together, already celebrating because Peter had seen the risen Lord, and all of them together rejoiced because Jesus had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

Following after these disciples, we too now expect to find Jesus made known to us in the breaking of the bread. This is why we gather at this table each and every Sunday during the season of Easter, for we trust that just as the risen Christ met his disciples at the table on that first Easter evening, we too will meet him in this holy meal here. But I think this story also reminds us that we will meet Jesus at other times, too—in those who walk a little way with us on the journey, in those who open the scriptures to us, in those who make our hearts burn with love along the way, in those who show us the mercy and grace and peace of our risen Lord in their words and actions each and every day, in such varied companions along whatever way is before us in these days.

I had several of these encounters in my life over the past week. On Thursday, as I drove back from a meeting in Philadelphia, my heart sank as I learned from Beth and Bill of the water damage in the office that has occupied my life pretty well over the last several days. I spent almost the entire trip back on the phone, dealing with insurance companies and the water damage remediation firm to address the mess. In the midst of it all, though, there were strange companions on the way: first Beth and Bill who worked to address the immediate problem and then stayed at the church with me through the evening as the remediation crew worked, then two close friends who listened to my complaints and uncertainties as I made my way along the New Jersey Turnpike back to Queens, also the gentle and secure presence of our insurance broker, the representative from the water damage firm who called me before I could call him, and even one of the cleanup crew who offered us a blessing after spending two hours cleaning up the mess. In these and others, I had companions for the journey, reminders of God’s presence who made it clear that the frustrations and complications of those moments were not the end of the story, glimpses of the risen Christ in everyone who walked even a little way with us.

There are innumerable such companions who join with us along the way. Those who have walked these past few days with me are only a few of the many saints who have shown me glimpses of the risen Christ over the years, and I trust that you too have had similar encounters along the journeys of your lives. As we make our way to share this feast this morning, I invite you to think of those who have journeyed with you along the way, women and men who have shown you a little glimpse of the risen Christ in our world, and then to lift them up by name or by action as we gather our prayers together at the table so that we might give thanks for the presence of the risen Christ in our midst all the more.

So as this Easter season continues, may we too be strengthened by the companions along the way so that we might walk in faith, hope, and love all our days and see and show the presence of the risen and living Christ everywhere we go until he comes again. Lord, come quickly! Amen.

A World Turned Upside Down

April 20, 2014 By Andy James

a sermon on Matthew 28:1-10 for Easter Sunday
preached on April 20, 2014, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

It all began as a quiet trip to visit a friend’s grave, but before long, their whole world was turned upside down. Mary and Mary Magdalene were still trying to figure out what had happened to their friend Jesus—how the loud praises of the crowd on Sunday had turned to cries of “crucify him” on Friday, how the religious officials who had always pushed him a bit suddenly turned on him, how even his disciples abandoned him as he was unjustly accused, convicted, and sent to the cross. But before that reality could even really set in, everything changed—and I mean everything.

As Mary and Mary Magdalene journeyed to Jesus’ tomb early on that Sunday morning, their world was turned upside down. These women left behind a world, where, as preacher Tom Long puts it so well, “hope is in constant danger, and might makes right, and peace has little chance, and the rich get richer, and the weak all eventually suffer under some Pontius Pilate or another, and people hatch murderous plots, and dead people stay dead, and they entered the startling and breathtaking world of resurrection and life. Jesus of Nazareth, who had been dead as a doornail on Friday afternoon, was not in his tomb that morning, and the world—theirs and ours—has been turned upside down ever since.” (Matthew, p. 322)

Easter, you see, is ultimately a story of our world getting turned upside down. If the old maxim is correct and there are only two things certain in this world, death and taxes, then Easter brings it down to just one! This is simultaneously wonderful and scary. On Easter, we can rejoice because death has been defeated, because the one thing that would seem to separate us from God is no longer in the way, because the injustice, the pain, the hostility, and the danger of this world have all been overcome once and for all. But on Easter, we also see that the old ways of the world, the ways we are used to, the ways that seem normal to us, are no longer in place. We can’t count on the dead to stay dead, on our merits to be the basis of our salvation, on the injustice we perpetuate to be ignored, or even on war to bring us peace. Resurrection turns our world upside down. As Tom Long puts it, “The wonderful news of Easter is that Jesus is alive, and the terrible news of Easter is also that Jesus is alive, because nothing is nailed down anymore.” (Matthew, p. 323)

Once the women at the tomb realized that everything had been turned upside down, that the earthquake that had shaken them on their way there had shattered their whole world, they had to sort out what all this meant for them and what they were to do from there. It was surely not an easy task. They had already been struggling to sort out what life without Jesus would mean for them, and the empty tomb confused things all the more. Thankfully the angel that met them at the tomb helped them out a bit. His instructions were clear and direct, and his presence, though startling, was comforting.

First, he told them, “Do not be afraid.” The world may have been shifting, and death may not have meant what they thought it did when they woke up that morning, but the angel made it clear that they should set aside their fears and trust that God was doing something new and different and wonderful right before their very eyes, raising Jesus from the dead and conquering death once and for all.

Then he gave them further instruction: “Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, ‘He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.’” The angel gives them a mission and purpose: to bear witness to the emptiness of the empty tomb, to share the good news of the resurrection with the disciples, and to carry this word of new life with them on the journey back to the familiar territory of Galilee as they began to sort out what it meant to live in the reality of the resurrection each and every day.

We face a similar challenge every time we hear the proclamation of the resurrection. “The grave is empty, Christ is risen,” we proclaim so boldly—but what does that mean? “Jesus Christ is risen today,” we sing—but how will we be different tomorrow? The world may be turned upside down, but it is so easy to pretend like it isn’t. It is easy to stick to the things we have known, to make the choices that we have made before, to reinforce the old way of doing things and simply be safe and stay comfortable, to put ourselves first and set aside any concern for the other that might come from this new world.

But the angel who meets us at the tomb insists that things are different, that we set our minds on the things that are above, as Paul described it, that we choose paths that lead to the abundance of life for all and not just a few, that we seek hope and justice and peace for ourselves and others and all creation, that we join in all that God is doing in our world to make everything new. The world has been turned upside down, and now we must set aside death and embrace God’s new life, announcing to all who will hear, in our words and even more in our deeds, all the good news that is before us: that the grave is empty and Christ is risen, that the light shines in the darkness and the darkness can never put it out, that while once we were no people, now we are God’s people, and that nothing, not even life or death, can separate us from God’s love in Jesus Christ our risen Lord.

Just as everything was turned upside down for the women on that first Easter morning, the resurrection keeps turning our world upside down. It demands that we join in making all things new, that we stop staring into the graves of our lives and start looking for something more than what we have seen before. It demands that we set out on the road from the tomb and start looking for Jesus.

Over the last year, I haven’t had to look far for signs of these things, for this very place has been filled with signs of resurrection. Less than a year ago, we heard a report from our congregational consultant who took a hard and honest look at the realities facing us: a small and aging congregation, a challenging neighborhood setting for the type of ministry we are poised to offer, and a financial situation that had us living well beyond our means. He ended his report to us with a glimpse of resurrection, though: “Most importantly,” he said, “I believe you have the maturity and faith to bring to birth a new thing in this corner of God’s kingdom.”

Over the last year, against all odds, something new has begun to be born here. We have been turned upside down by the wonder of resurrection and new life. We have welcomed new people to our community and opened our doors wider than ever before. We have found new possibility and promise in a shift to a part-time pastor. And we have watched as God has started working in us and through us and in spite of us to bring us to new life. Things have been turned upside down for us—many of the things that were draining us are now filling us, many of the frustrations that we faced are now being replaced with joy, many of the challenges that were before us are now becoming possibilities—because God has opened the way of resurrection for us here and now.

Like any story of resurrection on this earth, this rebirth is not complete. We still have work to do to deepen our mission, strengthen our life together, and reach out into our community—to embody the resurrection life of Christ in our midst—and there moments when it is a little scary because we have never been here before, but there are signs of new life here that I for one could not see a year ago. God has turned our world upside down, and for that I am deeply grateful.

So as we set out on the resurrection road ahead, with our world turned upside down and death transformed into resurrection life, may God show us the way from the tomb to new life, the places where we can meet Jesus along the journey, starting right here at table together, and the possibilities to join in the amazing work of making all things new because of the resurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord that keeps turning our whole world upside down today on this Easter Day and every day.

Christ is risen! He is risen indeed. Alleluia! Amen.

Reflections on Palms and Passion

April 13, 2014 By Andy James

This Sunday’s sermon is a bit different, as it is broken into two related but distinct parts that address the two different foci of this day, Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem and his procession toward death just days later.

A Royal Procession

a reflection on Matthew 21:1-11

Palm Sunday just doesn’t feel right without a procession: palm branches waved by a joyful congregation, children leading the way into the church, and a familiar hymn marking the day and the way as we remember Jesus’ journey from the countryside into the city. This strange reenactment of Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem is quite likely the closest any of us will ever get to a royal procession.

Our observance is always marked with this grand and glorious language of kingship, seemingly celebrating the arrival of a new king, but this is quite unlike any other royal procession. Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem takes every element of a royal procession and turns it upside down. Every symbol that is supposed to make the ruler have proper status and position is shifted entirely. The royal carriage or white horse is replaced with a simple donkey and colt. The royal guards and advance crew that precede every king are replaced with a couple disciples dispatched to borrow the donkey and colt from an unsuspecting owner. The beautiful fabrics that would celebrate the arrival of most royalty are nowhere to be found, so some cloaks and tree branches have to do. And even the crowd that gathered wasn’t prepared to welcome a king, so they too offer their cloaks and start cutting branches off the trees beside the road to prepare the way for this strange man from the countryside to enter the city.

As much as we might try to make the story of Palm Sunday seem like so many other royal processions, as much as we might try to put Jesus into the role of a traditional and mighty king, everything about this day and this man insists that we look at it differently. This Jesus is no ordinary king. He entered Jerusalem prepared to do battle not by wielding a mighty army and strong weapons but by offering a proclamation of new life. He didn’t offer a quick fix through great displays of power but through the transformational wonder of justice and peace. And he invited everyone who dared to step into this new and different kingdom, where pain and war are no more, where iniquity is pardoned, where liberation is real and all things are made new.

Did the crowd know all this? Did they take it seriously? Had they heard Jesus’ words for what they were—a real and direct challenge to the patterns of the status quo, true “fighting words” against the powers of religion and politics of the day, the proclamation of a different kind of king who sought not power for himself or privilege for a few but new life for all? Did they really understand that their cries of “Hosanna!” were for one who would confront their realities and drive them to a new and different way?

Better yet, do we know all this? Are we prepared to set aside our preference for ourselves and show others the way to new life? Are we prepared to give up something of what we have so that others also might live in hope? Are we prepared to put down the weapons of war and take up the path of peace? Are we prepared to join this kind of royal procession and turn the world upside down? May God give us the strength to commit ourselves to this new and different path, not just on this Palm Sunday but each and every day as we walk this holy road with Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Not Just Any Other King

a reflection on Matthew 27:11-54

There’s something truly incredible about this story. It is of course the story that stands at the center of the Christian gospel message, that a man lived, died, and rose again to show us the depth and breadth of God’s love. But when you get down to it, you have to admit that there is something peculiar about it all. Even setting aside the reasonable questions about why this is necessary and why God might choose to do this at all, it’s very much fair to wonder why would God use a man from a small town in the backwaters of the Roman empire to bring about salvation for the whole world. Even more strangely, why would God work in and through a man who was condemned and executed by one of the most powerful empires in the history of the world? It’s nothing short of scandalous that God would choose to make this story the one that matters for us—but we are ultimately confronted with two millennia of witnesses who have made this exact claim, who have been convinced by Jesus’ life, ministry, death, resurrection, ascension, and continuing presence that this man embodied the fullness of the sign that was so mockingly hung on the cross: “This is Jesus, the King of the Jews.”

And ultimately all these have proclaimed that this title means that he was not just any other king—by extension, these claim, as King of the Jews, Jesus brought a new and different way of life into the world, inaugurating a different kind of kingdom that fit his humble roots, living out the fullness of his teaching of justice, peace, and new life, showing his care and concern for all people and especially the poor and outcast, insisting that there is a different and better way of life and living for all people, even us, and ultimately triumphing over any and all evil that might try to get in his way.

Just as the story of the royal processional on that first Palm Sunday insists that we look at Jesus differently, the death of Jesus demands that we take a new and careful look at our world and Jesus’ place in it. It insists that we set aside our attempts to make Jesus look just like us, to fit him perfectly into the boxes we try to make for him, to explain his presence and his meaning with simple and seemingly timeless words and metaphors, to limit his gift of grace, mercy, and peace to those whom we might like to have share it, to demand that everyone agree on one way of understanding what he brings to our lives and our world. The execution of Jesus of Nazareth at the hands of the religious and political authorities of first-century Palestine insists that God is working beyond all our human assumptions to do something new and different and radical in our world, to shatter our expectations of glorious salvation through power, privilege, and prestige, to overturn the systems that promote injustice and hurt, to be present with us in the midst of our darkest hours just as God was present in the horrific and unjust death of Jesus. And the crucifixion of Christ insists that our relationship with God is different now, that we are forever changed as individuals and as a community because God has experienced the fullness of human life, including death itself, and overcome it all, that we will ultimately be judged by none other than our redeemer himself, and that nothing in life or in death, in heaven or on earth, can separate us from the fullness of God’s love in Jesus Christ our Lord.

So as we make this journey of Holy Week, as we relive again this story of the passion, death, and resurrection of our Living Lord, may Jesus be more than any other king to us—may we welcome his reign of peace and justice and new life as it takes hold around us in the most unexpected ways and we join in making it real each and every day until he comes again to make all things new. Lord, come quickly! Amen.

The Stories That Define Us: Dry Bones and New Life

April 6, 2014 By Andy James

a sermon on Ezekiel 37:1-14 and Psalm 130
preached on April 6, 2014, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone

One of the biggest adjustments for this southern boy living in New York is not the snow or the cold but the extended season of gray that results from a longer winter. This winter’s grays are worse than usual. Spring may have technically begun two weeks ago, but the grays just haven’t gone away yet. The snow that just wouldn’t go away made everything so blah for so long, and the charcoal color of it after weeks of below-freezing temperatures just made it miserable to look out the window for days on end. And now that the snow has melted, we see all the gunk that got piled up on the ground over the past few months: the cigarette butts so well hidden in the snow but now standing out against the gray dirt and brown grass, the litter strewn here there and everywhere by the winds of winter, abandoned gloves and hats just waiting to be reunited with their mates and owners, and the dead grass that reminds us of the winter that seemed like it would never end. By contrast, in the South, by now most trees have their leaves back, the days are consistently warmer, and flowers have burst into bloom everywhere. Now there is much that I have come to love about the seasons of New York, not the least of which is the beautiful fall colors that are simply without compare down South, but when the buds are barely on the trees by Easter even when it is as late as it is this year, this southern boy feels like he’s been stuck in the valley of dry bones for six months!

Our reading from the prophet Ezekiel this morning about that valley of dry bones is another one of those stories that defines us. Like the story of Abraham, it is immortalized in a song that keeps it more vivid in our minds than it might otherwise be. Even so, this is a little different from the other stories that we have considered that define us. This is a vision of God’s intentions for the world, not so much a real and immediate depiction of a historical moment and figure, yet it is no less a real and true depiction of how God is at work around us and through us and in us and no less a faithful reflection on what God promises to make real for us and our world.

When in a vision the prophet Ezekiel found himself in this strange valley of very dry bones, he knew that God was up to something. God started things out by asking Ezekiel a question that only God could answer: “Mortal, can these bones live?” Ezekiel rightfully turned the question back on God, who then commanded him to prophesy to the bones:

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.
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.

Then as Ezekiel spoke out across the dry bones, into the gray darkness of the valley, “suddenly there was a noise, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone.” As Ezekiel spoke, the valley of dry bones was transformed by the sights and sounds of life, with bones rattling together and sinews and flesh and skin suddenly appearing on these old, dry bones—but they still weren’t alive. It seems that those bones weren’t just lacking the outer skin of life—they were lacking the inner life that would make them flourish, the breath that would fill them and make them live. So God spoke to Ezekiel and told him to prophesy once again, this time to the wind, the spirit, the breath of life:

Thus says the Lord God:
Come from the four winds, O breath,
and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.

The wind, the spirit, the breath of life came upon these bones, these sinews, this flesh, this skin, these bodies—and they lived. Then God made this vision clear to Ezekiel. These bones were not just any bones but the bones of the people of God, seemingly dead and dry after a long exile and countless attacks from every quarter, ready to be lifted up to new life and shown the path to something new. This valley was not just some place where too many went to die but instead will be the cradle of new life. And these bodies restored to new life will not just be a bunch of automatons set in motion as an automated army but a blessing of God to all the nations because of the spirit, the wind, the breath that blows within them.

So what does this story of dry bones mean for us today? At one level, it seems pretty morbid—and it is. This is a story of death, after all. There were lots and lots of bones in that valley, and they were very dry, very dead. But here God promises that death is only the beginning of the story. Erin Wathen puts it very well:

Death doesn’t ruin the story.
It doesn’t steal the joy of love found or moments shared.
It just creates a new kind of beginning,
the potential to start a new chapter and learn life-giving lessons from some new trip, or relationship, or set-back.

Before the bones can rattle back together, before the sinews and flesh and skin can reappear, before the spirit can breathe life into these bodies, the bones have to be very dry and very dead. Before the spring can emerge with meaning, before the buds can sprout forth in beauty, before new life can take hold, the gray and dreary days of winter must be real. And before we can know the deep and real gift of God’s love, before we can experience the reality of forgiveness, before we can emerge from the depths of pain and hurt, we must experience the separation and frustration of sin.

But all this talk of death is only the beginning, for it helps to make the possibility of new life all the more real. It gives us new sight to see signs of new life even in the midst of the longest winter. It gives us hope for new breath to enter the lifeless bodies around us. And it gives us the promise that death may be a part of our story but will certainly not be the end of it. This story—and so our story, too—does not end with dead, dry bones but with living, breathing bodies filled with new life. Our story does not end with an empty valley but with women and men of all times and places filled with God’s Spirit and made ready to go forth to live out God’s mission in the world. And our story does not end with the gray darkness of winter but with spring taking hold all around us, with flowers bursting into bloom, trees budding with new life, and warm sunlight shining into the dark places of our hearts and lives.

So all the stories that define us—and especially this one—ultimately not only look back on the past but look ahead to the future, reminding us that God has made things new over and over again and promises to do the same with us, too. The stories that define us tell us that the gray days of even the longest winters will eventually be displaced with the burst of color in spring. And the stories that define us assure us that God will not only hear our cries out of the depths but will guide us from all our darkness into the bright light of the new day.

The other day, as I was struggling with these words and wondering when this gray and dreary winter would finally give way to new life, I left the church to take some mail to the post office. On my way out of the church, at the top of the basement stairs, I was greeted with a surprise: the first flowers of spring. At the end of this crazy and full week, even as we still wait for spring to burst forth into its fullness, the first flowers of spring reminded me that there is hope for something new, that God is even now making all things new.

So as we await the fullness of the resurrection, may the words of the psalmist inspire us anew:

O [people of God], hope in the Lord!
For with the Lord there is steadfast love,
and with [God] is great power to redeem.

May the breath, the wind, the Spirit of new life blow into us so that we too might be made new as we await the fullness of the resurrection promised in Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.