I am the Resurrection and the Life
Texts: Ezekiel 37:1-14, John 11:1-45
I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.
Ezekiel was led in a vision to a mass grave. All the people of his country, of his home were nothing more than a pile of dry bones. They had lost a war against their enemies and been killed. Their identity, their culture, everything about them was thrown into the valley. It was everyone’s worst nightmare. They were gone. Or were they? In the face of abject horror, the voice of God cried out, “Mortal, can these bones live?” Instead of shouting “No!”Ezekiel stated simply, “O LORD God, you know.” Slowly but surely bones were connected to bones. Sinews grew. The dry bones turned once again into the humans they had been. But there was no life, there was no breath in them.
Then Ezekiel was called to prophesy to the breath, to not only watch the people come back alive with the power of the Spirit, but to declare his belief that it was possible. This was a vision he had to hold and believe with all his heart. He had to tell it to his children and his children’s children. Even though everything seemed lost, even though it felt like they had nothing left, that they were toast, God’s Spirit could come upon them and they could live. Their story didn’t end in captivity. Their story didn’t end with them being conquered. Their story didn’t end in genocide. Even in the darkest moments in the valley, the Spirit of God was available to them. They could access the breath that brought them back to life. They have used this breath, this life, to live through so much strife. As one Jewish quip goes, “They tried to destroy us, they failed, thanks be to God.”
This is what it meant to them to be God’s chosen people. Not that they would never go through hardship, they’ve been through more than enough over the millenia. What it means is that when everything is lost, they can prophesy to God’s breath, they can call God down upon the dry bones of their lives, and they can live. We, who come out of the Gentile branch that has been grafted in as part of the new covenant share now in that promise. We too can call God’s Spirit upon the dry bones of our lives and live. But first we have to prophesy to the Spirit, we have to believe in the possibility of life.
In the United States, we haven’t had a war within our borders for over a century, our battle grounds are overseas, so those of us who do not get deployed to war don’t know what that’s like, but the world of battles, of rebellion, of trying to figure out what it was to maintain your identity in a land that was not your own was the world of Ezekiel. He had been swept away into exile, a temple priest forced to live in a land that was not his own far away from the place he served to worship God. Would he die away from the place he served and the land he loved? Would he no longer be permitted to engage in the worship that revived his soul and helped him feel that he could breathe again? Instead of being a priest, Ezekiel became a prophet. God called out to him and through him, in the midst of his pain and confusion, despite the fact that he felt lost and alone. God showed him the valley. He was able to prophesy to the bones. They lived. This was not the end of the story of the people of Israel. God was not done. When they couldn’t see the way forward, God put sinews on their bones and breath in their lungs and they lived.
How many times have we been in situations where we cannot see the way forward? What does the way forward look like for us? Interestingly enough, it does not sidestep pain or lament. It walks through pain and lament. Our whole Gospel story can be seen as a commentary on grief. John’s Gospel is all about pulling spiritual truths out of Jesus’ actions, and I see a message for us on loss, pain, and resurrection hope.
One of the strange things about our Gospel reading for today is that Jesus didn’t go to Bethany right away after he heard that Lazarus is sick. He stayed where he was for a little while. It sometimes feels to us like we’re crying out to God and no one is showing up to help out. It’s natural to feel lost, alone, or abandoned. It feels like Jesus is in a different town, not heading our way anytime soon. These moments are the scariest. These are the moments where we are part of the valley of dry bones.
But then Jesus came. And he didn’t immediately go to the tomb. No, first he went to encounter the grief. Both Martha and Mary had the same message for Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Jesus did not deny this. Jesus didn’t try to defend himself against the accusation. Jesus pointed towards resurrection hope even in the midst of the pain. But even when Jesus told Martha that he is the resurrection and the life, Jesus was still far from the tomb. He hadn’t even entered Bethany yet. He was on the outskirts of town. He waited where Martha met him as Martha ran back to get Mary.
When Mary laid her pain and anguish down at Jesus’ feet, Jesus stayed with her and wept with her. He still was no closer to the tomb, to the moment of resurrection, and that’s because he had something more important to do at that moment. He had to stay with Mary and Martha. He had to weep as they wept. He had to feel what they were feeling and know the anguish they felt. He couldn’t sweep it aside. He couldn’t rush to the tomb. Instead, he had to live in the moment with them. They needed him to be present to their pain. How often do we just need someone to be present to our pain? How often do we long for someone to just sit with us, not trying to fix anything, but recognizing how deeply things hurt?
Then, after weeping, after living into grief with them, then Jesus comes to the tomb. He tells them to take away the stone. Just like Ezekiel had to prophesy to the breath, the people there had to roll away the stone. They had to live into the possibility of new life. They had to take hope into themselves. I don’t think any of them truly believed they would see Lazarus alive, but they were curious enough and hopeful enough to do the hard labor of removing the stone. They put in the effort if nothing else but to satisfy curiosity. Sometimes following a nagging bit of curiosity is enough for us to experience miracles.
The stone was rolled away, Jesus shouted for Lazarus to come out, and behold, he came. Did the resurrection of Lazarus negate the pain and grief of his sisters, who had watched him grow sick and die, who had put him in the tomb and grieved over him for four days? No. They still had that full experience. There’s a reason why the gospel writer focuses on them, giving them the majority of the space in the story while the actual resurrection of Lazarus is done in two verses. Resurrection doesn’t negate pain. It doesn’t negate grief. It doesn’t negate the horrible things that happen in our lives. It’s not something that magically makes everything better.
What resurrection does is give a new beginning. It continues the story. It affirms that we are not in the last chapter of the book of life, we are in the middle. We have the power to move through the pain, through the suffering, because there is something on the other side that is worth the journey. We are called to hold onto the hope of better things, not as a pie in the sky ideal, but as something that Jesus provides if we follow his way. Jesus calls in the midst of the pain, grief and confusion, “I am the Resurrection. I am the Life.”
This is the message that carried the apostles through imprisonments and death. This is the message that martyrs carried with them into the arena as they faced the wild beasts. This is the message that we carry into the places where all seems lost, where it feels like the way of death and destruction has won. It is the breath that gives life in the valley of dry bones. It is the breath that gives life each moment we breathe. Jesus is the resurrection. Jesus is the life.
That doesn’t negate what is happening. That doesn’t try to minimize pain or suffering. That’s not what Jesus does. What Jesus does is stay with those who are suffering and ask for our help to roll the stone away. He asks for the smallest bit of hope or at least curiosity to put in the work and make baby steps towards the possibility of new life. God can do the rest. God will do the rest. But it’s not all on Jesus. There’s a place for humanity in the equation.
God also doesn’t ask those who are suffering the most to do that labor. The dry bones didn’t prophesy to themselves. Mary and Martha weren’t the ones who rolled back the stone. God called on others to help out. Those who are most affected shouldn’t be the ones who do all the labor. Others should be able to come in and roll back the stone for them. We aren’t asked to do everything ourselves, we need a community to help us.
There’s an old story in my family. The legend is that my dad’s great-grandfather, my great-great grandfather, whom I’ll call Joe, had a neighbor whose young son had died. Joe saw that the neighbor was in the church graveyard digging his son’s grave in the cold of the night. Joe walked up with his lantern, set it down and took the shovel from his friend’s hand. He said, “This is not your job. Go home.” Joe finished burying the child. When are we called to step in and take the shovel? When are we called to hand the shovel to our neighbor and go home?
We will be at both places at some time in our lives. The hope of the resurrection assures us that even when we are at one of the most painful moments of our lives, and there is nothing more painful than burying a child, that God is not done with us yet. God still loves us, still cares for us. Life is still possible. The child lives in God. We live in God. All that we have and all that we are returns to God. Even though we die, yet we live.
May we live in this hope, even in the midst of great suffering. Even when all feels lost. May we not sidestep lament, but rather move through it. May we find the courage in the midst of despair to help each other out. Amen.
