We understand about dry bones. Our world is full of them -- both literally and figuratively. Ground Zero in New York City, where the World Trade Center once stood. A desolate stretch of fence in Wyoming where Matthew Shepard died. War zones both past and present, from Afghanistan to the West Bank to Northern Ireland to the Killing Fields of Cambodia to the inner city streets of more than a few US cities. Court rooms everywhere that handle the thousands of divorce cases each year. Hospitals and hospice centers and homes where people still die of AIDS and countless other diseases. Places 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 all seems so hopeless and it leaves us feeling so helpless. Nothing we try seems able to turn the tide. Still there is more killing. Still there is more death. Still there is more loss.

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 that they have 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 C. Lynn, June 4, 1993)

Such despair is not confined only to experiences of physical death. There are countless other occasions in our lives when we lose hope. In the early days of my divorce, when the pain was at times overwhelming, the world seemed a very desolate place. And so, in the midst of the season of Lent, in the shortest sermon I ever preached, I said, “Faith is not just about joy and love and peace. Sometimes that is simply not where we find ourselves. Sometimes life is painful. The season of Lent is a time when we are reminded that faith is about all of life, including our pain. The resurrection is always there waiting. Lent ends with Easter, after all. But sometimes we can’t see that far . . . Sometimes we have trouble getting past the pain, so that we can hear about the healing. When your soul feels like it is dying, it is difficult to comprehend the possibility of new life.”

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 is never the end of the story. I believe that we are called to lives which can be described as journeys of faith. Our theme for Lent -- “A Journey Into The Heart Of God” -- speaks to us of the nature and direction of our faith journey. But such a journey becomes impossible to complete when our existence is defined by dead, dry bones. So it stands to reason that if God calls us to faithful journeys, then God will also provide us with the new life necessary to make those journeys. 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. In my own life, the pain and grief gave way gradually to renewed sense of hope and joy. God brought healing to my brokenness through friends and colleagues, and by bringing me here to this congregation. My former spouse and I have even found ways to defy the expectations of our culture and remain friends who genuinely care about each other. 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.