Dry Bones

This sermon was given at our Sunday morning service on 29th March. Obviously, due to Covid 19, there was no opportunity to meet in person, so we have been experimenting with doing a mixture of pre-recorded and live services - you can check us out on Facebook - St Michael's, Flixton. If you'd prefer to see me deliver this sermon instead of reading it, there's a youtube link directly below. If you'd rather not turn your speakers on just now, then please read the transcript instead. Peace be with you!

 
There’s been a good deal of advice around recently about looking on the bright side of this strange situation we all find ourselves in. Sometimes, if we’re unable to find time ourselves, it is good to be forced to take a step back and evaluate, with time to sit, and think, and reflect and pray.

I hope, for you, this time of self-isolation and social distancing is a time in which you have been able to do some of these things. For me, so far, it has not been. I hope it may yet be, but, for various reasons with work and home and – yes – church too, this time of Covid 19 has been busier than ever. It’s been difficult and worrisome, and heavy-going. 

Perhaps it’s because we’re in Lent, but I’ve been finding a lot of resonance in one particular verse from Psalm 22 – you know, the one that starts “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”. The verse that I’ve been specifically relating to is verse 14 – “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast”. That’s exactly how I’ve been feeling – poured out, and out of joint. I can almost feel that image of my heart having melted like a candle; I’m wrung out. I’m not saying any of this for sympathy, by the way! I’m more trying to state that if this is the way you’re feeling too, you’re certainly not alone! Our hearts are melting together, and our bones are all mutually out-of-joint!

I’m often surprised – more than I should be, I guess – at how appropriate the lectionary readings are for the situations in which we find ourselves week by week. I laughed when I saw what today’s readings were – the Valley of Dry Bones from the book of Ezekiel, and the Gospel story of the death of Lazarus.

Our readings today are about desolation… and death – be that physical or spiritual, or even metaphorical. And this time that we’re going through, I’m sorry to say, is certainly a time of all of those kinds of death.

Dry bones in the desert

I’m in mourning. I don’t know if you are too? I’m in mourning for not being able to be with you in church today, and be in fellowship together and take communion with you. I’m in mourning for not being able to walk into the office and see my colleagues and friends there, and have a brew with them. I’m in mourning for not being able to go out to the pub, and see friends there and have a drink and a chat about lighter conversation topics, like the economic downturn, the environmental crisis, and Brexit. Ohhh – I miss Brexit. Don’t you? How I long for the giddy days when our biggest concern was crashing out of Europe without a plan?! Fun times, eh?!

But instead, today, we are fearful, frightened, and wrung out. We are dry bones, desiccating in the searing heat of the desert sun, longing for the breath of God to rush over us and through us and knit us back together. We are Lazarus, entombed in our own homes, longing, even with ears that are dead to hearing, for the voice of Christ that tells us to get up, and come out.

If ever there were a Lent that threatened to go on forever, if ever – since the resurrection of Christ, there were an Easter that might never come, this is it. We cry out, with the whole house of Israel: “our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.” 

We know, of course, the end to these stories. We know that Lazarus is raised, and gains new life. We know that the bones in Ezekiel’s vision in that valley, come together and rise and live again – not, like in some zombie apocalypse story, but quite the reverse. We know – I know we know – that the same is true for us in this situation in which we find ourselves. We will come through this, and whether it is in two weeks or two months’ time, or even longer, we will celebrate Easter together, rejoicing again in life, and life to its fullest. That’s not my sermon though. I have hope to bring, but it is here, now, and not in a future that may seem far off.

The hope I have this morning is this: - yes, we are bones strewn across the desert; we are locked in our tombs; we may be waiting for Easter – whenever that may come – before we can meet again in person, but we are not waiting for Easter for God. 

Our readings this morning tell us this:

At the tomb, whilst Lazarus was dead inside, Christ was there.

In the valley in the desert, while the bones lay drying on the ground, the spirit of God was there.

I am reminded of another Psalm – Psalm 139. It says this: If I ascend to Heaven, God is there; if I make my bed in hell, God is there.

God is there. 

You might not feel that this morning? That’s completely understandable. It’s a hard thing to comprehend at the moment. In these times of despair, it’s not easy to feel the presence of God.

But, again, you’re not alone. The dead lying in that valley did not know God was there. How could they? They were just bones. It didn’t matter, though, whether they knew it, or felt it; God was there.

Lazarus did not know God was there. He was dead. It did not matter, though, whether his lifeless body recognised the presence of God; God was there.

God is with us in the desert, in our mourning, in our self-isolation. He’s not waiting for us to come through this, sitting on the other side of our troubles; he is here with you now – as close as the heart that is melting within your breast. Even in your stress and worry and fear, God is with you – now – whether you can feel his presence or not. He is there.

God is here with us in the hard times; in these hardest of times. But, as much as we may wish him to, he does not prevent these times. Israel was decimated. Lazarus died. Jesus dies. I think that’s sometimes why we can’t feel him; these things still happen even in the presence of God; even when God is there.

God does not prevent the wilderness times; God reverses them. This is the story of creation – we live, and then we die, and then God brings life again. And he’s there all the way through.

This will all pass, and we will celebrate together once again. Until then, however, know you are not forsaken. God is still with you, whether you can feel him there or not, he is there, as close as your very breath. Where you are now, stuck at home, stuck in boredom, stuck in worry, stuck in despair, stuck in exhaustion, God is with you. He is there.

Amen.