Lay Witness 3/29/2020

Today’s Old Testament reading from the book of Ezekiel is full of familiar imagery for most Christians. The story of the prophet’s vision of the valley of dry bones became all the more familiar to us in recent years through the work of the wonderful singer Lauren Daigle, whose appropriately entitled song combines her beautiful voice with poetic lyrics. It is one of my favorite contemporary Christian songs. As I prepared for this lay witness message I struggled with what I wanted to share with you today, but when I looked at the lectionary and began to study the background of the verses, God spoke deeply to my heart and I knew that this passage, along with the Gospel reading from John, are so fitting for these times.

I do not pretend in the least to be a Biblical scholar. Far, far from it. I’m just an Oklahoma horse doctor continually trying to find my way in this world and with my faith. When I read the verses from Ezekial I realized that while I was very familiar with the imagery and the overall message, I had never taken the time to study the historical context and background of the scripture. So like any good modern American, I took to the Google machine and did a little research. I was able to find several reliable sources, which can be tricky these days, that helped me gain a broader understanding of Ezekial’s perspective at the time.

Scholars mostly agree that this passage was written and occurred during Ezekiel’s exile to Babylon in the 6th century B.C. It is believed that he and numerous other Jewish peoples were deported around 597 B.C., 11 years before the fall of Jerusalem that resulted in the destruction of the temple and the exile of many of the remaining Jews. When I learned this, the theme of exile and loss of their temple really hit home for me. Given these extraordinary times and circumstances for our nation and our parish, I could feel a kinship with Ezekiel and the ancient ones.

We too find ourselves in a strange sort of modern exile. While we have not been separated from our homeland, we have most certainly been separated from our church building, our temple, as well as one another. We knew as a parish that our move was coming, and if you were like me you were mourning the loss while still feeling hopeful and grateful for our new journey. However, the coronavirus outbreak and the sudden closure of our church building came as such a shock to me, as I know it did to many of you. There is a little spot on the altar rail that is very special to me. It’s where my family usually finds ourselves during communion. It’s where Father Mark prayed for us after Lily was diagnosed, and it’s where we kneeled in quiet fear the night we got the news of Cindy’s cancer, as Father Mark anointed her head with oil. I love that spot. It's given me such comfort. It’s where I truly felt the peace that passes all understanding, and where my faith became stronger time and time again. I had begun saying goodbye to that spot, but I was comforted by the idea that I would get to say one final farewell with one final communion and one final prayer. Now that is not to be. I would imagine most of you have a spot at St. Mary’s. It might be an altar spot like mine. It might be at the baptismal font where your children were welcomed into the church. It could be in front of one of your loved one’s final resting spots or gazing up at the altar or any number of personal places to which we no longer get to say goodbye.

In Ezekial's vision of the dry bones, there is so much imagery with which we can connect right now. The circumstances are very bleak for many, as the job losses mount and the stock market plunges and the death toll and case numbers rise. Many of us are separated from our families, relegated to video chats and phone calls and maybe a tearful brief encounter through a glass door or window. As the opening verse from Lauren Daigle’s song goes, “Through the eyes of men it seems/there’s so much we have lost.” Verse 11 in the Ezekial passage says, “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.” We too find ourselves in a valley, we too are cut off, and we too are fearful of the future. We are worried about our vulnerable family and friends, and we are worried about our financial well-being. Dry bones truly are all around us.

But there, right there lies the hope. There is the hope of God’s love for us. There is the hope of Christ. There, in that dark and scary valley, filled with the terrifying imagery of lifeless skeletons, God breathed life into those dry bones and they came alive. God says to Ezekiel, “O my people. I will put my spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you on your own soil," and Lauren Daigle beautifully sings, “So with the faith you've given us/we'll step into the valley unafraid.”

In my life there have been many times I’ve been fearful. When I was young it might have been noises in the night or other such fears children have. As an adult it’s been the fear that has come from some of the hardships our family has endured. This outbreak has brought with it new fears, like losing my parents and others I love, or losing my job or our house. It has been hard to still these fears at times, but as always I find the greatest comfort in the arms of God, whose word and love have always and continue to surround me. I know many of us are fearful right now, and it is my fervent prayer that we may find peace and strength through God and through Jesus.

I will close today with some thoughts about the Gospel reading, which to me is one of the most important passages about the life and ministry of Jesus. We are all quite familiar with the supernatural Jesus. We know by heart the stories of his turning water into wine, of his feeding of the multitudes, of his walking on water, of his healing of the sick and raising of the dead. The supernatural Jesus is awesome and powerful and I love him with all my heart. But in this reading from John, we find what is just as important about Jesus to me: he was a human being. He came to be among us, and he did not dine with the kings and the elites but rather lived among and became a voice for the widow, for the orphan, for the beggar, for the leper, for the immigrant, for the outcast. He spent his time with those on the bottom of the pile, with those deemed irredeemable by society. And when his friend Lazarus died, he wept. He wept like we all weep when we lose a loved one. That passage, that short, tiny passage, gives me such comfort in times like these, and it gives me hope. Our God loves us so much that he sent his son to not only save us, but to live amongst us, to struggle with us, and to weep with us.

In these dark and uncertain times, when we at St. Mary’s find ourselves in exile like Ezekiel and weeping like Jesus, may we never lose hope. May we never lose faith. May we know that although we find ourselves in a valley of dry bones, we have a God who has the power to breathe life into those dry bones, and we have a savior who weeps with us. As my grandmother used to say, “This too shall pass.” We will get through these times as a nation and as a world, difficult and frightening as they may be. Those dry bones will come alive, and we will sing with joy in our new church home when our exile is over. In the meantime, in the words of my very favorite verse, may the peace of God which passes all understanding keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Amen.