As many of you know, I recently spent 8 days hiking the Appalachian Trail. Hiking the entire 2000 miles of the trail has been on my Bucket List since I graduated college, and so, I'm making good on that dream and slowly ticking the steps off at about 100 miles per trip. At this rate, I'll be done in 10 years or so... It's a long term investment in my spirit, my life, and mostly my sanity.
Out 'there' I have a different perspective on life and land; need and desire; reliance and freedom. The landscape stretches vastly before me, seemingly endless with possibility and peril. Every breathtaking panoramic view of the purple-dappled Blue Ridge Mountains came only after heaving a 30 pound backpack up 3500 feet of rocky, treacherous mountain. At one point my hiking partner pointed ahead and said, "I think we are climbing that mountain." To which I responded, "There's no way we are climbing THAT."
But we were and we did.
As we stood atop Mary's Rock, looking down over the land, the hard climb was worth it. The rain from the day before had stopped, my skin was warm, and the air was invigorating. From our towering vantage point, the world was lush and teeming with life.
However, the irony of all the beauty was not lost on me. I'd seen that mountain up close, knew it more intimately than many. I'd tripped over her rocks, rested on fallen, dead trees, swatted annoying insects out of my eyes and ears, and was covered in her dirt and grime and my own sweat and salt. It wasn't all glorious.
I'm not one for touting heavenly plan in so much as 'every breath I take and every move I make' is foreknown in some divine book (and yes, that was a little nod to the 80's musical group 'The Police'). But, as I read of Ezekiel's expedition this week, I couldn't help but feel a synchronistic connection with him, like there was something guiding my trip more than my sense of adventure and thirst for risk.
At first blush, desert valleys have little in common with panoramic blue mountains. Most of us would prefer beautiful mountains over dusty deserts, but my experience and Ezekiel's experience are more similar than different. And I suspect that's because anguish and hope; life and death are held in the same hand.
I'm sure that Ezekiel would've liked to have gone his whole life without becoming this intimately connected to death. I mean, who among us would choose the death valley perspective? What reason could God have for dropping Ezekiel into this silent, eerie valley of dry bones, where despair sticks on his tongue like course sandpaper?
Hiking reminds me that I am not invincible, mostly because I'm stripped bare of all my creature comforts. As I find my way 'out there' I am reminded of my connectivity to the earth, my interdependence with humanity, and that I'm utterly dependent on the very breath of God. I forget that sometimes and get lost in my independence, autonomy, and self-sufficiency.
And maybe this was true for Ezekiel too.
I'm certain the brutal graveyard reminded him of the fragility of life.
As my hiking partner and I watched cars drive by on Skyline Drive, we would remark to one another how odd it was that the cars had no idea we were even there, part of the landscape they were admiring. The hardship of our climbs was lost on them as they easily cruised by.
Ezekiel must've had that same thought as God showed him those whose lives were strewn and forgotten in the dirt.
Nobody cared or remembered they were there.
Except God.
And now Ezekiel.
When reading about Ezekiel's expedition we often move quickly from the dry bones lying in desolation to them rattling with new life. It's a fun story read that way; one that allows us to gloss over the death piece. However, I am confident that Ezekiel was thoroughly gripped and viscerally marked as he surveyed his surroundings.
The story may move quickly, but Ezekiel's heart didn't.
Because no matter the mantra of "Leave No Trace," one cannot go through something without it marking them and them marking it, be it a valley of dry bones, a mountain of majesty, or a meadow of monotony. Bones and topography disclose stuff about who we are, what we have endured, and how we have lived. The stories those bones could tell...
And so it strikes me that movement through a landscape is the best way to really know a place; to really know a people; to really fall in love with it, which intensifies our desire to protect it and save it.
Glancing out our car windows doesn't do that. The view from the car is safe. God's not that into 'safe.'
I guess the question is do we really want to go on this expedition with God or not?
I mean, I could die myself (or at least feel like the life has been sucked out of me) trying to get up the mountains and out of the valleys. Maybe I'll just 'camp out' in the safety of my home and roast marshmallows over a gas stove?
There are so many valleys I don't want God to plop me down in. Like the Santa Fe 'valley'. Lord knows if I never have to preach again in the wake of another school shooting it will be too soon. Those are bodies I'd rather not look upon.
And yet, I hear God's call to us, "Mortal, can these bones live?"
Sadly, my heart is tired and can't even muster Ezekiel's response of, "Oh God, only you know." Too many graves have been dug and I mostly want to hang my head and say, "No, God. They cannot live. And we cannot live like this."
I don't want to walk through that valley. And there are many mountains I don't want to climb, God. I know my heart and spirit will just get broken. The terrain is too hard and it's excruciating work - emotionally, spiritually, and physically. Insurmountable questions of 'why' and 'how' which confound the heart and suck the marrow from my bones and I never seem to reach the summit.
But there is no escaping Ezekiel's haunting vision; there is no escaping Sante Fe; no escaping the truth that we live in a culture intent on death for many, rather than life for all.
Pentecost is traditionally when we recognize the Holy Spirit's manifestation among us. It's an exciting and fun story. Often times we remember that the church was born at a drunk and disorderly street fair, reminding us that the primary goal of the church was never meant to be 'properness.'
But somehow along the way, we have lost a full sense of the power of God to smack people upside the head; lost a full appreciation for the mystery and wonder of God, acting as if we don't expect God to do much; lost trust that God can and will raise people to new life even in the face of horrible odds.
Maybe that's why I like Ezekiel's Pentecost story so much. God is not subtle; He clobbers Ezekiel on the head; He shows Ezekiel that the outpouring of the Spirit can and does happen on the edge of desolation; and then in typical divine fashion calls Ezekiel to work!
God is not taking 'no' for an answer. The prophet must participate in the healing and life giving process. No riding in a car for Ezekiel. God will see to it that prophets and poets, dreamers and doers will be winds of change and the fire of love. This I must believe.
And so, what of the skeletons buried in those places? What of the people waiting to breathe again? What of the exiles longing for life? Can there be new life in places and people so fraught with death and horror and sadness?
I don't say stuff like this much - maybe I'm a reserved theologian or something - but if there is no hope for places like Santa Fe, or our schools, or Gaza, or Israel; if there is no hope for the family praying for miracle or the immigrant starting a new life...
If there is no new life, then I'll just sit down now.
But I am not going to sit down. I am going to keep clinging to God's promise, "I will put my spirit within you, and you shall live."
Sometimes I need that promise for myself when I feel like I'm gasping for breath and struggling to stay alive. And sometimes I need that promise to empower me to do the work God calls me to.
Ezekiel's Pentecost story is the one that matters if dreams of what could've been have been hardened by calcification and your bones have been picked clean by vultures. This is the Pentecost story that matters when your hope is lost and you cannot take another step. This is the Pentecost story that promises us God knows no death that cannot be infused with life. This is the Pentecost story that matters for today and one that promises a tomorrow.
I'm not going to pretend like I know how that will happen, but I do know God's not going to rest until it does happen. I do know that the prophets and poets, dreamers and doers look a lot like you and me.
And, I do trust the answer to the question, "Can these bones live?" is always and forever, "Yes!" Amen.
