Can These Bones Live?
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” What absolutely heart-wrenching words to hear, especially from one of your friends. Even when said to Jesus who, let’s face it, absolutely could have stopped Lazarus from dying. But instead, this man who we’re told loves Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, and who has already healed multiple other people, chooses to wait a few days so that his publicity stunt has a bit more of an impact. It feels like such a natural reaction to the death of a loved one, and it’s something I’ve heard over and over again during the last six months in my work as a chaplain intern at Strong Memorial. It’s part of why my chest fills with dread when I get a call to visit a family in the ICU, because I know that in making decisions about end of life care there will be those who blame themselves or the doctors and nurses or other members of their families. If we had gotten there sooner. If the doctors had diagnosed more quickly. If some miracle had taken place. It’s part of how we make sense of death and other crises in our lives. If only blank had happened, this person wouldn’t have died. If only Jesus hadn’t taken his sweet time, Mary says, Lazarus would still be alive. Perhaps the one thing that Mary thought she could count on was that Jesus would be there, that when she sent for him, he would come running. The fact that he showed up days late is enough to shake her faith, to question where the blame really lies. Putting this back on Jesus gives Mary back a little control. At least now she has someone to blame.
There’s nothing quite like death that makes us feel so powerless. Even when we find ways to blame ourselves, that blame still doesn’t hide the fact that death is a mystery, and that sometimes there just isn’t anything we can do to stop it. And this death that makes us feel powerless comes in many forms. It’s not just the literal, bodily death that sees us pulseless and breathless. There’s also what theologian Brian Blount refers to as living death. This is the death that is woven into our world, that tells us that we are competitors rather than beloved children of the divine. This is the death that comes from doing soul-crushing work, rather than the work that our souls must have. This is the death that comes from the violence that patriarchy and white supremacy and queerphobia do to both body and spirit. This living death makes lifeless creatures out of both victim and perpetrator, pulling each of us away from the fullness of life. It leaves us bound, sealed in the darkness of the tomb, waiting to hear the voice of one who speaks life to us. We continue to move through lives that don’t seem to resemble the fullness of life, in the midst of systems and institutions that bring about death on a daily basis. The death of being denied healthcare, because your health is not profitable. The death of having your children torn from your arms because they are citizens and you are not. The death of broken relationships that don’t seem to bear any hope for reconciliation. Living death follows us on a daily basis. And who is left to speak to us all and call us out of the tomb, when all of us are living in death together?
That’s the part of these passages that ought to be our guide, I think. That the bones don’t come back together because they decide to on a whim. That Lazarus doesn’t just wake up and decide to not be dead anymore. God tells Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones. That word that we often read as prophesy, in this case is a verb. God tells Ezekiel to take action, to call out to the dry bones of his people, to call out to the winds and the spirit, and to move with them from death into life. God does not abandon, even the dead. Rather, God moves through others among us to bring life to where life is lacking. God still calls to us, even when we get swept up in the systems that drain our life and the lives of others. God still calls us into the fullness of life, even when it is difficult, even when we won’t dare to dream about the possibility of what life could look like if we were to cast off the burden of death. Our task is to step out into the fullness of life, to recognize in ourselves and in one another the image of the divine, the face of God. The movement from death into life is one that seeks to feed the soul, to find belonging and place in the body. And it is an embodied experience. After all, God doesn’t tell Ezekiel to prophesy to the spirit alone, but to the bodies that God has knit back together. That search for wholeness, for the completeness that is the resurrection life, is a task that is both personal and communal—and it is a task that demands much from us.
Perhaps that’s why death is where we’ve become comfortable. The tomb, after all, is a pretty safe place to be. When Lazarus is in the tomb, he doesn’t have to worry about the Roman occupation or putting food on the table. He doesn’t have to worry about making sure that his sisters are cared for, or what people think of him for being a friend of Jesus. He gets to rest, no longer having to work and sweat for a living. Perhaps the death that found Lazarus wasn’t quite so bad. And hey, if you want to argue that this is the same Lazarus who was abused and neglected by the rich man, then he’s sitting beside Abraham having a grand old time. There are those who find comfort in living death, in systems and structures that drain life. There are those who find profit and privilege and literal killing and in the killing of spirits, of hopes, of identities and senses of belonging. And while there are those who delight in the dealings of death, there are also those who simply stay in the tomb because it’s what’s safe, what’s known. The tomb is the way that the world works. But we are called—by Christ, by the Spirit, and, God willing, by one another—to step out of the tomb. We are called to come out! To come out of the comfortable places where we reside, and to step into the work of calling ourselves and others to life. This is what it means to proclaim the resurrection. When Easter Sunday comes around and we all say “Christ is risen, Christ is risen indeed,” that is only one small part of what it means to proclaim the resurrection life. We proclaim it to one another, we proclaim it to ourselves. We proclaim it when we seek to live the fullness of life, and to make space for others to do the same.
Last Sunday I offered a prayer for a woman named Tanya who passed away. Tanya Linn Bennet was one of the deans of Drew Theological School where I went to seminary. She was a pastor, a mentor to generations of students and faith leaders, and a friend. About ten years ago she wrote the text of a song that Mark Miller wrote the music for. It goes “Come out! Come out of your comfortable places. Come meet Jesus in the difficult places. Have you not heard? Every valley’s exalted, mountains made low and the lowly exalted. Come out! Come out, of your well-to-do places. Come meet Jesus in the struggling spaces. Come out! The Kindom of God is upon us. Come out the wilderness and follow Jesus.” We are called, to meet Jesus in the difficult places. We are called, to come out of the tomb, out of the safe and comfortable places we know, and to meet death with the life and hope of the resurrection. We are called to live this life, live this hope, and to call others to do the same. This life is for all who live in death. This life is for us. May we come out. May these bones have life once again. May it be so. Amen.