Ezekiel 37:1-14 Commentary

Lectionary Connection

Chekhov’s Hope

There is an adage of storytelling that comes from the world of theatre and it goes like this: any gun brought on stage in the first act must be fired by the final curtain. This is a direct reference to Anton Chekhov’s play, The Seagull, in which a character brings a loaded rifle on stage in the first act and uses it to commit suicide in the last act. This principle of storytelling is called: “Chekhov’s Gun.”

Here we find ourselves in the deepest, darkest Sunday of Lent.  Next Sunday, we will have the battle of the palms and the passion, all culminating in the death of Jesus Christ on Good Friday. Except. This Sunday’s readings have placed something on stage, so to speak, that will need to be used by the final act.  In the Hebrew Scriptures, we watch as dry bones come to life with the breath of God. In the Gospel, Lazarus emerges from the tomb and leaves his grave clothes behind. The Psalmist promises that there is redemption from the pit and Paul promises that, in Christ, we are raised to new life in the Spirit.

Hope has been placed on stage and the story isn’t complete until hope is realized.  The story doesn’t end in the darkness of eclipse and death. The story ends (or perhaps begins again?) In the light of daybreak and resurrection life. On the darkest Sunday in Lent, we turn our faces to the East.  There is no sun in the sky, not even a lighter grey line along the horizon yet. But hope is brought on stage and we all know what that means.

Commentary:

A Tradition Behind “Dem Bones”

To be familiar with African-American traditions is to know the shaping power of the Exodus narrative as a way of framing hopes for freedom amid the chattel slavery that touched three centuries of US history.  You might be less familiar with the formative images that emerge from this text that come to life (so to speak) in the popular song, “Dem Bones.”  James Weldon Johnson, the author of the poem, “Lift Every Voice and Sing”, also wrote “Dem Bones.” While, on first appearance, it simply seems like a jaunty tune recounting the toe bone, connected to the foot bone, connected to the leg bone and all the way up, it is, in fact, a musical cover of Ezekiel’s prophecy in chapter 37.

African-Americans under slavery and, later, Jim Crow, identified themselves as dry bones, working in the fields under inhumane, life-and-soul-sucking conditions. Verse 9 is precise when it identifies the bones as belonging to “these slain,” in other words killed, likely violently. These aren’t just those who died peacefully in their beds at an old age. These are the young, the brutalized, the oppressed. So when the slaves sang of dry bones, they were given expression to their own hopes, not just of life after death but of liberation, even in this lifetime. In fact, according to Robert Alter, that may be closer to Ezekiel’s intended meaning. “The scattered dry bones of the long dead are a symbolic image of the people of Israel in exile, its national existence violently ended by the conquest and destruction of the kingdom of Judah. The miraculous return to life of the bones figures the restoration of national existence in the homeland.” New life is not relegated to the hereafter but is a promise that extends even to these bodies. Even to these dried bones. We do well to draw out this connection, especially if we are serving congregations who may be less familiar with it.

“Ruah”

In this text, a lot depends on breath. The Hebrew word, “ruah” means breath or, alternatively, wind or spirit.  The sound of the word is its meaning.  You can’t say “ruah” without a rush of breath or wind leaving your mouth. According to Robert Alter, “throughout this prophecy, Ezekiel plays on the different senses of ‘ruah,’ which can mean ‘spirit,’ ‘wind,’ and ‘breath.’”

We are told, in verse 9, that God directs the breath “from the four winds.” According to Alter, “The initial ‘winds’ here has still another meaning: the four directions, or the four corners of the earth. In Genesis, God blows the breath of life into the inert clay of the first human. Here it is the four winds that perform this act of vivification, giving it a global scope that jibes with the implied idea that the exiles have been scattered to the four corners of the earth.”

As pastors, we sit alongside those in deep distress. Maybe they are sitting anxious vigil by a hospital bedside.  Maybe it is a struggle with depression that threatens to absorb them into a black cloud.  Maybe they are in a season where it seems every day is a flat-out spring until collapsing into bed at night. In many cases, we hear someone’s whispered confession: I can’t pray. I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the time. I wonder if God will hear me.  In moments like these, “ruah” is more than an interesting linguistic observation about the Hebrew language.  It is a pastoral gift. “Ruah” is spirit, like the Spirit of God, who prays for us when we cannot find the words. “Ruah” is also breath, which means that if you are breathing, you are praying.  If you can find a gentle, quiet moment to reconnect with your breath (a therapeutic practice well-researched and documented by mental health professionals), you can trust that still, steady inhale and exhale is doing spirit work even when it feels like you aren’t (or you can’t) praying.

[Note: For the Year A Season of Lent and leading up to Easter, CEP has, in addition to these weekly sermon commentaries, a special Lent and Easter Resource Page with links to whole sermons, commentary on Lenten texts, and more.]