Every year, spring is a marvel to me.
I will never get over (Lord, may I never get over) the magic of the discovery of those first peeking shoots of crocuses and daffodils, bravely defying the last clutches of winter. Or the moment when you crest a hill on a country road and realize the fields are finally green again, and not just any green but rather the brilliant, mesmerizing green of new growth. Or the day you walk outside to see, seemingly overnight, the trees have burst into bloom, hazy with billowy branches in shades of pink and white.
As I meander through our yard, inspecting the fresh flush of growth on the raspberries my children wept over last fall, convinced they were dead, it’s as if all of creation preaches resurrection.
It’s a rhythm my soul craves year after year—that embodied assurance that the gray, harsh, emptiness of winter will never have the last say.
This year, as I’ve listened to the liturgy of spring, my mind kept being drawn to a passage I love in Ezekiel (yes, friends, Ezekiel—time for the Bible nerd in me to say hello).
In Ezekiel chapter 37, God shows Ezekiel a valley littered with dry bones. What a gruesome sight that must have been. What horror—a landscape of skeletal remnants of brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, friends and neighbors all claimed by death. As he looks over the scene, God asks Ezekiel, “Can these dry bones live?”
I’ve always found it interesting that God asks Ezekiel this question. In my own life, I find I’m the one asking this question. Lord, can this relationship be salvaged? Can this heartache be healed or wrong remedied? Will truth ever emerge into the light? Will peace ever be restored? Lord, can justice be found? Do you see the ways you are misrepresented? Will you vindicate your character and purify your people? Lord, how long must we wait for Your Kingdom to come?
When I stop to consider them, I realize they all boil down to the same core question of my heart: is there still reason to hold on to the hope that all will be made well? It’s a question of resurrection. Can these dry bones live? Or is it too late?
When God asks this question, it feels like an invitation. It’s as if he beckons Ezekiel (or you and me, my friend) to lean in close. Are you watching Me? Do you still believe I can do this?
Ezekiel answers in the most perfect (and, to me, amusing) way: “You know, Lord.” I can imagine his hands thrown up in admission to his own ignorance or powerlessness. Maybe he’s reached the point in his grief over the destruction of his people that he’s out of answers and theories. I certainly can’t do anything about these bones, but if anyone can, it’s You. You know.
Then, Ezekiel gets to watch (and is invited into the process) of these dry bones being joined back together, bone by bone, ligament by ligament, until, at the climactic moment, God breathes the spirit of life back into what was once dead and Ezekiel sees resurrection before his eyes.
There has been resurrection before my eyes over these last several weeks of spring. But it isn’t only reserved for the changing of the seasons or ancient Bible stories. And it isn’t only something in the future. God graciously allows us to see many smaller “resurrections” in our here and now lives.
The God we worship is always about the work of resurrection. It is a fixed truth in a chaotic, bone-littered world. He is always the God who brings life out of dead (or seemingly dead) things.
What is that piece of your life or our world in this season that feels like a valley of dry bones? Can you hear His invitation: dear child, can these dry bones live?
As I close my eyes and imagine God asking me this question, He leans in, with a twinkle in His eyes, urging me towards joy and peace in the midst of my sorrow and anxiety. It’s as if He can’t wait to get started. I’m still the resurrecting God. I delight in bringing life to death, beauty from ashes, joy from mourning, delight from despair. Come see what I can do.
