New Life, New Hope

A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent (Year A)
March 26, 2023

Texts: Ezekiel 37:1-14 and John 11:1-45

Now, O Lord, take my lips, and speak through them. Take our minds, and think through them. Take our hearts, and set them on fire. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

A few days ago, I came across a picture that a friend of mine had posted on Facebook. In the picture was an Episcopal priest—someone I knew personally—sitting on the floor of his church with his back propped up against a wall and his head hanging low.

He looked sad and defeated.

At first, I didn’t know what to make of it. I was concerned because the priest in the photo was a friend of mine, and it looked like something terrible had happened.

But, then I noticed the date that the picture was originally taken. It was March 19, 2020—a little over three years ago, at the start of the pandemic—when everyone was told to shelter in place.

The picture reminded me of my own experience of being a priest during that time—the rector of a small parish—and what it was like when the Bishop of Alabama informed the clergy that all in-person worship services were suspended until further notice.

It wasn’t surprising when we received the news, but that didn’t stop it from hurting any less. I was deeply grieved, along with everyone else in the parish where I was serving.

Church was supposed to be the place where we could always go to be surrounded by people who loved us and cared for us, the place where we could always go for strength and renewal and to be reminded of the hope we have in Christ Jesus.

But, in March of 2020, that place—that sanctuary—was taken away.

They say that the Church isn’t a building—and I agree with that a hundred percent—but the building is the place where the Body of Christ gathers together for worship, to comfort each other, and to build each other up in the life of faith.

When that was taken away—when we were no longer able to gather in person as a community of faith—an important piece of who we are was all of a sudden gone. We felt lost and afraid, as did so many others.

What was initially a two-week suspension of in-person worship turned into several more weeks, and then weeks turned into months.

At the start of the pandemic, I led Sunday morning worship by live-streaming a simple service of Morning Prayer in the basement of our home in Alabaster.

Then, I started learning how to record myself with a cell phone inside the church and piece it all together in a pre-recorded video that was later uploaded to our Facebook page.

For the longest time, I couldn’t visit anyone in their home or go to the nursing home or hospital. I had to settle for offering pastoral care through phone calls, e-mails, and text messages. I even had to offer Last Rites over the phone to a member of our parish who was dying in the hospital due to the coronavirus.

We had to be creative when it came to things like Sunday school and Vacation Bible School. We had to settle for what we could do from home during important seasons of the Church year like Holy Week, Easter, and Christmas.

All of it felt so incredibly sub-standard and less than what we should be doing as the Church.

And, for me, I think that was the most difficult part of being a priest during the pandemic.

It was hard to let go of the feeling that I wasn’t doing enough and that we weren’t doing enough as a Church, and I wrestled with what it meant to be a priest when I could no longer administer the sacraments or lead public worship or care for those in need, especially the members of our parish.

I think the best word I can use to describe it is “helpless.”

I felt helpless.

And, if I’m being completely honest with you, there were times when I felt a bit hopeless as well—times when I wondered whether or not we would ever make it through to the other side.

Something tells me you can probably relate.

For the longest time, we were left wondering, “When will all of this be over?” “When will life finally get back to normal?” “Will we make it through to the other side?” “And…if we do, who will be left to help pick up the pieces?”

I know I’m preaching to the choir here, because every church—big and small, including St. Mary’s and other churches like it—struggled with these same questions.

And in some ways, even though things are much better than they were before, we’re still struggling with them today and dealing with the aftermath.

I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that living through the pandemic felt a lot like walking through the valley of the shadow of death, as the psalmist writes.

It felt a lot like what the prophet describes in our lesson this morning from Ezekiel—like walking through a desolate valley full of bones, wondering whether or not God can breathe new life into those dry bones and cause them to live again.

In Ezekiel’s vision, the valley full of dry bones represents Israel—God’s chosen people—which, at that time, was a shadow of its former self.

Israel was all but decimated after the exile in Babylon—after almost seventy years away from their home and living in captivity, and no one—not even them—believed that God could restore them to their former glory.

God asks Ezekiel in his vision, “Mortal, can these bones live?” Ezekiel replies, “O Lord God, you know.”

So, God instructs Ezekiel to bring a prophecy to the people of Israel.

“Prophesy to these bones,” God says, “and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord God to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.”

It almost sounds like the scene out of a horror movie, doesn’t it?

But, it’s actually a beautiful sign—a beautiful reminder—of God’s never-ending love for his people.

The Hebrew word that the prophet uses for “breath” is ruach, which means “breath,” “wind,” or “spirit.” It’s the same word used in the story of Creation when God’s breath, God’s Spirit, moves over the face of the waters.

It’s the same word used in the book of Exodus when God’s breath, God’s Spirit, parts the Red Sea, allowing God’s people to pass over on dry land.

In their greatest times of need, when all hope seems lost, the Spirit of God moves over God’s people, bringing them new life and a renewed sense of hope. 

Nothing can stop it—not even death—as we witnessed in our Gospel lesson this morning from John when God’s word is spoken through Jesus, who cries out with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”

Like the story of Ezekiel’s vision of the valley of dry bones, the story of Jesus raising Lazarus to new life—and so many other stories like it—serves as a vivid reminder for all of us that God is Lord over all—even death—and that God isn’t finished with us yet.

Sometimes, it may feel like death might’ve had the last word. I think that was certainly true during the height of the pandemic.

But then, just when we think that all hope is lost, God shows up and starts to breathe new life into these dried up old bones.

God shows up and reminds us that he alone has the power to bring us out of death into newness of life. As Christians, it’s the foundation of our faith. It’s the story of Easter, as we’ll soon experience once again. And, it’s what we hope for above all else.

New life, new hope, new possibilities.

Even now, we can see signs of new life springing up all around us. All you have to do is stop and look around. God is at work, and it’s only the beginning. Thanks be to God!

Amen.