by Serena S. Sellers

There is no denying that there is joy in the gospel, But sometimes I am surprised by how hard it is to live in the gap between the promise and the perfection. There are times when, despite the waters of my baptism behind me and the promise of the Reign of God before me, I find myself standing in a place that seems dry and lifeless. On the evening news, I hear that once again, someone has blown himself up in the midst of a crowd. I hear the word cancer and the name of a good friend in the same sentence. There are arid valleys everywhere. Sometimes the desert is even in my own heart, when I feel the weight of all those things that I have done and those I have left undone.

I want to sparkle, drenched with baptismal waters, but sometimes there is barely enough love and mercy around to dampen my parched lips. I even begin to wonder if the flood of grace and joy that I remember and yearn for was nothing more than a mirage. Words of encouragement and promises of peace taste like dust in my mouth.

Ezekiel was transported in a vision to a valley of dry bones (Ezekiel 37:1–14). These were the dry bones of the house of Israel, the bones of people who had given up hope even in God. The Israelites had been defeated by foreign armies and carried off in chains to slavery in Assyria and Babylonia. They had called upon God, but God did not save them from their enemies. They were no longer able even to dream of being released from slavery. They became hope less, without a future, like old dry bones. In the midst of this despair, Ezekiel had a vision. He found himself in a valley of dry bones, much like the dry, hopeless places in our own world. What could he do? What can any of us do in the face of such hopelessness?

Dry fear
I went to see Russ soon after he was diagnosed with ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease. I didn’t know what I would say or what I would do. I thought that as a pastor I should somehow know the right word of hope or help, but I had nothing. Russ was a construction worker. He hadn’t ever been an introspective sort; Russ would be the first to tell you he was a doer, not a thinker. His great strength had served him well over the years — he’d played sports with his kids, lifted, carried, balanced, and hammered on the job, and brought home the bacon for his family. Now, in the prime of his life, a few clumsy moments on the worksite had led to a diagnosis. He had an incurable disease that would inevitably lead to a wasting away of that great physical strength and agility. He would lose the ability to move first his voluntary muscles, and then his involuntary muscles. Finally he would not have the strength to breathe, or even pump blood with his own heart. There is no treatment. There is no cure.

I was actually afraid when I visited Russ in those first months after his diagnosis. He wanted to know why this had happened to him, what he could have possibly done to deserve such an awful fate. My feeble attempts at pastoral care were entirely inadequate. He was depressed at first, and I told myself that a day was surely coming when Russ would get angry. Angry at the doctors, angry at his body, angry at God, angry at me. I dreaded that day, because despite the clumsiness that came with the onset of his illness, he remained tall, strong, and muscular. I believed that I was afraid of his anger.

Russ’s decline was surprisingly rapid. Even as his physical presence was drastically diminished, I discovered that my fear was as strong as ever, maybe stronger. I came to realize that I wasn’t really afraid of Russ’s emotions; it was my own helplessness and ineptitude that frightened me. I was never more terrified than the day I went to see him in intensive care, when he could no longer stand or walk, and even speech was too difficult. Russ communicated by pointing to letters on a card, slowly spelling out words. I tried to imagine the depths of his frustration, and it scared me. What hope did I have to offer him?

New life
In the valley, the voice of God asks Ezekiel a question: "Mortal, can these bones live?" Ezekiel’s answer is much more honest and more faithful than anything I imagine I might say. Ezekiel answers, "Not by anything that I can do, God." What could any mortal do in this valley of death? Yet he has faith enough to add, "You know, Lord." Ezekiel doesn’t stay focused on what he can’t do but leaves room in his reply for what God can do, if God chooses. After all, hadn’t God started with the clay of the ground and breathed the first human beings into life? Bones would be a head start. "You know, Lord."

God does choose to bring life to these dry bones, but he doesn’t breathe life into them in the way that he inspired the first people of his creation. He gives Ezekiel a job, work to do in this life–giving moment. God says, "You prophesy to these bones, you tell them what I am going to do, that I will draw them together into skeletons, that I will lay sinew on them, that I will bring muscle and flesh upon them."

When Ezekiel speaks the word of the Lord, it is done as if the Lord himself had spoken that word. The bones rattle and the sinew and muscle are laid on. Now Ezekiel faces the sea of still bodies and God says, "Prophesy to the breath." Ezekiel dares to obey and calls to the wind from every direction to come and fill these bodies with life. Ezekiel cannot cause this to happen himself, but God can cause this to happen through Ezekiel’s call to the wind. The winds hear and obey the word of the Lord spoken by Ezekiel, and there stand a multitude of living, breathing people of God.

We see dry bones, and more often than not, we try to get past them as quickly as we can — we cannot bear to stay and watch. But sometimes, people of God, we stand in God’s presence and we realize what the power of God can do.

Hope in the valleys
The nurses had supplied Russ with a letter board. This board had letters, numbers, and short words that Russ could point at to communicate. It was a slow and tedious process. At first his family and I would try to guess the word after the first few letters, but gradually we came to appreciate the holiness of waiting for Russ to make himself clear.

The first thing Russ spelled to me that day was, "I am so grateful." I was immensely relieved that he was glad to see me. I said, "Oh, Russ, I am glad to come and visit." He responded without hesitation, practically stabbing the board, "No, not for you, for this." I looked, expecting him to point at something that pleased him, maybe the Bible on tape, or the bulletin that we sent each week, or a devotional booklet, but his hands were still. Seeing my puzzled look, Russ painstakingly spelled, "A L S." I was more puzzled than ever. "I am loved. You all take care of everything. My family, the doctors, the church, you take care of me."

I was flabbergasted. I thought about this man who had always taken care of other people and now, for the first time in his life, was helpless. Rather than feeling inadequate because of his limitations, or frustrated by his losses, he was grateful for what he had gained. Russ discovered that he didn’t have to worry: Everything he needed was lovingly given by those around him. They loved him more than he had ever imagined possible, and without any other options, he chose to bask in that love, to let it wash over him and affirm him, as he watched his body deteriorate.

Russ reached for the board again, "First I was afraid, but now I am grateful. My body is going but my mind is not. I have nothing to do. I have time to pray; I never prayed much. Now I pray 15 hours a day. I’m making up for lost time. I’ve been waiting to tell you. I am so grateful."

I had thought I was coming to a valley of dry bones, as if there was nothing in that hospital room but a dying man. I felt inadequate because I could not fix what was broken. It had never occurred to me, that through brokenness, God could make a man more whole. Russ’s mouth could no longer form words, but his eyes were smiling.

While I feared to approach dry bones, I found a room full of resurrection and new life. Even in his dying, all of us who watched Russ waste away to a skin–encased skeleton, saw that the resurrection was not waiting for his death but was emerging in the midst of the life he was still living.

Like Ezekiel, we see a valley of dry bones, but God calls all of us, all of God’s church, to trust God’s power, to be the ones who will stand in the dry and terrifying places and be the voice that will speak God’s words of life and hope.

These are not our words of power, but God’s word. God is not counting on us to change anything, but is inviting us to be part of the transformation that God is doing in this world, to bring what was dry and dead into life.

I was humbled by Russ. He reminded me that there is no point in trying to provide comfort and hope on my own. I have nothing to offer. He also taught me not to fear the valleys. It is there that God may use me, and simply by being there, I may be honored to bear joyful witness to the whisper of the wind on dry bones.

The Rev. Serena S. Sellers is assistant to the bishop for connections and resources in the Southeastern Pennsylvania Synod of the ELCA. She is the mother of three and is married to the Rev. Raymond Miller. They live in Quakertown, Pa.