“Mortal, Can These Bones Live?”

Ezekiel 37:1-14

March 29, 2020

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC of Manhattan, KS

If you go way back into the old school Disney vault, you will find a five-minute-long black and white animated piece from 1929 called The Skeleton Dance. Maybe you’ve seen it? If not, you can YouTube it later. [1] 

I remember watching it as a child and being morbidly fascinated with it. There are skeletons leaping and dancing, skeletons partially disassembled, rolling around in a graveyard, skeletons playing each other like xylophones. It’s creative, clever, and I’m sure it was cutting-edge technology almost a hundred years ago. 

When I was a kid, I found it entertaining, but also scary. Something about all those skeletons dancing around gave me the creeps. 

I don’t remember if I told my parents I was scared of it or not. Probably not. I had a lot of worries about death when I was a young child. 

It seems most children - like all humans - have rich interior lives and worries and hopes and dreams that they don’t share aloud with others. And death, in particular, is something many cultures struggle to talk about or deal with. It seems we’d rather tuck it away, out of sight….as if, by ignoring it, we might be exempt from it.

But then - there they are! - those pesky dancing skeletons, reminding us that death is one of the only certain things in life. 

We can’t will it out of existence. It is as much a part of being human as love and laughter and dancing and tears. As we said back at the beginning of Lent: “from dust you came, and to dust you will return.” [2]

When I got a little older and heard the text from Ezekiel that Sophie shared with us today, I couldn’t help but think of those dancing skeletons. 

The prophet Ezekiel has a vision and, in it, stands in the midst of a vast field of death and destruction. In this valley, Ezekiel sees bones. Many bones. The bones are dry, long dead. There is no way these bones could live again. Hope is lost. 

Ezekiel lived and ministered to the people of Israel during the period of Exile to Babylon in the 6th century BCE. An entire people - a whole civilization - had been destroyed in Jerusalem and the people were scattered to foreign lands. 

The people struggled to keep the faith because the future was so uncertain. They had no way of knowing how long the Exile would last. They didn’t know whether they would ever return home or if things would ever go back to normal for themselves, their children, their grandchildren. 

And so this valley of dry bones makes perfect sense. The people have lived through great trauma and ghosts are with them everywhichway they turn. Hope is sparse. Spirits are dry. 

In the midst of this great pain and despair, the Spirit breathes a vision of hope through Ezekiel. 

Working together, God’s Spirit and Ezekiel bring those dry bones back together. This vision is of flesh and muscles and sinews coming back to the bones. And the breath - the spirit - moves within them and they live and stand on their feet. 

Ezekiel’s vision comes to us in the lectionary near the end of the season of Lent. It’s like a little foretaste of the Resurrection this Sunday, as we have not only this passage from Ezekiel but also the Raising of Lazarus in John 11. Both of these stories smush together the harsh reality of our mortality alongside the hope of new life that is the cornerstone of our faith. 

In the John passage, Jesus weeps when he learns one of his dearest friends has died. 

Our God is no stranger to human pain and suffering. There are parts of being human that are so very, very painful. Many of us are living through those moments of pain right now as people are worried about jobs, loved ones. We see the pain of the entire globe on the news. We worry and wonder: when and how will things ever feel okay again? 

Friends, the grief of this moment we are living through is immense. I hope and pray that you are making time to sit and share your worries and sorrow with God. There will be many tears...and God is big enough to sit with all our fears and grief. 

Jesus wept and it is right and good that we weep, too. [3]

Even though Lazarus has been dead for several days and his body smells, the Gospel of John tells us that somehow, someway we sure don’t understand, Jesus restored his friend to life. Lazarus comes walking - still wrapped up in the shroud used for his burial - and, at Jesus’s command, is unbound, set free, restored. 

The dry bones come together. The skeletons dance. The bodies live again. 

Can we understand it? Probably not. 

Is it still good to hear and tell these stories? Absolutely, yes. 

Because these stories are about the nitty gritty of what it means to be flesh-and-blood humans. To take an honest look at the limitations of our bodies. To boldly stare death in the face - know that it’s a reality AND proclaim that God’s love is still bigger. 

These stories are about the intimate partnership and dance between humanity and the Holy.

Again and again in Ezekiel’s vision, God and the human prophet work in tandem. 

Again and again the text uses the Hebrew word ruach. Breath, spirit. That’s the same ruach-breath-spirit that moved over the face of the waters in the Book of Genesis when God created the Earth. With God’s breath, comes life. In the beginning AND in Ezekie’s vision. 

That breath - God’s breath - is so intimately a part of us that it is sometimes difficult to tell where it stops and we begin. 

Some theologians have even said that the unutterable name given to God in the Hebrew Bible - the one we spell in English as Y-H-W-H and pronounce as “Yahweh” - some theologians believe that name is actually simply the sound of breath. 

Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes:

The letters of the Name of God in Hebrew are YOD, HAY, VAV, and HAY. They are frequently mispronounced as “Yahveh.” But in truth they are unutterable. 

Not because of the holiness they evoke, but because they are all vowels and you cannot pronounce all the vowels at once without risking respiratory injury.

This word is the sound of breathing. 

The holiest Name in the world, the Name of the Creator, is the sound of your own breathing. [4] 

That ruach-breath-spirit that Ezekiel and God breathe together into the bones….

…..that ruach-breath-spirit that Jesus exhales as he cries for his friends....

….that ruach-breath-spirit that we used last week when we worshiped together and practiced a breath-mantra….

….that ruach is God’s name, God’s love, God’s life, God’s self flowing through our own frail, mortal, human bodies. 

Rob Bell says that when we are born, then, the first sound on our lips - our very first breath - is God’s name. And when we die - that last breath that leaves our bodies is God’s name again. [5] 

Day after day after day, as long as we are lucky enough to be alive, we inhale and exhale God’s name, God’s love, God’s life, God’s self.

So, friends: take comfort, take strength, seek hope, do love. 

And when those things feel impossible, know that you are not expected to do any of them on your own. God’s name, God’s love, God’s life, God’s self is moving in and through you with each and every breath. 

Thanks be to God. Amen. 

NOTES:

[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOGhAV-84iI

[2] Genesis 3

[3] If you haven’t already read it, this article from Harvard Business Review on the grief of living through this moment in history is profound and helpful: https://hbr.org/2020/03/that-discomfort-youre-feeling-is-grief 

[3] http://www.paulkipnes.com/breathing-name-of-god/ 

[4] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-EFLRDNAx-Y

“And All Shall Be Well”

Psalm 23

March 22, 2020

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC of Manhattan, KS

Lectionary preachers everywhere breathed a deep sigh of relief when we realized that one of the texts for this Sunday is the 23rd Psalm. 

This ancient prayer is one of the most well-known, most beautiful, most comforting passages in all of scripture. And what we all need right now is ancient wisdom, beauty, and comfort to make through this global struggle. 

Together. 

One day at a time. 

I didn’t grow up in a religious tradition that emphasized the memorization of scripture passages, but somewhere along the way I did finally manage to let this one seep into my soul. 

A few years ago I made a home visit for an elderly beloved pet who was near death. As I looked into this sweet pup’s eyes and felt his labored breathing, I put my hand on his side and was surprised when the words of the 23rd Psalm tumbled out. 

I didn’t even know I knew them, but there they were when I needed them. 

As we hear today’s scripture, I’d like to invite you to read along at home. Maybe you, too, have these words memorized. Or maybe you’d like to let them sink in your soul just a bit more in case you, too, need them one day. 

We’re going to be reading the King James Version today because the version of the Bible we normally read aloud is under copyright and the good ol’ King James isn’t! So we’ve placed the text in the comments if you want to read along with me.

Let’s pray this ancient prayer together:

1 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Amen. 

The language of this prayer is profound in its simplicity. 

One of the things I love most about it is how it invites us on a walk with God. If you close your eyes while you listen to the text you can begin to feel the grass under your feet, hear the birds singing high in the trees, notice the smell of the cool, fresh water beside you as you walk through this prayer. 

You can feel the darkness closing in and your heart begins to beat a little faster as you notice the fear and anxiety in your body...and then, again, the slowing of the breath, the unwinding of the tightness in your gut as you hear those words of comfort “for thou art with me.” 

The rod and the staff are the shepherd’s tools for guiding and protecting his sheep. We are hemmed in, behind and before, as God’s gentle hand is laid upon our back and our fears are soothed away. [1] 

This prayer isn’t just an intellectual exercise. It’s more than just words on a page. It’s a vehicle that transports us to another place. A place beyond the walls that surround us, the ideas that limit us, the confines of time. It is a word of hope that invites us into a space of possibility beyond what we can even imagine. 

And, boy, don’t we all need that right now?

I learned this week that in the original Hebrew version of this prayer there are 26 words before and after the central statement: “for thou art with me.” [2] 

At the very center of this prayer is that deep truth that is perhaps the cornerstone of our Christian faith: God is with us. 

It’s what we proclaim on our two highest holy days. 

On Christmas we marvel at the miracle of the one we call Emmanuel - which means God is with us. God come to us in human form, in unexpected ways, to be among us and share our human joys and struggles. 

On Easter we proclaim that truth again: God is with us even when it seems impossible. In the midst of the atrocities humans commit...violence, pain, hatred - God is with us, still. 

And through our stories of Resurrection we proclaim that God is with us beyond death. Even death cannot stop the relentless love of God. Even death cannot separate us from God’s presence. 

The first half of this psalm is about God: “God is my shepherd….she makes me lie down….she leads me beside still waters.” After that central proclamation: “for thou art with me” the language shifts. 

Now the psalmist addresses God directly. “YOU prepare a table for me….YOU anoint my head with oil…” The knowledge that God is always with us emboldens our prayers. We are invited into intimacy with the Holy. 

We speak to God directly and we expect God to listen and speak to us in return. God is closer to us than the very air we breathe, and we take comfort knowing we can never be separated from God’s love. Not now, not ever. 

In life, in death, in life beyond death,

    God is with us.

We are not alone.

    Thanks be to God. [3] 

As we all learn to adjust to this new world we’ve been thrust into, the learning curve is STEEP. 

I pray that you are finding ways to be gentle with yourselves and others, extending so much grace. No one is at their best right now and we all need to be patient and kind with one another and ourselves. 

There is so much wisdom being offered online right now from mental health professionals, religious leaders, artists and others about how to care for not only our bodies but also our spirits in this crisis. If you’ve seen social media posts and articles about caring for your mental and spiritual health that have helped you, I encourage you to come back to this post later today and share them in the comments. You never know if that article or photo you share here might really help someone else who is hurting right now. 

Many of the articles I’ve been reading have talked about the importance of making time each day to get outside if you can, unplug from the news, drink water, move our bodies. They also say it’s important to carve out at least a few minutes each day for meditation or another spiritual practice...and you know, as your pastor, I AGREE!

I want to close this sermon by sharing with you one small meditative practice I’ve been using a lot lately to center myself. This is the one I fall back on when I’m in extreme distress, panic mode. 

It’s never failed me yet. 

I use the words of 14th century English mystic Julian of Norwich. Maybe you’ve heard them before: “And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” 

We don’t know that much about Julian’s life but we know she lived through the Black Plague as a child and war and many other times of trial. When she was about 30 years old she became gravely ill and as a priest was administering her last rites, she was gifted with a series of 16 visions of Christ, which she later wrote down as the Revelations of Divine Love.

So when I’m feeling panicked or can’t sleep or can’t find the words for my prayers, I do this: I use her words as a mantra. And I sync them up with my breathing. 

Sometimes I also use my mind to envision a physical activity that comforts me. For me, that’s doing half -sun-salutations in my mind. For you, though, it might be something like envisioning yourself walking along your favorite path - linking up your breath and Julian’s words with each step you take. Or perhaps you are chopping vegetables in your mind, or quilting, or pedaling your feet on a bicycle, or dancing. Linking your breath with movement of your body and Julian’s words can transport you to a place of calm, a place of unity with God. 

So let’s try it together. I’m going to use this Hoberman sphere to show what your breath might look like while I say the words. 

When the sphere gets big, we will all breathe in, filling our lungs together. 

When the sphere gets small, we will breathe out, emptying our lungs. 

And all shall be well

And all shall be well

And all manner of things shall be well. 

Friends, I believe these words to be true. For God is with us. We are not alone. And all shall be well. 

NOTES:

[1] Psalm 139

[2] James Howell. http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=4385 

[3] United Church of Canada, A New Creed. https://www.united-church.ca/community-faith/welcome-united-church-canada/new-creed

"What We Need is Already Here"

Exodus 17:1-7

March 15, 2020

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC of Manhattan, KS

A few weeks ago, as Lent was beginning, we sang a song in worship called “from the water to wilderness.” 

Just before Jesus went into the wilderness, he was baptized in the waters of the Jordan. And so we brought together simple elements from nature: stones, branches, moss, sand. We brought little bits of the wilderness into our Sanctuary to remind us of our call to venture into the unknown places, the hard places, the wilderness way. 

Little did we know, of course, that we’d be headed into what feels like an actual wilderness for so many of us. 

Each day we keep waking up, checking on those we love, breathing deeply, washing our hands, stretching, saying our prayers….in the wilderness together. 

Each day we are learning, growing, trying to figure out how to be human in this changing world.

I hope we are all being gentle with one another and ourselves….because it turns out that exactly NONE of us have ever been a parent, a teacher, a bank teller, an artist, a spouse, a friend during a pandemic before. 

We’re all learning. 

We’re all going to learn - promise. 

And we will ALL make plenty of mistakes.

So as we learn and adjust and grow, let’s keep listening to this ancient advice from the Book of James: 

let us be “quick to hear, slow to speak and slow to anger” as we move ahead together. 

And let us be gentle, gentle, gentle in all that we do. 

I don’t know about you, but whenever it feels like the world is shifting under my feet, I find my soul is filled by going back to the stories in our ancient texts. 

This week is the third week in Lent and our lectionary text for the day is from the Book of Exodus. The people of Israel are on their long journey from slavery to freedom and, as you may already know, they spent a long time in the wilderness as they were making that journey. 

In the wilderness, we become keenly aware of our physical needs and the Israelites were no different. They began to get very thirsty and felt panicked. Let’s listen to the story from Exodus 17 (read the Bible passage here).

“Is the Lord among us or not?” What a question.

It’s the question so many of us ask when we are pushed up against the hard places, the rough places, the places that make us feel like we will almost certainly break. 

When we are pushed to our very edge we wonder, “God, are you here? Are you still here with us now?”

This ancient story is, at its most basic level, a story about humans being human and God being God. Humans have bodies. And our bodies have limitations. We get hungry. We get tired. We get sick. We need water. We need love. We need God and we need one another. 

Moses must have been at one of those “pushed to the edge” places himself when this story happened. 

We hear the impatience in his voice when he snaps, “Why are you quarreling with me? Why are you testing God?” 

All of us have been pushed to a place where we aren’t the leader we want to be, the friend we want to be, the spouse we want to be, the parent we want to be. Moses was probably as exhausted as the people were thirsty. 

But there they were: exhausted and thirsty and overwhelmed and anxious together in the wilderness. And so Moses did what humans often do when we are pushed to the edge: he cried out to God in despair: “God, what do I do???”

And God - being God - knows just what to do. 

God is faithful. Period. Full stop. 

And God provides care. Because that’s the nature of God. 

Again and again in our sacred texts we hear about this faithful God who will not let us go. The arc of scripture shows us a God who loves us with reckless abandon. 

A God who is always cheering for us - especially when we are knocked down. 

Our God is always moving towards us, always pursuing us in love, always seeking our health and wholeness. We humans may find ourselves in the wilderness again and again but the nature of God does not change. 

When Moses and the people cry out to God in the wilderness, God provides just what they need: water. One of the loveliest things I read about this text this past week was written by Professor Terrence Fretheim. He reminds us that “God doesn’t create water for the people out of thin air.” [1]

Instead, there is ALREADY WATER that exists in rock formations naturally. It’s just a matter of FINDING the flowing water. 

And so it’s not that the water appears out of nowhere….it’s that God and Moses work together to find the water that is already there to provide for the people. 

In other words: it’s not a miracle….at least not the way we often think of miracles. Instead, when Moses makes water appear in the desert, it’s a story about God reminding the people in the wilderness: 

what you need is already here. 

What a word of comfort in our own time in the wilderness. 

I said to my neighbor just yesterday, “It feels like the whole world is jumping off a cliff together and we can’t even see the bottom yet.” 

This sacred story reminds us that no matter what comes: God is faithful and what we need is already here. 

We simply need to be open to the movement of the Spirit in and among us to find the living water we all so desperately need. 

There is a Wendell Berry poem that speaks to this very truth. 

We’re going to post a link to it in the comments so you can read it later, but in the poem Berry writes about a summer morning horseback ride. The rider opens up a persimmon seed and ponders the new life within - the tree that lies waiting inside. 

Then then the rider looks up and notices the geese flying overhead. 

Berry describes the geese and says they are:

“clear in the ancient faith: 

what we need is here.”

“And we pray,” he writes, “not for new earth or heaven, but to be

quiet in heart, and in eye, clear. 

What we need is here.”

Friends, we are already seeing signs of this all over the world and in our own community. 

The stories of goodness out there in the midst of this pandemic are everywhere! I know many of you probably already saw it, but if you didn’t, we’re going to post it in the comments…..the beautiful videos of people in Italy singing with one another outside of their windows. The whole country is on lockdown and the humans of Italy are being so very human….they are finding new and creative ways to connect even in the midst of isolation. They are throwing open their windows and singing together even when they can’t share space together. I cried tears of joy when I saw it. 

What we need is already here. 

And we don’t have to look to Italy to see this, of course. It’s right here in our own community. 

It’s all of you coming together this morning to say “we may have to learn to do this in new ways, but we are still going to worship together.” 

It’s the people who are working around the clock figuring out how to feed hungry kids while the schools are closed. It’s the volunteers in our own congregation and others who have had to quickly pivot and find creative ways to continue to feed hungry people as Second Helping and other Common Table meals switch to carry-out meals. 

It’s landlords saying, “It’s okay if you need to skip next month’s rent” to people whose jobs are being affected. It’s the person out there working hard to make sure the power stays on, the trash gets picked up, the grocery shelves are stocked. 

It’s every person who takes a little extra time to slow down and say thank you when they see someone out in a public cleaning our shared spaces. 

It’s every one of us that makes time to knock on the door of our neighbors and exchange phone numbers, share a joke, see what they might need. 

It’s people who aren’t in that high-risk category asking others “hey, do you need anything?” before they run to the store. 

It’s every time we wash our hands, cover a cough, or choose to distance ourselves physically out of love and care for the most vulnerable among us. 

What we need is already here. 

And God is faithful through it all. Even in the wilderness. 

ESPECIALLY in the wilderness. 

Thanks be to God. 

Notes: 

[1] http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=4404

[2] https://www.awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2144