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Ezekiel’s vision is a metaphor for the rebirth of Israel, the people - after long years in exile in a desert of the spirit. In this vision Ezekiel says that the day is at hand when they will become a whole people again and return to their homeland. And he gives them an image – the valley of the dry bones. And the Lord tells Ezekiel to speak to the bones, saying, "Behold, I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. And I will lay sinews upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live." And it happens. And when it is all over the Lord says, "O my people I will bring you home...then you shall know that I, the Lord, have spoken, and I have done it."

Reading this scripture immediately reminded me of the long vigil I have been keeping at my temporary office across Indian Spring Drive. Often I turn from my desk and look out the window. When we left our building for our yearlong wandering, there was a powerful service of departure. It was a bit like a funeral. That building, as we knew it, would soon be so different as to be a new thing. Not totally new. Same steeple, same sanctuary, same chancel cross by Len Ebel. And I am glad for that. But still the old would pass away and the new would come. And I remember sitting at my window and watching, one by one, the three houses (two on Brewster and one on Indian Spring) come down in a cloud of dust and rubble. For many months it seemed mainly like destruction. Everything being torn up. Trucks arriving empty and departing full of debris. Then there was a long stretch in which nothing much seemed to be happening. Twisted metal, dust, piles of dirt and not much more. Then, as summer began to turn into fall, something new started happening. More activity. The framework for the new entrance began to take shape. Girders and then cement. A walk through the building revealed miles of tangled cable and shiny wires everywhere – like nerves and sinews and muscles. The dusty attic was now a maze of duct work. Internally and externally a form and a shape began to be visible. Then roofing. Then bricks and mortar. Then window frames and glass. Then suddenly I noticed last Friday that the huge mound of dirt on Indian Spring was gone and grading was fully underway for the parking lot.

It is almost done. Soon it will be done. Soon a wonderful resurrection will have taken place. But when will it finally be done? It won’t be done when the last item on the checklist is completed. It won’t be done when the last inspectors have given their approvals. It won’t be done when the last bit of touching up occurs or when the final piece of furniture is finds its place. No, it will be done when it is full of people. Until, as in the vision Ezekiel relates, there is flesh and blood – living souls walking around, singing, laughing, dancing, praying. For the real church is bones, flesh and blood animated by the Spirit.

To use the image of Ezekiel, 9525 Colesville Rd., will consist of masonry and metal and wiring and new and surprising corners and old, familiar places – those are the bones. But the resurrection will not be complete until you and I of flesh and blood inhabit it. The building is the framework, the structure – but the church, this new church, will be the people.

So my first point is that as a people, and as a community, we are bones and Spirit. Dust, flesh, bones, and Spirit. When God created the first human being, God blew the Spirit, the breath of life into a lump of earth, and that lump became a living soul. And our new building, as grand as it is, will never be much more than an elegant set of bones, unless that Spirit animates it. That is why, it seems to me, that all of the events connected to our re-entry need to be seen as a re-animation of the Spirit of God in this community, the renewal of our covenant and the re-affirmation of our mission.

Secondly, it is impossible to read of Ezekiel’s vision and not see that repeatedly God is saying, "I am doing this. It is my Spirit that is giving you life. My Spirit that is giving you hope. My Spirit that is leading you home." To say this is not to minimize or discount in any way the supreme effort, the selfless giving, and the long, hard hours that so many have been putting in. But I would hope that especially you folks who have been working so hard could see yourselves as those English soldiers that Shakespeare’s Henry V inspires on the Eve of St. Crispin’s Day, on the day before the Battle of Agincourt. Though badly outnumbered by the French, Henry tells them that they will triumph and live to look back on this time proudly and give thanks that they were there.

He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day and live t’old age
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors
And say, “Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.”
Then will strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say, “These wounds I had on Crispin’s Day.”
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words –…
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son,..
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered –
We few, we happy few, we band of (sisters and) brothers.

I am convinced that you will remember this time as a real highpoint of your lives. And also remember that when the Battle was over and the English had miraculously triumphed over the French, the King could look upon this amazing victory and say, "Take it, God, for it is none but thine."

We are only bones. But when we are animated by the Spirit of God, we become living, breathing souls, who find courage, strength, and a capacity for self-sacrifice that amazes us. And we witness miracles.

We are bones; we are Spirit, and, third, we are tears. Does that sound odd? In the lesson from John’s Gospel this afternoon, we hear of the story of Jesus bringing his friend Lazarus back to life. Word comes to Jesus that Lazarus is dying. By the time he arrives, Lazarus is dead. Though Jesus assures them that Lazarus will be restored to life, he is berated by Mary and Martha for arriving too late to help. But then Jesus dramatically calls Lazarus back to life. "Lazarus, come forth!" That’s the story, but there is one place in the narrative I want to point to. When Jesus encounters the grieving friends, in tears because they believe Lazarus is dead, Jesus knows he will come to life. He is assured of this, and has told them. Yet, the text says, "Jesus wept." (which, as everyone knows, is the shortest verse in the Bible.) "Jesus wept." But why would Jesus weep, if he knew that Lazarus would live? He didn’t say, "Don’t cry," or "If you understood, you wouldn’t weep." It just says, "Jesus wept." Why? I am not sure I have an answer to that. Did Jesus weep because he wasn’t quite certain of the outcome and was swept up into their grief? Did Jesus weep because he was filled with joy, knowing the outcome? Did Jesus weep because he was so tuned to their feelings that he felt and bore their pain in that moment? Were Jesus’ tears a mixture of joy, grief, and relief? Did Jesus weep because he was just an overly emotional guy? I don’t really know and I am not sure what to make of it. What do you think?

But suppose this. Suppose that our tears are simply the most direct and real expression of our deepest feelings, feelings that cannot yet find words. Feelings that are intense. Feelings that are complicated. Feelings that are everything all mixed in there together. But feelings that cannot and should not be contained. At the time of Jesus’ crucifixion, we know there were many tears shed – tears of grief and loss, tears at the foot of the cross. But at his resurrection there were tears as well, tears of joy and amazement. In fact, the whole process of death and rebirth, the process of Resurrection is drenched in a continuing flow of tears. What do they mean? They mean that you are alive. That you are a human being. I expect, and I hope, that as we move into the re-entry phase of this journey that there are many, many grateful tears shed. We need to do that.

Bones. Spirit. Tears. Perhaps that sums up what it means to be a human being. To be human is not and never was to be a materialistic bag of dry bones rattling around, calling that living. To be alive is to be filled with a Spirit; Spirit that comes as a gift, a wonderful grace. Like every wonderful gift it is a discovery. A discovery of what has been there all along. And to be a human being is to be passionate – to be brave, to worry and fear, to flirt with burn-out, to feel that sometimes God has abandoned you, to sometimes even drift toward bitterness, and yet to be filled with the love and the assurance of God’s presence, over and over. Take us, God, for we are none but thine. AMEN.

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