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Ezekiel 33.1–39.29
The watchman of Israel. That was the office God gave Ezekiel. The office of the prophet.
As I’ve said before, prophecy is not a matter of Nostradamusing the future; staring into the crystal ball as the lights flicker through the dry ice below the table; pointing at world events and saying, “See, I told you so! Gods’a comin!”
A prophet is a watchman–a watchwoman. They rise up and speak out. They point the way. They’re like weather forcasters for the kingdom of the heart–partly sinful, with a good chance of glory.
They come at the right time, and say what needs to be said, and noone typically listens. Ezekiel, twelve years into Exile, telling the people that no one is immune–it takes only a bit of dirt to cloud the water in which it swirls–dances–like a a smoke ballerina dancing the macabre. It will happen to the best of them, that moment where the soul caves in–preservation of the self–damnation of all.
The prophet challenges the status quo, they shake things up, they point the finger at all, incl. themselves. So how can we ignore–how can we fall into the lot of those against whom the Lord warns? Those who hear the music but dont dance to the prophet’s song? Just ignoring the passion for change, for repentance, for sobering humility of which the prophet sings?
How can the church who acknowledges the Canon of Scripture simply ignore, or else reshape the prophetic words–dodging the bullet as it were, deflecting it either back to the past or ahead to the future. Putting on our kevlar as if we are immune the prophets’ words.
Be watchmen and women. Look around you and see. The land of selfish hypocrisy being flooded by dams bursting with overwhelming divinity.
“Then you will know that I am the Lord.”
Ezekiel 25.1–32.32
Prophecies against the nations. Other nations. Israel’s enemies.
The Lord, working through historical events, everything playing itself out on some vast stage–God’s justice for all.
Pride. Pride is what brings everyone down. Pride. Thinking that we are in control, that we know it all. That we are the only thing that matters. That, and that everyone else thinks so too.
Selish pride. Thinking we should have it all. Thinking that we can get away with it. Thinking that we can do whatever we want, regardless of whomever else, and whenever’s right for us.
The cedar tree. The tallest tree–taller than any tree in Eden. Eden’s envy. That was Egypt, God said, and it would fall.
The tallest trees arent the strongest. The taller you get the more vulnerable, for who in a lightning storm wants to be the tallest tree? One of those “field oaks” instead, those big, fat ones, with the big branches like a grandmother’s arm reaching out, over the wheat, the corn, as if to say come get a little water.
Being the tallest, being the most beautiful, being the most important–these arent descriptions that come with comfort or certainty. They are more a curse. A self-punishing curse.
The King of Tyre was once a good person. He had a wonderful life, as if he lived in the Garden. “Your life was right and good from the day you were created, until evil found you”(Ez 28.15).
Evil will find us all. The purest person can be corrupted. Selfish pride the universal Achilles heel.
Ezekiel 43.1-12; Hebrews 9.1-14
Where to find God?
The first peoples found God in nature.
In caves they painted the pictures of these god animals—
the buffalo, the elk.
They wore skins and antlers, and they believed.
Far away and long before anything significant happened in Bethlehem.
Beyond these cavernous sacred places, they built Temples.
The people of Israel built a Temple.
First there was a Tabernacle for the Coffer of God,
some sort of Temple at Shiloh, one with corrupt priests,
and finally—Jerusalem—a great Temple finished by Solomon.
People believed that’s where you went to see God.
To bring God gifts, bribes.
Only the priests, though, could go into the holiest of holies.
Only the Western Wall of it stands today.
Where to see God?
Jesus was the gift, the bribe shall we say, for God to forgive us.
And now we see God face to face, where?
Love.
The musical version of Victor Hugo’s classical novel by the one-masterpiece-wonders: “to love another person IS to see the face of God.”
Joan Osborne’s bluesy voice, wondering if God WAS one of us.
People used to go to caves, Temples.
People still come to church expecting to find God.
But where do you find God?
Certainly not in a building.
God …
through the breeze blowing through the trees,
through the sound of the birds singing,
the geese honking on their descent, home, to the reddish-orange water,
the laughter of youth,
the wisdom of our elders,
the tears of a stranger’s grief that feels like your own,
hands held in a circle,
palm in palm, heart to heart,
Christ in the middle.
Not in a cave.
Not in a Temple.
Not in any building.
In us, among us, beyond us.
That’s where we find God.
Ezekiel 11.14-25; Hebrews 7.1-17
The people cant say they were warned. God told them what would happen. Like a mother, saying not to touch the stove. “Why?!” It’s hot. Then the child touches the stove anyway, and then believes their mother.
Does God really want people to suffer the consequences they do? Does God delight in punishing people? Are we really sinners in the hands of an angry God?
No. The Bible says that God’s greatest desire is that the world might be saved. God has done everything in God’s power to do this, sending the one who brought the new priesthood—the priesthood of all believers. God wants to bless us. God wants to reward us, not punish. That heavenly crown we hear about, not shackles, is what the Lord wants to give us.
But things happen. Usually of our own doing.
Consequences. Life is all about consequences. Blessing and curse, life and death. God says that God has set both options before us, even told us which to choose. Red pill or blue pill? as Morpheus asked Neo.
The people in Ezekiel’s day believed they were being punished by God, and yet we do not read God delighting in that punishment. They made bad choices. They were idolatrous, politically corrupt. It was they who led themselves into Exile.
God’s Word through Ezekiel is a lament … and still God laments our bad decisions. Why did they do that? How did they get themselves into such a mess?
But with the lament, and the certainty of consequences, God’s promise still stands. “I’ll give you a new heart. I’ll change it from stone. You will be my people … forever and always. And even when you stray, I will be your God.”
No, God would prefer that we not suffer as we do, but that’s on us. That’s us not living up to our promises. But through Christ comes the grace by which we receive our heart transplant.
Let’s not let our bodies reject it. And w/ heart thumping in chest, as in the dramatic parts of a summer blockbuster movie, let’s go out and live a life beyond Exile, beyond fear, but w/ the joy of knowing that God has promised us blessing and life.
Ezekiel 4.1-17; Hebrews 6.1-12
Faith and patience.
It is easy to believe, to accept much of life on faith. It is easier, yet, to un-believe, to give away yr faith at the tick of a clock. One frustration, one obstacle, one passing word—Here, take it, I dont need it.
Faith and patience. Patient endurance. The faith of one that never turns away, the faith of one baking bread on a cow dung fire for the empathy of those who turn away so easily—scattered into foreign lands b/c of abandoned faith.
Weeds and thorns. Twisting and choking the fruit we may bear. These adorn a garden where roses ought to bloom. They are God’s seeming delay, our lack of confidence in ourselves. The thought that catches hold and hangs on—Maybe God wont … Maybe God isnt even there.
Selling a house? Finding a job? Facing rejection? Lost a loved one? Battling depression? Being teased at school for going to church? Does the world have you backed into a corner where not even hope can move you forward anymore?
Listen to the latch, the turning of a key, a door opening, and God saying, This way. Let faith draw you forward.
But it’s a long hallway, as someone once pointed out. A dark passage where the flourescent bulbs flicker, the wallpaper peels, floorboards creek.
Walking the passage is not hell. Staying in the corner is.
Between that dark corner and the light shining through the open door—that’s where life is truly lived.
And the way we get through is faith and patience.
Ezekiel 3.4-14; Luke 9.37-50
God never made it easy on the prophets.
Ezekiel. God says if I sent you to strangers—even people who spoke a different language than you—THEY would listen. But no, I’m sending to your own people—MY people—and guess what? They WONT listen.
No wonder he was bitter and angry when God led him away.
And then there’s Jesus, saying to his disciples who couldnt drive out the demon of the epileptic boy, even though he had given them the authority to do so. “How unbelieving and wrong you people are! How long do I have to put up with you?! Bring him here … I’ll do it myself.”
Not bitter and angry like Ezekiel, but certainly frustrated.
People wont listen, wont always appreciate us. They will only remember, focus on what we have NOT done—what we have done wrong. We may become bitter, angry, frustrated. But is the problem theirs or ours?
The tough thing about being a Christian is sticking to rightness in a world that wont always reward us, appreciate us, or acknowledge us. Sometimes even those closest to us. Being a Christian simply means trying to do your best for God by giving your best to others. But what we learn from Ezekiel and Jesus, that’s a lonely vocation to have.
But for all those who wont see, or hear, or understand, there will be that one who does. That foster child in whose life you wonder whether or not you’ve made a difference as they’ve grown up and gone on. That student in the seat to whom no one else could get through. That person who stops by the church, looking for a fix but asking for help with food. A son or daughter, maybe a parent, a friend, a complete stranger.
God will see, and God will smile.
“Ascension Day”
Ezekiel 1.1-14, 24-28b
Storms on the horizon. Those kind that come when the humidity begins to rise, and late afternoon they march across the western sky. Small at first, , mushrooming up and up, who can tell how high?—higher than any skyscraper—presence of unseen power. A monument in the sky—a statue of stone.
Then the veins of light begin to spark in the figure, giving it a sense of life, veins coming from its heart, pumping the power through the cloud. The sky, like a picture show on a Friday evening just after dusk, at a drive-in where the kid’sve been playing frisbee and now settle into the backs of pick-up trucks.
The statue throws its lightening bolts to the earth as it marches eastward. Menacing, dangerous, beautiful. Rain pouring, wind blowing, limbs snapping, creeks choked, spilling out into the fields. Lights flicker, rat-a-tat on the window panes.
And then, the electric giant passes, quicker than it formed and threatened. The sun shines through heavy raindrops hanging on green leaves. And everything begins to dry itself out. Limbs are set aside for the burnpile, and the cat can go back out again.
Storms pass. Clouds are not made of stone. And the sun is always shining, it just sometimes gets hidden by the clouds.
Ezekiel 37.1-14
Putting yourself back together is a process. It takes time. Lots of time. And no, maybe it’s not so much putting yourself BACK together, but becoming whole—becoming wholly the person God has created you to be. God’s perfect image reflected uniquely in you.
So it’s actually GOD putting you back together—making you whole—getting you closer to being yourself—not again, but FINALLY.
Ezekiel’s vision of dry bones reminds us though that it takes time—maybe even a LIFEtime to be the one God intends us to be. Exiled. Homeless. Sinful. Dried up. God tells the Israelites, “I’m going to put you back together. And here’s how. First I’ll breathe into you; then tendons, muscles, skin; and then—more BREATH.” (It’s the breath makes it all work—the breath of God.)
Ever see Tim Burton’s, “Sleepy Hollow”—when the headless horseman finally gets his head back? In that campy violence kind of way the skull gradually—and through much CGI—turns into the head of Christopher Walken (pointy teeth and all). That’s how the valley of dry bones comes to life.
Time. Process. You are not going to change over night. Real, lasting change and transformation takes time. Tendons, muscle, skin have to be wrapped around bone. But God has breathed into you, a breath that is Spirit. We all have a set of spiritual lungs, full of the air of the Kingdom. Breathe in, breathe out. It’s the breathe of transformation—not the dry air of the valley, not the final breath let out on a cross, but the breath of life wafting from an empty tomb, filling an upper room, pulling us together to be ourselves—who God created us to be—disciples, children, flesh and spirit, wrapped together in unique forms.
Tendons, muscles, skin. No life’s ever so broken that it cannot be put back together again. By God. It just takes time.
