Untitled Sermon (60)

We’re going to be in Ezekiel 37 this morning, but it’s going to take me just a second to set this text up, I want to place us there with Ezekiel.

I read recently that one death impacts 9 other people. I mean like significantly impacts. Now you can imagine what happens if a community is hit by several deaths at once.

There is a significant disruption that happens. We really see it in a community hit by a hurricane, mudslide, tornadoes. It will follow some of the same processes of grief. You might see an initial boost in morale—-adrenaline kicking in, getting through the funerals, etc. but eventually you get dragged down.

It may not be physical death, though, that rips through a community. Negativity can turn a once thriving community into a ghost town.

They’ve found that continuous exposure to negative feedback or incivility will deter community participation. If public meetings are dominated by hostile interactions, it will discourage broader community engagement, resulting in a vocal minority overshadowing the collective voice.

What I mean is that it takes a certain level of craziness and a certain level of really liking drama and fighting and all of that…to keep at it. Reasonable people are like, “I just don’t have time for this…I don’t see the point in this.” Understandable, but what happens is that the inmates start to run the asylum.

They thrive on the chaos and may even create it in order to stay in power. But what this creates is just an erosion in social bonds. Persistent negativity can weaken trust and social bonds among community members, leading to increased conflict and reduced collaboration.

Think about something like a PTA meeting. At the start of the year, there are a bunch of parents who show up—they care about the school, they want to help. They bring snacks, they ask thoughtful questions, they’re trying to make a difference.

But there's one parent who always dominates the conversation. Always has a bone to pick. Another accuses the principal of favoritism. Someone else rolls their eyes at every suggestion that isn't their own. The meetings are filled with side comments, sarcasm, long rants, and personal digs.

And after a few weeks, the reasonable people start quietly slipping away.

Not because they don’t care—but because they just don’t have the emotional bandwidth for that kind of drama. They say things like, “I have too much going on… I don’t want to deal with that mess.”

Understandable, right? But the result is that now the only ones left at the table are the ones who like the mess. They feed on conflict. They don’t want peace—they want control. And eventually, they run the show.

This is how communities spiral—not just in PTA meetings, but in churches, schools, city halls. When negativity goes unchecked, when good people stay silent or step away, when hope dries up—what’s left is noise, not health. Drama, not wisdom. Bones, not life.

John Gottman, a marriage guru dude who studied all these different marriages. Dr. John Gottman, one of the most respected researchers on relationships, found that the biggest predictor of a relationship falling apart isn’t money or politics or personality differences. It’s contempt. When one person starts speaking down to the other—eye-rolling, sarcasm, dismissive comments—it signals not just frustration, but disrespect. And that poisons the relationship.

But Gottman didn’t just identify the problem—he also gave a solution. He found that healthy, thriving relationships tend to have what he called a “magic ratio”: five positive interactions for every one negative one.

Five to one.

That’s what it takes for a relationship to stay healthy in the face of conflict. Not perfection. Not never messing up. But a culture of encouragement, forgiveness, shared joy—relational oxygen.

And here’s the connection: what happens in a marriage happens in a church. In a neighborhood. In a nation. If the emotional climate gets too heavy with negativity—if contempt goes unchecked—eventually, the whole community feels it.

Now imagine that in a church.

You walk into a committee meeting or a casual hallway conversation, and you hear things like:

“We tried that before. Didn’t work.”

“They only show up when it benefits them.”

“You know who always gets their way around here.”

[eye roll] “That’s just so-and-so being so-and-so.”

“This place just isn’t what it used to be.”

No yelling. No public fights. Just low-grade contempt. A slow leak of trust. The kind of atmosphere where people are polite to your face but dismissive behind your back. Where suggestions get shot down not because they’re unwise, but because they’re new. Where someone’s passion gets treated like naivety.

It’s not a hostile warzone—it’s just cold. Disengaged. Cynical. And eventually, people stop investing their hearts. They stop inviting friends. They show up, but they’re not alive. They serve, but they’re not breathing.

And the bones pile up. Not outside the church—but in the pews.

This isn’t far off from what happened to Israel. By the time we meet Ezekiel, the bones aren’t just a metaphor—they’re history.

This was a people who had received the very Word of God, who were supposed to be a light to the nations, a community marked by justice, compassion, and covenant love. But over generations, they turned away. Idol worship crept in. Injustice became normal. False prophets filled the public square with feel-good lies. The leaders were corrupt. The people followed them anyway.

And when real prophets called them to repentance, the response wasn’t brokenness—it was contempt. They mocked Jeremiah. They resisted Josiah’s reforms. And they didn’t think God would ever let them fall.

But He did.

First came the Babylonians. Then came exile. Ezekiel was among the early captives—ripped from his homeland, taken into a foreign culture, cut off from the temple, cut off from home.

And as the years dragged on, news finally arrived: Jerusalem had fallen. The temple—God’s dwelling place—was destroyed. What was left of Israel’s identity lay in ruins.

So when God gives Ezekiel this vision of a valley of dry bones…well…he feels it. It’s fitting. It’s not some shocking image or a horror…it’s like when someone uses a metaphor or a word picture and you’re like…THAT’S EXACTLY how I feel…that’s exactly what I’m asking…

And so this is what we have in Ezekiel 37....God is going to give words, an image, to what Ezekiel is feeling. Listen in:

Ezekiel 37:1–14 ESV

The hand of the Lord was upon me, and he brought me out in the Spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of the valley; it was full of bones. And he led me around among them, and behold, there were very many on the surface of the valley, and behold, they were very dry. And he said to me, “Son of man, can these bones live?” And I answered, “O Lord God, you know.” Then he said to me, “Prophesy over these bones, and say to them, O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord God to these bones: Behold, I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. And I will lay sinews upon 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.” So I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I prophesied, there was a sound, and behold, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone. And I looked, and behold, there were sinews on them, and flesh had come upon them, and skin had covered them. But there was no breath in them. Then he said to me, “Prophesy to the breath; prophesy, son of man, and say to the breath, Thus says the Lord God: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe on these slain, that they may live.” So I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived and stood on their feet, an exceedingly great army. Then he said to me, “Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel. Behold, they say, ‘Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are indeed cut off.’ Therefore prophesy, and say to them, Thus says the Lord God: Behold, I will open your graves and raise you from your graves, O my people. And I will bring you into the land of Israel. And you shall know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves, and raise you from your graves, O my people. And I will put my Spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you in your own land. Then you shall know that I am the Lord; I have spoken, and I will do it, declares the Lord.”

Can these bones live?

It’s one thing to ask this of yourself. Maybe you’re feeling dry—not where you want to be spiritually. Can these bones live? Can you give me some life again, Lord? I feel like I’m going through the motions. I feel hollowed out. I need revival, Lord.

But it’s quite another to look around you at a bunch of dead men’s bones. That first one feels more hopeful. And I think its why we say things like, “Revival must start with me.” Oh, it’s so true. Somebody has to go first, right. There has to be the first person resurrected before there can be others---If these bones can live, it’ll start with one...

Yet, I want us to really press into the community aspect of this. Think about what that means for the discouragement and negativity. You’re swimming in that water. You look around at the dry bones and you’re like… “I’m not sure about this...” All of these dry bones? This whole community restored? Revival across the board…I dunno, Lord.

Maybe a vague picture…we want revival…and it’s this wish dream…but what is asking for Ezekiel here is looking square in the face of these dry bones—hollowed out souls—can they live? He knows those bones....it’s not just a sack of dusty old bones....that’s his neighbor.

Can these bones live?

If Ezekiel answers that question based upon his ability…based upon their ability…based upon their cultural moment…ah, man...

And it’s right there, in that tension, that we notice something important. Look at what God calls him: “Son of man.”

That’s not a compliment. It’s a reminder. Human one. Flesh and dust. Mortal. Limited. God is putting Ezekiel in his place—not cruelly, but clearly. He’s saying: You don’t have what it takes to fix this. You are not the solution.

He says it to the mom who’s watching her kids drift and thinks it’s all up to her.

He says it to the pastor who’s trying to breathe life into a weary church and is carrying the pressure of revival on his shoulders.

He says it to the friend who keeps praying for that person who seems permanently hardened—like, spiritually fossilized.

He says it to the person who looks at the state of the world—or their marriage, or their ministry, or their small group—and thinks, If I just found the right words, or prayed hard enough, or came up with the perfect plan, I could fix this.

And God gently, lovingly says: Son of man. Human one. And that’s good news.It’s profoundly loving how God is framing this for Ezekiel.

Because the solution isn’t going to come from within Ezekiel—it’s going to come from above him. If the bones live, it won’t be because Ezekiel pulled off the perfect revival strategy. It’ll be because the Spirit of God moved.

So how does Ezekiel respond?

He doesn’t say, “Yes, Lord. I believe in this people. I believe in myself. I believe in the process.”

He also doesn’t say, “No, Lord. I’ve seen too much. It’s over.”

He says:

“O Lord God, you know.”

That’s not theological hedging. That’s surrender. That’s a man who’s standing in the valley, staring at bones he probably recognizes—family, friends, neighbors—and saying: I have no power to change this. But I trust You do.

Ezekiel isn’t volunteering a solution. He’s yielding to a Sovereign. He’s not throwing up his hands in despair—he’s opening them in dependence.

That’s the starting point of every real revival. Not strategy. Not hype. But that deep, Spirit-born recognition: Only You know, Lord. Only You can do this.

It’s the prayer of the exhausted parent. The worn-down pastor. The friend who keeps inviting, keeps praying, keeps hoping. The one who’s out of words, but still believes in a God who speaks.

But we need to dig in a little deeper here. It’s not just the vague name of some higher power. He says O Lord GOD. Adonai YHWH.---sovereign one, covenant-keeping one. He’s drawing on the history of God here…

God who parted the Red Sea...

The God who fed His people with manna in the wilderness, who didn’t forget them when they wandered.

The God who made covenant with Abraham, saying, “Through your descendants, I will bless the nations.”

The God who forgave David, who restored Jonah,

The God who I saw…your glory leave the temple but somehow visit me in that creek outside of Babylon…the God who is everywhere and can do anything and who is dedicated to our redemption...

You know...

So God gives the answer...

What’s going to give life? Speak to them....what? Do you realize how ridiculous this is...Can this [OBJECT] have life? Live! Come alive! Rattle...rattle...That’s crazy, right.

But this is how God works. He creates by His Word. Back in Genesis, “God said…”—and life happened. In Exodus, He called Moses by name with a word from a burning bush. Throughout the Old Testament, we read again and again: “The word of the Lord came to…”

And in the New Testament? Jesus Himself is the Word made flesh. And how does faith come?

“Faith comes by hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ.” (Romans 10:17)

The Word of God is always the instrument of life. It doesn’t just explain things—it creates things.

That is why Paul says what he does in 1 Corinthians. That’s why we say that this is really kind of foolishness...That you can speak words and somehow change a life. But that’s just it. If it’s my words...well, nothing is going to happen. If I’m just giving a good argument...if I’m giving my opinions...my anger...my well thought out calm responses...this is where we get into the idea of our magic words—that somehow OUR words can change things...but that’s not what God is telling Ezekiel.

He says PROPHESY.

That means say God’s Word to them. And so Ezekiel speaks. And the bones start rattling. They pull together. Tendons. Flesh. Skin. It’s astonishing—this sea of chaos becomes something structured again. Bones become bodies.

But don’t miss this: they’re still not alive.

They’re structured, but not breathing. They look like people, but they don’t move. They have the form of life, but not the force of it.

And isn’t that where a lot of churches get stuck?

We’ve got the right doctrines, the right programs, the right structures… but no breath. No power. No joy. No movement.

Because it’s not enough to have bones in place. It’s not even enough to have good theology.

And that is what is important for Ezekiel and his contemporaries to understand. It’s not about rebuilding the temple. It’s not about getting back in your land and rebuilding the walls. It’s not about putting a structure back together. Getting back to the status quo. Restoring the temple system. Putting things back together so we’re comfortable and it doesn’t look so bad. This isn’t about creating zombies...

This is why I think God does this here in two parts. I’ve often that this text is about the combination of the Word and the Spirit. And I think that’s still much the case. But I’ve missed this little thing...I think it’s important for Ezekiel (and his contemporaries) to see the valley of dry bones become a valley of dry bodies.

They have to sit with that for a moment and say. This isn’t a win. What if your goals are accomplished but it’s without the Spirit. You have 500 people in church on Sunday but they are zombies—they aren’t motivated by the gospel, they aren’t looking like Jesus or walking like Jesus, but rather it’s about something else. They are still here. Singing the songs. Going through the motions. But zombies. Is that a win? It looks good on your ACP report...looks good being able to say we have X number of people join our church...etc. But is it a win?

What if all of the periphery stuff is exactly how you want it in church. And it even feels good—-because it’s releasing those pleasure chemicals we get when we’re around people who agree with us. And certain beats on the drums and notes on the guitar help us to feel something..or we hear a sermon that tracks with us...makes us feel good...

BUT it’s just structure. It’s just a pile of bones turning into a skeleton. That's not a victory. And Ezekiel has to see that. What is needed?

“Prophesy to the breath… and say, ‘Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe on these slain, that they may live.’”

The Spirit gives life. AND only the Spirit can give life. You can preach until you are blue in the face and if the Spirit doesn’t come...you’re only creating zombies.

And suddenly, what was structured becomes animated. The rattling turns into rising. The valley of corpses becomes an army standing together—not scattered individuals revived in their own corners, but a unified people brought to life by the Word and the Spirit of God.

This is what we’ve been building toward: God isn’t just reviving individuals—He’s resurrecting a community.

These bones didn’t just represent spiritual dryness—they represented Israel’s total collapse as a people. Their unity gone. Their identity shattered. Their mission forgotten. Their hope dead and buried.

And yet—by His Word and by His Spirit—God doesn’t just restore life… He restores belonging. He doesn’t just create worshipers—He reforms a witnessing community.

God’s plan is not just to breathe life into one tired Christian here and one discouraged pastor there. It’s to raise up a whole people filled with His Spirit—standing shoulder to shoulder, shaped by His Word, alive with His power.

That’s what Jesus came to do. That’s what Pentecost was. That’s what the church is supposed to be: a Spirit-filled people, formed by the Word, breathing life into a world full of bones.

—

So what do you do if you feel like you’re in a valley of dry bones...whatever that community is...maybe it’s even a beloved unbeliever...maybe your own soul?

One way to respond to a valley of dry bones is to go quiet, grow cold, and call it wisdom.

You can inhale the dry air of a dead valley, let sarcasm replace sorrow, and call it survival.

Or you can become like them—still showing up, but without breath.

But when sarcasm replaces sincerity, when criticism outweighs encouragement, when passive-aggressive comments fill the air, when people walk into church guarded instead of expectant— the Spirit doesn’t thrive in that atmosphere.

The Spirit doesn’t move through cynicism. He doesn’t breathe through bitterness or gossip or contempt. That’s the way of the flesh. Galatians tell us this. The way of the Spirit is different. It is deeply hopefully. Faith. Hope. Love. Earlier I mentioned John Gottman...

emember what John Gottman found in marriages? The ones that survive aren’t the ones with zero conflict—but the ones where five life-giving words are spoken for every one destructive word.

It’s not the absence of difficulty that sustains a relationship. It’s the presence of hopeful, Spirit-shaped speech that pushes back the rot.

And if that’s true in a marriage… how much more in a church? In a community? In a valley full of bones?

What we say matters. What we breathe into one another matters.

Can these bones live?

And here’s the thing: some of you used to believe they could. You used to pray like it. You used to sing like it. You used to invite people like it. You used to preach like it.

But then… You saw too much. You got worn down. You spoke to the bones, and nothing rattled. You prayed for the wind, and the air stayed still. And somewhere deep down, you started to think: Maybe this is just how it is now.

But friend—Ezekiel stood in a valley of bones and still said, “O Lord GOD, You know.” Not because he had proof. But because he had history. Because he knew the God who parts seas, feeds manna, keeps covenants, raises the dead.

So let me say this as plainly as I can:

You are not the solution. It is the Spirit....but I want to close here by showing us the deep hope that we have in this passage.

This vision in Ezekiel 37 isn’t just a powerful image. It’s a prophecy. And like all prophecy, it’s ultimately fulfilled in Jesus Christ.

He is the greater Son of Man—the true and better Ezekiel—who didn’t just speak over death, but stepped into it.

He was crucified—bones crushed, breath gone. And for three days, He lay in the silence of the tomb. No movement. No breath. Dry bones.

But on the third day, the Spirit of God—the same Spirit from Ezekiel’s vision—breathed again. And Jesus rose—not just for Himself, but to become the firstborn from among the dead, the beginning of a whole new creation.

But it doesn’t stop there.

After His resurrection, Jesus did what only God can do—He breathed on His disciples and said:

“Receive the Holy Spirit.” (John 20:22)

And then at Pentecost, He poured out His Spirit on His people—just like God promised through Ezekiel.

That’s the fulfillment of this vision.

The risen Christ, breathing His Spirit into a valley of lifeless people— forming not just scattered individuals, but a new body, a new community, a new people alive in Him.

That’s the church. That’s us.

We are the people who were once dry bones. We are the people who heard the Word, received the Spirit, and stood up—together. Not by our own power, but by His breath.

So when you look around and wonder, Can these bones live? The answer is no—not without Jesus.

But with Him?

The answer is always yes.

And it’s this same gospel that we are called to proclaim.