by Rev. Paul A. Whitlock, preached at The Church of the Palms Easter 2026
Ezekiel 37:1-14; John 11:38-44
Friends, siblings, beloved of God:
There is a question that haunts the corridors of human history. It is a question that doesn’t just sit on the pages of our Bibles but rattles in our hearts, minds, and souls when the house is quiet and the news cycle is loud. It is the question the Spirit posed to the prophet Ezekiel as he stood overlooking a valley of bleached, fragmented remains: “Can these bones live?”
Whether we are standing in that ancient valley or sitting in these pews today, the question remains the same. And if we are honest, many of us aren’t just looking at the valley of the shadow of death, the valley of dry bones—we are inhabiting it.
We are a community that prides itself on “extravagant welcome,” but sometimes the person we have the hardest time welcoming is our own exhausted, depleted selves.
We talk about “unconditional love,” but we struggle to apply it to our own lives when we feel like we have nothing left to give. We advocate for “justice,” yet we feel the profound injustice of a world that demands we remain “productive” even when our spirits are fractured.
We know what cataclysmic disruption looks like. We see it in the macro:
- the amoral war in Iran that weighs on our collective conscience,
- the systemic inequities that keep our neighbors in a cycle of poverty,
- the fear of ICE terrorizing our communities,
- and the ecological groaning of a planet in distress.
And we see it in the micro:
- the sudden silence of a house after a death or a divorce,
- the disorientation of retirement,
- the betrayal of a chronic illness,
- or the suffocating weight of grief.
In these moments, we aren’t just “going through a rough patch.” We are in survival mode. And in survival mode, hope isn’t a strategy—it’s a luxury we simply cannot afford.
I need to be vulnerable with you this morning, because a progressive church that cannot hold the truth of its leaders is not a place of healing. Lately, the weight of the world—the geopolitical violence abroad, the fear tactics of ICE and the personal ache of my own son’s recent divorce—pulled me back down into that valley of shadows.
There were days when the idea of feeling “safe in my own skin” felt like a distant, cruel fantasy.
I found myself in a “tenacious funk,” a spiritual drought that no amount of positive thinking could irrigate.
Eventually, the heaviest of the clouds began to lift, as they often do with time. But I was surprised by what I found on the other side. I expected to emerge “liberated,” like a butterfly from a cocoon. Instead, I found myself utterly depleted. I didn’t feel like a conqueror; I felt like a pile of dry bones.
So, I started asking the “Dry Bone Questions”:
- What do I do now?
- How am I supposed to do… anything?
- What if I never feel like “me” again?
I spent weeks in a state of aimless autopilot. I watered my cacti. I ate a lot of cookies. We all have our numbing mechanisms—the scrolling, the snacking, the busy-work—that take the edge off the pain. But eventually, those habits begin to suck the remaining moisture out of us, leaving us even drier than before.
In the Book of Ezekiel, the “dry bones” weren’t just about physical death. The text tells us they represented a whole people whose national hopes were crushed, whose social ties were severed, and whose homes were deserted. It was a metaphor for Exile.
To be in the valley is to be in exile from your own life. It is the feeling of being a stranger to your own joy. In our own community,
- I hear the echoes of this exile every single day. I hear it when a person asks, “Will my family ever heal from this?”
- I hear it when a long-time worker says, “I’m retired—who am I now?”
- I hear it when someone facing a terminal diagnosis whispers, “I didn’t sign up for this.”
The hard truth we must face together is this: Dry bones do not resurrect themselves. There is no “self-help” manual for the valley of the shadow of death. There is no “five-step plan” to breathe life back into a shattered spirit. We cannot “pull ourselves up by our bootstraps” when we no longer have the strength to even reach for our boots.
In the Gospel of John, we see Jesus standing before the tomb of his friend Lazarus. He lets out a loud cry: “Come forth!” It’s a powerful moment. But for those of us deep in the valley, that command can feel terrifyingly out of reach. When you are a pile of dry bones, “coming forth” feels like an impossible demand. You can’t move. You can’t breathe. You are bound in the grave clothes of your own trauma.
But look closer at the text. Jesus doesn’t just raise Lazarus; there’s a part that many miss. Did you notice? He gives a second command, one to the community standing around the tomb. That’s us, the church: “Unbind him, and let him go.”
In one sentence, this captures the theology of a progressive, justice-seeking church. Resurrection is rarely a solo performance. It is a community group project.
For me, the miracle didn’t come through a booming voice from the clouds or a sudden bolt of divine lightning. It came through the “unbinding” work of human hands.
It was the well-timed text from a member asking, “are you okay?”
It was the unexpected phone call from a friend who didn’t ask “How are you?” but instead said, “Let’s get to together to chat.”
It was a friend who sat and listened to me bewailing my fate, listening to me go on and on and on without offering a single platitude, without trying to “fix” me, and without judgment. When I finally ran out of breath, she asked: “What makes it possible for you to keep your faith in God?”
I had to stop. I had to really look at her. I had to really look at myself and look through the mask I often wear. And the resurrection moment came when I realized the answer wasn’t a “what makes my faith possible”—it was a who – who makes my faith possible.
“You make it possible,” I told her. “People like you, who refuse to give up on me. You give me hope that God still cares.”
Beloved, if, when you look into the mirror, when you look deep within yourself, if you are asking yourself the question, wondering today if these bones can live—look around you.
The answer is found in the person sitting in the pew next to you. It is found in the neighbor who checks in when the lights haven’t been on. It is found in this community’s refusal to let go of the vision of a world where justice and love are the very air we breathe.
St. Teresa of Ávila famously reminded us that Christ has no body now on earth but ours. No hands, no feet, but ours. But in our tradition of justice and extravagant welcome, we must take that further:
- Through our ears, Christ hears the cries of the marginalized and the lonely.
- Through our presence, Christ companions the lost in the wilderness of their own minds.
- Through our voices, Christ speaks the truth about the stubborn resiliency of the human spirit.
- Through our labor, Christ offers the refreshment of a shower.
Sharing “God’s unconditional love” isn’t just a slogan on our website. It is the act of being the “living water” for someone who is parched.
It is the act of standing in the valley of shadows with someone and saying, “I don’t know when the breath is coming back, but I will be here with you until it does.”
Can these bones live?
Yes!
- They live when we unbind one another.
- They live when we stop trying to be “conquerors” and start being companions.
- They live when we realize that the “Word of the Lord,” the “Word of God,” the “Word of Love,” isn’t just a book, but the sound of a friend’s voice calling us back into the light.
We are the resurrection. We are the breath. We are the way back to the living. Thanks be to God.
Amen.
