Returning to the Body
This Lent we’ve been on an exploration of elements: moving from soil and water to breath—the Spirit that animates all life. Through visions of dry bones in Ezekiel and the raising of Lazarus in John, we are invited to consider where life has gone still and how God’s breath restores what feels lost or beyond hope. As we approach Holy Week, this sermon calls us to become people through whom God’s living-giving Spirit flows into the world.
The Glimpses of Grace podcast is a ministry of Grace Episcopal Church in Gainesville, Georgia. We are passionate about supporting the spiritual growth of souls, and we hope these sermons and conversations meet you where you are and enrich your soul as we all continue to make meaning in the world today.
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Transcript
Over the past year, a phrase keeps returning to us:
Our lives are our practice.
Not just what we believe.
Not just what we say.
But what we do, day after day—
what we forgive, what we hold,
how we speak, how we love—
our lives are our practice.
On Lent 1 we returned to the soil.
We heard the truth spoken on Ash Wednesday:
from dust we came, to dust we return.
On Lent 3 we returned to the water.
The stories reminded us that life flows through connection,
that thirst reveals what we are drawing from.
Today, the movement continues to carry us—
from soil, from water, to the body.
More precisely: to breath.
To the invisible life that moves through the body.
We hear of the prophet Ezekiel, carried by the Spirit of God
into a valley filled with bones.
The bones are not skeletons, carefully arranged.
Bones are aimlessly scattered. The landscape is arid, dry, dusty.
And the prophet is asked a seemingly impossible question:
“Mortal, can these bones live?”
The question: saturated with hope.
A question about whether life can return,
whether life can sprout from a place that is apparently desolate, barren.
The bones raash,
quake, rattle, shake.
The Hebrew text points to sound,
the bones moving toward one another.
Sinews appear, flesh stretches, skin encases.
Forms take shape, but something is missing.
A body…without breath.
So God asks the prophet to speak again:
“Come from the four winds, O breath,
and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.”
And ruach enters the bodies.
Chests rise. Lungs fill. Life returns.
Breath. Wind. Spirit.
The invisible movement of life.
In today’s Gospel we hear a different story:
a different valley of death.
Jesus’ friend, Lazarus, has died.
And by the time Jesus arrives in Bethany,
the body has already been put to rest.
Four days—
John’s way of suggesting finality.
This is death: a body at rest, a stone in place, a grave sealed.
And Jesus’ body responds: Jesus weeps.
Jesus stands before the tomb of someone he loves,
tears fall, breath catches—
grief moves through him.
Jesus approaches the tomb: “Take away the stone.”
But it seems the moment has passed. This body is beyond help. Martha protests, “already there is a stench…”
Jesus speaks again.
Not to bones, not to wind.
Jesus speaks to a person: “Lazarus, come out.”
Again, movement and certainly sound.
A body. Hands and feet bound, face wrapped. But the body has breath. Jesus speaks to those around him: “Unbind him, and let him go.”
If soil reminds us that we are creatures,
and water reminds us that we are connected,
breath reminds us that we are animated.
We are alive, not just biologically but spiritually.
Something moves through us.
Something God-breathed, inspired.
Something creative.
The mystics sometimes describe it this way:
Creativity is God’s energy flowing through us,
like light passing through a prism.
When we have clarity about who we are
and what we are called to do,
that energy flows freely.
But when we resist it—
when we are afraid, when we want to regain control,
we slam on the brakes.
We block the flow.
Maybe you know this feeling.
The ways we shut things down and withdraw.
The ways we protect ourselves.
The ways we hold our breath.
I think of the valley of bones:
Moments when life has been drained.
Dreams that dried up.
Relationships that fell silent.
Thoughts scattered. Feelings hardened.
Moments when we look around and wonder:
Can these bones live?
Life doesn’t begin with fixing the bones.
Life begins with breath.
With Spirit flowing again.
With God’s life entering the body.
Lazarus doesn’t walk out of the tomb alone.
Jesus calls him. The community unbinds him.
This is critical—
Yes, breathing bodies is a part of resurrection;
but, more importantly, breathing together…
folks being restored to life with one another.
Holy Week is just around the corner.
Our stories remind us of something profound.
The church knows that before resurrection,
there is silence, grief, darkness.
God does not avoid the valley of bones.
God does not avoid the tomb.
God steps into them. God speaks into them, breathes into them.
What is my life practicing?
Am I practicing holding my breath?
Am I practicing letting the Spirit move through me?
Because someone is learning how to hope by watching how you hope. Someone is learning how to love by watching how you love.
Someone is discovering life again because
the breath of God is flowing through your life.
Today we return to the body.
To breath filling lungs.
To voices speaking life.
To hands unbinding others.
To feet stepping out of the darkness.
To faces uncovered.
The God who formed us from the earth
and draws living water from deep wells,
still breathes life into dry bones,
still calls us out of tombs,
still fills our lives with Spirit.
Amen.