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The Dust That Dances

A Meditation on Ezekiel 37

There’s a valley.
You know this valley.

Not because you’ve walked through Ezekiel’s vision,
but because you’ve walked through your own.
The valley where hope has been buried.
Where the laughter has long stopped echoing.
Where the bones … your bones … lie scattered,
bleached by time, brittle with disappointment.

It’s that place where the dream died,
the relationship cracked,
the faith went silent.

Ezekiel is led there…
not by accident, not by misstep,
but by the hand of the Lord.
God takes him to the place of loss.
Not away from it.
Not around it.
Right into it.

And the question comes:
“Son of man, can these bones live?”

It’s almost cruel, isn’t it?
The question you don’t want to be asked.
The one that forces you to look
at the wreckage of what once was.

Ezekiel hedges:
“O Sovereign Lord, you alone know.”
Which is Hebrew for:
“I can’t say yes, and I don’t dare say no.”

And God doesn’t explain.
God doesn’t hand over a five-step plan.
God doesn’t analyze why the bones got there in the first place.
Instead, God tells Ezekiel to speak.

“Prophesy to these bones.”
Speak life into what has no ears.
Call to breath when there are no lungs.
Preach resurrection into the silence of the graveyard.

And as he speaks…
the bones start to rattle.
Bone finds bone,
ligament finds ligament,
flesh wraps around skeleton.
It looks alive.
But it isn’t.

Not yet.

Because form without breath is still death.
Order without Spirit is still emptiness.
Religion without Ruach is still a valley of bones.

So God says again:
“Prophesy to the breath. Call it from the four winds.”
And when the Spirit comes,
the bones rise.
An army of the resurrected,
standing on their feet,
alive by the Word and the Breath.

And maybe that’s the whole point.

God takes us to the places we’ve buried,
not to shame us with what we’ve lost,
but to remind us that resurrection begins in the valley.
Life doesn’t start in the temple…
it starts in the tomb.

Your bones … those broken dreams,
that faith you thought was gone,
the parts of you you left for dead…
they are not beyond the Breath.

Resurrection is not about trying harder,
but about yielding to the Spirit
who comes from the four winds
to do what you cannot.

So maybe the invitation is this:
Step into the valley.
Name the bones.
Prophesy anyway.

Because in the hands of God,
even the dust knows how to dance.

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Dirty Hands, Holy Ground

A meditation on Luke 10:25–37

So there’s this lawyer.
A Torah expert.
A person who knows the law inside and out…
Knows what’s written.
But isn’t quite sure how to live it.

“Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
It’s the question beneath all the questions.
How do I really live?
What does it mean to be alive in the way God intended?

And Jesus, in classic Jesus form,
Doesn’t answer.
He tosses the question right back.

“What’s written in the Law? How do you read it?”

The man answers:
“Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind…
And love your neighbor as yourself.”

Jesus says, “Yes. Do this and you will live.”

But the man wants clarity.
Actually, he wants control.
Because clarity is cleaner than compassion.
And control feels safer than proximity.

So he asks: “And who is my neighbor?”

That’s when Jesus tells a story.

A man…
Going from Jerusalem to Jericho.
Robbed.
Beaten.
Left half dead.

A priest passes by.
Sees him.
Moves to the other side.

A Levite.
Sees him.
Moves to the other side.

You know how this works.
You’ve felt it.
When compassion costs too much.
When helping might stain your robes.
Or ruin your schedule.
Or wreck your reputation.

And then…
A Samaritan.

Wait – what?

That’s not how the story’s supposed to go.
Jews and Samaritans…
They don’t mix.
They’re oil and water.
Romeo and Juliet.
Montagues and Capulets.

But this Samaritan…
Sees.
And stops.

He kneels down in the dust.
Touches wounds that aren’t his.
Pours out oil.
Binds up flesh.
Puts the broken man on his own animal.
Takes him to an inn.
Pays the bill.
Leaves a tab open.

The Samaritan doesn’t ask,
“Is this man part of my tribe?”
He doesn’t check for credentials or alignment.
He just loves.
Fully.
Freely.
Recklessly.

Jesus finishes the story.
Looks the lawyer in the eye and says,
“So… who was a neighbor?”

And the lawyer … who can’t even say “Samaritan”
Just mumbles,
“The one who had mercy.”

And Jesus says,
“Go and do likewise.”

See, we think the parable is about someone else.
The guy on the road.
The priest.
The Samaritan.

But maybe…
It’s about us.
All of us.
Because we are the ones who walk by.
And sometimes we’re the ones bleeding.
And sometimes…when grace grips us…
We’re the ones who stop.

The road to Jericho runs through our hearts.
Winding.
Dangerous.
Messy.

And this Jesus…
He keeps telling stories
That wreck our categories.
That flip the script.
That won’t let us settle for religion that avoids the wounded.

He keeps asking,
Not who is your neighbor…
But what kind of neighbor are you becoming?

So maybe today,
It’s not about what we know.
It’s about what we do.
And not just who we love,
But how far we’re willing to cross over
To love the ones we’d rather avoid.

Because that’s where eternal life lives.
In the dust.
On the road.
In the reach.

Go and do likewise.

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Justice. Mercy. Humility

A meditation on Micah 6:8 in the age of air-raid sirens and culture wars

there’s a dull thud in the distance
but the tremor reaches our screens in real time

Khan Younis… 70 people fall while waiting for flour
Gaza’s toll climbs past 55,000 names no algorithm can pronounce

meanwhile war planners debate bunker-busters for Tehran
and reporters chart which U.S. bases are close enough to launch the next wave

the pundits label it deterrence
the prophets just call it blood

the rupture at home

pews once arranged shoulder-to-shoulder
now divided into voting blocs
some churches preach the ballot before they preach the Beatitudes
others go silent, hoping neutrality will save them

yet the fracture widens:
63% of adults still call themselves Christian,
but many wonder what the word even means anymore

Micah 6:8 (our compass)

He has shown you, O human, what is good.
And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.

justice… because every image-bearer in Gaza, Tel Aviv, Tehran, and Tulsa carries equal weight in the heart of God
mercy… because vengeance only multiplies sorrow
humility... because power without repentance turns pulpits into echo chambers

three invitations

  1. Lament aloud
    Turn the scroll of headlines into prayer.
    Name the dead. Weep for enemies. Refuse to sanitize the statistics.
  2. Practice inconvenient empathy
    Sit with someone whose vote, accent, or liturgy unsettles you.
    Listen until you hear fear hiding behind their certainty.
  3. Re-center on the crucified Christ
    A kingdom without bombs, ballots, or budget line-items.
    Where swords are melted, not modernized.
    Where the metric is love, not leverage.

a closing breath

justice is not a partisan hobby
mercy is not weakness
humility is not silence

it’s the narrow way…
the way that heals divided churches,
defies reckless administrations,
and dignifies every war-torn street with the whispered truth:

“Beloved, you were never expendable.”

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Letters From The Edge

A Meditation on Revelation 2

What do you say to a church that’s lost its love?

What do you say to a people who are doing all the right things… working hard, enduring suffering, spotting false teachers from a mile away… but their hearts have gone numb?

You say Revelation 2.

You say… remember.

There’s this moment, in the letter to the church in Ephesus, where the resurrected Jesus says:

“Yet I hold this against you: You have forsaken the love you had at first.” (Rev. 2:4)

Oof.

It’s not that they weren’t busy. They were doing a lot. They were active. Vigilant. Passionate about doctrine. But somewhere along the line, the fire that once drove them turned into mere coals. They had the form, but not the flame.

And maybe… maybe that’s not just their story.

Maybe it’s ours.

It starts out so beautifully, doesn’t it?

That first love. That rush. That wild awareness that this is real. That God is near. That grace is thick in the air and you can’t stop talking about it. You’re not working for God because you should… you’re doing it because you’re in love.

But slowly, quietly, the machinery kicks in.

Programs. Policies. Proficiency.

And that pulsating, reckless joy? It cools. Like coffee left on the counter too long. Still technically “coffee.” Just… not what it used to be.

So Jesus says:

“Consider how far you have fallen. Repent and do the things you did at first.” (2:5)

It’s not condemnation. It’s invitation. It’s a wake-up call, not a slap.

And that word… repent… so often wielded like a hammer… is really a whisper.

A turning.
A remembering.
A returning.

Back to the beginning.
Back to why you ever said yes.
Back to who this has always been about.

And did you notice? These letters… they aren’t written to individuals.

They’re written to churches.

Communities.

Which means this isn’t just about you finding your first love again.
It’s about us.

Together.

Maybe the church isn’t dying. Maybe it’s just forgotten who it loves.
Maybe we don’t need to reinvent everything… maybe we just need to remember.

Remember when we cried together.
When we prayed like it mattered.
When we served not out of duty but delight.
When we sang until our voices cracked.

Remember when we didn’t care who got credit because we were just so grateful to be part of it?

Yeah. That.

So here we are, again.

A church.
A people.
With a letter.

From Jesus.

And he’s saying:

“I see you. I know what you’ve done.
But don’t forget why you started.”

Because if you remember that?

You just might find the fire again.

Reflection Question
What did your “first love” look like? Feel like?
What would it look like to return—not to what you did, but to why you did it?

Let’s go back.
So we can move forward.
In love.
Again.