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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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Come Up Here!

A reflection on Revelation 4

It begins with a door.
Always a door.

John, exiled, isolated, alone… and yet somehow more awake than the emperors and elites who sleep in marble palaces.
He hears a Voice, like a trumpet, like thunder cracking through silence.

“Come up here…”
The invitation isn’t to escape reality…
It’s to see reality as it actually is.

We think of Revelation as catastrophe.
But this chapter, this vision, is not of chaos.
It’s not about beasts, bowls, or blood.
It’s about the throne.

Because when your world feels like it’s falling apart…
what you need most is a vision of what holds it all together.

The Throne at the Center

John is not shown a map.
He’s not given a plan.
He’s given an image.

A throne.
At the center.
Still. Radiant. Holy.

And One sitting on it.
A kaleidoscope of color… jasper, carnelian, emerald…
Not to describe, but to evoke.
This is not an IKEA diagram for how the cosmos works.
This is art that rearranges your soul.

And around the throne?
Creatures you can’t categorize.
Eyes everywhere. Wings in motion.
A lion, an ox, a human, an eagle…
Earth, strength, intelligence, spirit.

Creation itself, animated and awake,
revolving around the One who was, and is, and is to come.

Worship is Resistance

They cry, “Holy, Holy, Holy…”

This isn’t soft, background music for religious people.
This is the soundtrack of defiance.
Worship in Revelation isn’t passive. It’s revolutionary.
It declares that Caesar is not king,
fear is not lord,
and death does not get the final word.

In a world where everything screams for attention,
Revelation 4 pulls us back to what actually matters…
Who is at the center.

The Twenty-Four

And the elders?
They throw down their crowns.

Because the closer you get to glory,
the less you want to hold onto anything.

They don’t just worship.
They surrender.

In a culture addicted to control,
this is the invitation:
Lay it down.
All of it.
Status, reputation, agenda, your little kingdoms.

Because every throne we build
has to be thrown down
before the One who sits on the throne.

The Door Is Still Open

“Come up here…”
John heard it.
So can you.

Revelation 4 isn’t a vision of the end.
It’s a vision of the now
beneath the surface of things.

There is a door.
There is a throne.
There is One seated.
And there is a song…
being sung by creation itself…
waiting for you to join in.

So the question isn’t:
“Is God still on the throne?”

The question is:
“Are you living like He is?”

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So We Do Not Lose Heart

A meditation on 2 Corinthians 4:16-18

Therefore.

That’s how Paul begins this part of the sentence. “Therefore.”
A hinge. A pivot. A breath before revelation.
It’s as if he’s saying, In light of everything…the affliction, the confusion, the groaning of creation and the groaning within…let me tell you how we survive the ache.
How we don’t quit. How we don’t crack under the weight of a world that keeps coming at us.

“Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.”

And you know what?
That’s true.

The mirror doesn’t lie…
Crow’s feet deepening.
Hairline retreating.
Joints muttering complaints with each stair.
Bodies breaking down, and sometimes spirits too.

But then… there’s this inner place.
A sanctuary the world can’t touch.
Where, in the quiet,
when you stop scrolling,
stop spinning,
stop pretending…

You hear the whisper:
You are being renewed.

Not once.
Not on some mountaintop high.
But day by day.
Like manna.
Like breath.
Like mercy that’s new in the morning.

And then Paul has the audacity to say this:

“For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.”

Light and momentary?

Paul, you were beaten, shipwrecked, jailed, hunted, stoned, abandoned.
And you call that light?

Only someone who’s seen beyond the veil can talk like that.
Only someone who’s had the curtain pulled back and caught a glimpse of the coming glory.
Not the fluffy, escapist kind.
But weighty glory. Substance. Kavod.

Something that makes the ache worth it.
Not because the ache vanishes,
but because it transforms.
Because it births something eternal in us.
Resilience. Compassion. Hope.

Which is why…

“We fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen.”

Because what is seen is always changing.
Always decaying.
Always slipping through your fingers.

But what is unseen…
That’s the real.
The eternal.
The kingdom breaking in.
The Christ in you.
The Spirit groaning with you.
The glory waiting within you.

So we do not lose heart.

Not because life is easy.
Not because the pain isn’t real.
But because renewal is deeper than decay.
Because glory is heavier than suffering.
Because the unseen is more solid than the seen.

Therefore.

Don’t lose heart, beloved.

Even when the world says you should.
Even when your body betrays you.
Even when all you see is fog…

Fix your eyes.
There’s more going on than you can see.
More being formed in you than you yet understand.

You’re being renewed.
Day. By. Day.

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This Is That

Reflecting on Acts 2:14-41

Peter stood up.

The same Peter who once sank into the waves.
Who denied the Christ by a flickering fire.
Who ran when the sky turned dark and the veil tore in two.

That Peter.

He stands up now…not just in courage, but in Spirit.

Because something has shifted.
Something new has broken in.
Something ancient and future, mysterious and real.
Something that makes people stop and ask,
“What does this mean?”

You see, they were trying to make sense of the wind.
The fire.
The languages.
The presence.

So Peter gives them language for the new world being born.

“This… is that.”
That prophecy from Joel, the one about sons and daughters prophesying,
about visions and voices and a Spirit poured out on all flesh?

This is that.

This is the fulfillment not of fear, but of promise.
Not of hierarchy, but of invitation.
Not of judgment, but of awakening.

Peter preaches a sermon soaked in Scripture,
but not to prove a point…
to open their eyes.

He walks them through David, through resurrection, through Jesus…
the one they saw, the one they rejected,
and the one God raised.

And the crowd…
they get it.

They are cut to the heart.
Not in shame. Not in guilt.
But in holy recognition.
Something has broken in, and it is bigger than them.
Wider than their categories.
Fuller than their control.

So they ask the only thing left to ask:

“What shall we do?”

And Peter, once a denier, now a proclaimer, answers with the clarity of someone who’s walked through fire:

Repent.
Not just “say sorry.”
Turn around.
Change your mind.
Step out of the old narrative.
Step into this new kingdom where everyone has a voice,
where the Spirit speaks in every language,
where the curtain is torn and the invitation is wide.

Be baptized.
Sink into death so you can rise in life.

And receive the gift.
Not earn.
Not achieve.
Receive.

Because this promise?
It’s for you.
For your children.
For the ones you think are far off.

For everyone who hears the whisper:
This is for you too.

And that day…
Three thousand said yes.
Three thousand entered the new world.
Three thousand were swept up in the Spirit’s river,
flowing not from a temple,
but from people.

So maybe the question today isn’t just, “What happened then?”

Maybe the real question is:
What’s happening now?

Because the Spirit still comes in fire.
Still speaks in surprise.
Still invites the least likely to stand up and speak out.

And maybe…just maybe…this is still that.