Dry Bones: The Amazing Possibilities of American Democracy

“Can these bones live?”

“God only knows.” — Ezekiel 37:3 (my translation)

Now that Passover and Easter have passed, I’m reflecting on what we’ve just celebrated. To start with, this is one of those years where there has been an odd, one might even say mysterious, synchronicity of ancient texts and contemporary context.

The “Valley of Dry Bones” vision in Ezekiel 37 landed right in my gut last Saturday night as the Great Vigil of Easter moved gradually from darkness into light. If ever I heard a story read that seemed to embody the present moment, for me that was it. Here we were: engaged in an absurd war, the current chapter in a now 15-month-long wrecking of institutions, destruction of democratic norms, smashing of diplomatic conventions, trivializing and denouncing alliances, erecting concentration camps all around the country, breaking international and federal laws, mocking the Constitution, and on and on and on some more. It’s no joke that, surveying the daily additions to the pile of bones, the question on many of our lips is “Can these things possibly ever live again?”

Admit it. Things don’t look too promising for whole valleys of dry bones.

But let’s be honest. Lots of these bones were dry before January 20, 2025. Most obviously, the government of the United States has been increasingly dysfunctional for a long time. It’s cliché to talk about how divided the country is, but I’m persuaded that the divisions we normally identify—MAGA vs. The Left, “red States vs. blue States” and so on—are symptoms, not causes. At work now since long before the birth of the American republic 250 years ago was a seed growing secretly, and it wasn’t the Kingdom of Righteousness. It was the seed of greed. Ken Burns’ documentary The American Revolution lays much of it out. Both the stealing of indigenous people’ lands (explicitly through treaties dishonored) and the enslavement of people of color were germinations of the same seed. And oh how the flower has blossomed!

What’s more, the once living bones of so many humans and other species have been the casualties not only of money-grubbing but of the more colossal movements amassing more power for the already powerful and more privileges for the privileged. What is worse, the very things that have sucked the life out of both flesh and bone have been things we have been taught to tolerate, honor, respect, and defer to, such as male prowess, military might, and the badges of success like ownership and control. All this while the “lower middle classes” and the poor have been increasingly dependent upon a growing class of oligarchs and technocrats for any life they have.

I acknowledge that I’m saying nothing new, nothing that has not been amply documented and decried by countless voices. But who has heard? Who has believed? Some; but many who have themselves watched fecund promises desiccate have drowned their despair with alcohol, or ingested opioids to dull an already sullen life, and watched helplessly as the Walmarts of the world have marched into shriveling communities promising good jobs and low prices while driving out of business the moms and pops who’ve run the local pharmacies and hardware stores. The valley of dry bones has names. Main Street. Broad Street. Market Street.

And sitting on the corner of First and Main and its sibling streetcorners throughout the land are the empty monuments of a bygone era. They too have names. First Baptist. Hometown Methodist. Our Savior Lutheran. Trinity Episcopal. Foursquare Gospel. Who has believed what we have said? Who has prophesied to the dry bones?

Can those bones also live?

Mortal, get off your sofa, put down your phone, and listen to the wind. There’s about to be a major windstorm.

I’m beginning to hear a rattling. Do you? The rattling is coming from Minnesota. I heard it in Chicago. Before that I heard it in Los Angeles, in Portland, in Maine. I heard it when New York elected Zohran Mamdani. I heard it getting louder on No Kings Day 2.0 and 3.0. I’m hearing it on TikTok. I’m hearing it from judges. And, thank you, God, I’m hearing it from the Vatican! And from church leadership. I'm hearing it from the incredible number of young Americans who have joined Run for Something who are indeed running for something—from school boards to town councils to county boards of supervisors to Congress. And I heard it from those splendid Buddhist monks who walked 1500 miles to wage peace. I’m even hearing it on the streets of Budapest as thousands gather to protest a repressive regime that openly bends the knee to Putin. [And, since writing this, I have heard the rattling is that of shoes dancing in the streets of Budapest. Orban lost!]

But one thing is missing. As the slain and nearly slain stand on their feet, though they may feel it in their bones, there’s not quite yet the Breath, the Spirit, the power that opens graves and calls out enshrouded souls. But it’s coming. It’s coming and it’s aching to make all things new.

Carter Heyward wrote in A Priest Forever how when she and other women were pressing Episcopal Bishop Paul Moore of New York for ordination, suddenly there was the rush of wind that blew open the windows of the room in which they were meeting. Was it a sign? Was it The Presence? You decide. As always, you decide.

Not everyone will feel the Breath. But our job is not to feel it or for that matter to explain it. It is to “prophesy.” And “prophesy” is positively not a churchy word reserved for wild-eyed bushy-haired people walking sideways. Prophesying means proclaiming the Truth, speaking—declaring—the Truth. Do it as you can, in whatever way you can, for as loud and as long as you can. Whisper it, sing it, dance it, paint it, laugh it, share it, celebrate it with anyone and everyone. Pick up that phone and call a neighbor. Check on a relative. Write to a friend. Greet a stranger. Contribute for peace. Tip your server generously. Keep bugging your representatives in Congress thanking them when they exercise courage. Say your prayers. Plant a tree. Stop and talk to a homeless person. Compliment the guy or the young woman bagging your groceries.

Folks, that Valley of Dry Bones was not history. It was vision. And that, I do believe, is exactly where we are now. We are moving out of lethargy into action, out of paralysis into strength. The task before us is not to put the bones of the old republic back together, it is to envision what kind of new valley, what kind of country, what kind of world we want to live in. As another prophet said, “Without a vision, the people perish.”

You already know what your heart longs for. You also know that we can’t stand another 250 years, years of racism, sexism, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, abuse, pedophilia, oligarchy, and ripoffs. Homo sapiens is still a young species, now only 300,000 years old. 250 years? Compare that to the ancient Egyptian civilization that lasted over 3,000 years. Compare it to the Chinese civilization that has lasted at least that long.

Isn’t it about time we took a long breath, inhaling some of that awesome Wind, and prophesy far and wide that government of the people, by the people, and for the people is not only sticking around on the earth for a while, but is finally going to be clothed with power, fortified with justice, and vivified with Spirit?

Is that not a vision worth living for?