On Spinning Wheels

To play with the metaphor, I think we can say that Ezekiel knew a thing or two about spinning wheels or the spinning of our wheels.

I thought about this after many engaging conversations this week along with the reality of standing alongside those in deep grief. One of my favorite, go-to moments of scripture is when God asks Ezekiel: "mortal, can these dry bones live?"

Oh what an opportunity! Think of the answers that Ezekiel could have proudly given. Think of how he could have inserted his ideas for the future of Israel and just precisely how he hoped that God would restore and heal. Think of how he could have asked for petitions specific to his own well being and future.

But, he didn't. He was humble. Ezekiel said rightly, "Only you know, Lord, only you." Then he said to Ezekiel, Prophesy to these bones, and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord God to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.

As I climbed into bed after a long day, I stumbled upon these words from Thomas Merton in my reading:  You are not big enough to accuse the whole age effectively, but let us say you are in dissent. You are in no position to issue commands, but you can speak words of hope. Shall this be the substance of your message? Be human in this most inhuman of ages; guard the image of man for it is the image of God. 

Is this our most basic call?  To be human in this most inhuman of ages? To speak hope? What does that mean in our lives and in our work? Merton goes on further: To allow oneself to be carried away by a multitude of conflicting concerns, to surrender to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects, to want to help everyone in everything is to succumb to violence. The frenzy of the activist neutralizes his or her work for peace.

As many may have concluded already, we live in an age of grief. And grief bears with it anger, fear, denial, and many emotions and questions we would rather avoid. I come back to Ezekiel as I try to embody not a posture of dissent, but of hope: "Only you know, Lord, only you."

A prayer from Walter Brueggemann:

We confess, when we ponder your large governance,

that our "chief end" is to

glorify you and enjoy you forever.

We confess that the purpose of our life, purposes twinned,

are your glory and our joy.  That is our true end!

But when we come to the end of our work together, and

the end of our text together,

It strikes us that we know less about "ends" than we imagine.

We sing our explanatory doxologies,

We reiterate our concluding slogan that

"thine is the kingdom and the glory and the power."

We add our confident, loud "Amen" to our best petitions.

But--truth to tell--

We cannot see the end;

when we do see the end, we do not know its meaning...

whether termination or transition.

And so, like our many fathers and mothers always,

We trust where we cannot see,

eating what we are fed,

taking what of recognition we can muster,

restless and present under a myriad of surveillances,

but finally ceding our end to you,

in our simple, final prayer:

Come Lord Jesus.

Come among us,

Come to your church in bewilderment,

Come to our state in its vexation,

Come to our world in its insomnia.

Grant us peace with justice,

peace with joy,

peace at the last,

peace on earth...and glory to you in the highest.

Amen.