A Blessing of Breath and Calling
May the breath of God
find you in every valley
where hope has grown thin.
When the ground beneath you
feels scattered with dry bones
and the silence seems deeper than prayer,
may the quiet wind of the Spirit
stir the dust of life again.
When you wait in the long night
and cry from the depths,
may patience hold you gently
until the first light of mercy appears.
And when you hear your name called
from places you thought were sealed and finished,
may you step forward
from every shadow of death
into the widening air of life.
May the One who wept at the tomb
and spoke life into silence
walk beside you in every dark valley
until all that is bound in you
is loosened
and you stand again
in the bright country of hope. Amen.
Tiredness
In the closing weeks of Lent, the Church gives us stories that are almost too large for us to handle. A valley filled with dry bones. A psalm that rises from the depths. A tomb sealed with a stone. And in the middle of them all, the breath and voice of God.
These readings don’t begin in hope. They begin in tiredness.
Ezekiel stands in a valley of bones. Not newly fallen bodies, but bones – dry, scattered, bleached by time and sun. The Spirit of the Lord asks him a question that feels almost cruel: ‘Mortal, can these bones live?’ Perhaps wondering if it’s a trick question, Ezekiel deflects with his answer: ‘O Lord God, you know.’
Psalm 130 begins in a similar place: ‘Out of the depths have I cried to you, O Lord.’ This is not a polite prayer. This is prayer scraped out of despair.
And in John’s Gospel, we meet a grieving household. Lazarus is dead. Martha and Mary speak words edged with sorrow and accusation: ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.’
All three readings begin where Lent often finds us. Not triumphant, not resolved, but aware of dryness, distance and death.
Life is given
The valley in Ezekiel is not simply a battlefield; it is a metaphor for a nation in exile. Israel has lost its way, its land, Temple, king and security. The people say: ‘Our bones are dried up and our hope is lost.’ This is communal despair. It is the feeling that the future has been sealed shut.
God does not offer Ezekiel explanation. He gives him a strange task: ‘Prophesy to these bones.’ Speak to what appears lifeless. Announce breath where there is none.
But he does it anyway and as Ezekiel speaks, there is first a rattling. Bone comes to bone. Sinews and flesh appear. And still there is no breath. Structure alone is not life. Only when the breath – the ruach, the Spirit – enters do they stand, ‘a vast multitude.’ We could have been singing “dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones” today if it were in our hymn book.
The Hebrew word ‘ruach’ means breath, wind, spirit. It is the same breath that hovered over the waters in Genesis. The same breath breathed into the human’s nostrils in the Garden of Eden. Life is not manufactured; it is given.
Waiting in trust
Psalm 130 echoes that same waiting for breath. ‘I wait for the Lord; my soul waits; in his word is my hope.’ The psalmist does not deny the depths. He stands in them. But he waits. ‘More than the night-watch for the morning.’ The watchman cannot force the sunrise. He waits in trust that light will come.
Delay
Then we come to Bethany.
John tells us that Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. And yet he delays. That delay is one of the most painful details in the story. Jesus hears that his friend is ill, and yet he stays two days longer. By the time he arrives, Lazarus has been in the tomb four days. There is no ambiguity. This is not resuscitation. This is death.
Martha goes out to meet him. Her faith is bold but bruised: ‘I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.’ She believes in the future promise. Jesus responds with words that stand at the heart of Christian hope: ‘I AM the resurrection and the life.’ Not merely a teacher about resurrection. Not merely a prophet pointing ahead. ‘I AM.’
Tears
Mary comes weeping. The mourners weep. And then we are given the shortest verse in Scripture: ‘Jesus wept.’
Before he raises Lazarus, Jesus enters fully into grief. He does not dismiss it. He does not spiritualise it. He stands before the tomb and weeps.
This is important. Because sometimes we treat resurrection as a denial of sorrow. As though faith requires emotional denial. But here, resurrection passes through tears.
Communal work
When Jesus commands the stone to be taken away, Martha hesitates. ‘Lord, already there is a stench.’ Death has done its work. The situation is beyond repair. And yet Jesus calls: ‘Lazarus, come out!’ And the dead man comes out, bound in grave-cloths.
Notice something subtle but profound. Jesus raises Lazarus – but he tells the community to unbind him. ‘Unbind him and let him go.’ Resurrection is a divine gift but freedom is communal work.
Breath
So, what holds these three readings together? The answer is: breath, voice, waiting – and the God who calls at graves.
In Ezekiel, God does not simply comfort Israel in exile. He promises to open graves: ‘I will open your graves and bring you up from your graves, O my people.’ The valley of bones becomes a vision of national resurrection.
In Psalm 130, hope is rooted in God’s character: ‘With the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is plenteous redemption.’ The psalmist waits because he trusts who God is.
In John 11, resurrection is no longer only a national metaphor or a distant hope. It stands embodied in a person who weeps and calls the dead by name.
On the edge
The fifth Sunday of Lent stands on the edge of Holy Week. We are close enough to touch the cross. The raising of Lazarus is both promise and provocation. We’re told that it is the sign that pushes the authorities toward crucifixion. Life given to Lazarus will cost Jesus his own.
There is also a realism in this story. Lazarus will die again. This is not final resurrection. It is a sign, a foretaste. A declaration that death does not have the final word.
Where, then, do these readings meet us?
Naming places
Some of us know the valley of dry bones personally. Faith once vibrant now feels brittle. Prayer feels like speaking into emptiness. We ask ourselves: ‘Can these bones live?
Some of us know the depths of Psalm 130. Regret. Guilt. Waiting for forgiveness we are not sure that we deserve.
Some of us stand outside tombs – grieving, disappointed, confused by God’s delay. ‘Lord, if you had been here…’
Lent does not rush us past these places. It names them. But it also insists that dryness is not the end of the story. The Spirit still breathes. The watchman still waits for morning. The voice still calls the dead by name.
Words matter
Perhaps the most challenging part of these readings is that God works through speech. Ezekiel must prophesy. The psalmist must cry out. Jesus must call.
Words matter. In a culture saturated with noise, Lent asks us to attend to the Word that gives life. The Word that calls bones together. The Word that calls Lazarus out.
And there is something else. In all 3 readings, hope is communal. The bones become ‘a vast multitude.’ The psalmist calls the nation of Israel to hope. Lazarus emerges into a crowd that must unbind him. Resurrection is not a private spiritual experience. It is God restoring a people.
Death is not ultimate
As we move toward Holy Week, we know something that Martha did not yet know. The one who stands before Lazarus’ tomb will soon lie in his own. The voice that calls the dead will fall silent. The breath that gives life will be given up. And yet, on the third day, the breath will return.
Ezekiel’s valley anticipates Easter morning. Psalm 130 anticipates Easter dawn. Lazarus’s rising anticipates the empty tomb. But today, on this Fifth Sunday of Lent, we are not quite there yet. Still waiting. Still listening.
Perhaps the invitation is to stand just where we find ourselves and say with Ezekiel, ‘O Lord God, you know.’ To pray with the psalmist, ‘My soul waits.’ To trust with Martha, even through tears.
And perhaps also to hear Jesus speak our own names. Because resurrection in John’s Gospel is not just some theory. It is personal. It is named. ‘Lazarus, come out.’
The promise of these readings is not that death is unreal, but rather that death is not ultimate. The Spirit still moves over valleys. The morning still comes to those who watch. The stone is not the final word.
And even now, even in Lent, we can hear the quiet but unshakeable promise: ‘I AM the resurrection and the life.’ Amen.
‘The Breath of God’ was delivered by Ian Banks at Christ Church Walmersley on Sunday, 22nd March 2026. It was based on Ezekiel 37:1–14, Psalm 130 and John 11:1–45.