A Box of Bones
My body will become a box of bones. Your body will become a box of bones. Who wants to look at a box of bones? Raised in a society which values 'every new thing', we may look at the hymnal tucked into its rack behind the next pew as a little musical mausoleum. Perhaps you have a newer edition with some choruses thrown in. Even these, codified, indexed and proper, seem to lose the sheen in the eyes, bound forever to a spineful of dead hymns from a bygone age.
Where, then, are the pages of life? Look to the black Manhasset music stands of the worship team. There you will find them – dog-eared sheets clinging to life by virtue of the power of current, audible music and a young society that sings them fervently. These songs live on individual sheets of copy paper, easily obtained and easily tossed. They stand and breathe by themselves, green and vigorous in their moments in the sun.
But one quiet afternoon an adventurous young musician, curious, visits the wooden pew rack and lifts the creaky gate-latch of the musical cemetery, perhaps thinking of a grandparent's hymn that she can't quite remember. She wanders among the headstones and fallen leaves, spotting some familiar names and numbers – 249, 518, 67. She notes, "Hmm... some of these writers died a hundred years before their poem was put to song." Not finding grandma's grave, she tries out the melodies of some of the others. Her soft voice floods an empty sanctuary with pale golden light.
Breath brings life. The bones of Hymn 237 quiver, begin to rattle, rejoin one another, stand up, take muscle and flesh and consciousness. With excitement she copies the resurrected song for worship team on Tuesday. The guitarist doesn't read notes, but struggles through some chording: "this is beautiful – where did you find it?"
They has discovered what Ezekiel 37 is about.
All that is needed for resurrection is one willing to breathe life into another.