It's a story of hope, of revival, and a reminder that even in the darkest valleys, life can spring anew.
Rabbi Joshua ben Ḳorchah, a sage whose words echo through time, paints a vivid picture. He describes the scene: a valley filled with bones, seemingly lifeless. But then, a miraculous dew descends from the heavens, a dew of quickening, like a bubbling fountain. This dew, this life-giving force, sets in motion an incredible transformation.
And what happens next? As Ezekiel prophesizes, as we read in Ezekiel 37:8, the bones begin to move, to knit together. Flesh appears, then sinews, and finally skin covers them. It's a step-by-step process, a powerful illustration of gradual restoration. It’s not instantaneous, but it is inevitable.
Then comes the breath. God commands Ezekiel to prophesy to the wind, to call forth the breath from the four corners of the earth: "Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live" (Ezek. 37:9). And in that very hour, the text tells us, the four winds rush forth. They unlock the treasure-house of souls, and each spirit returns to its corresponding body. What was once a valley of death now teems with life, becoming, as Ezekiel 37:10 says, "an exceeding great army."
This image of resurrection, of countless individuals rising from the dust, is then connected to the story of the Exodus from Egypt. The text draws a parallel between the vast multitude of Israelites who left Egypt – "And the children of Israel were fruitful,… and waxed exceeding mighty" (Ex. 1:7) – and this resurrected army. The exceeding nature of the Exodus mirrors the exceeding greatness of the resurrected.
But here's where the story takes a surprising turn. Among this multitude, one man remains unrisen. Just one. He is left lying in the dust. Why? Because, as the text reveals, he was a usurer, someone who profited from lending money at interest. "As I live," God declares, "he shall not live."
Can you imagine the Israelites' despair? They had hoped for light, but darkness seemed to prevail. They longed to stand with all Israel in the resurrection, but now their hope was lost. “Our hope is lost,” they lament, echoing Ezekiel 37:11. “We are clean cut off.” They had tasted freedom, but were left wanting.
But the story doesn't end there. It wouldn't be a Jewish story if it did, would it? The Holy One, blessed be He, responds to their despair with a powerful promise. He reassures them that, "As I live, I will cause you to stand at the resurrection of the dead in the future that is to come, and I will gather you with all Israel to the land" (Ezek. 37:12).
God promises to open their graves, to bring them up from the depths, and to bring them back to the land of Israel. "And I will put my spirit in you, and ye shall live" (Ezek. 37:14). This is a promise of ultimate redemption, of complete restoration, of a future filled with life and hope.
So, what can we take away from this ancient story? Perhaps it's a reminder that even when we feel like we're surrounded by dry bones, even when hope seems lost, the potential for resurrection, for renewal, is always there. The ruach (רוּחַ), the spirit of God, can breathe life into the most desolate places. And perhaps, too, it's a call to examine our own actions, to ensure that we are living lives worthy of that ultimate redemption. What do you think?