12/7/25 – Sermon Written and Preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

INTRODUCTION TO EZEKIEL 37:1–14

Last week, we heard Isaiah speak hope to a people frightened by the collapse of all they knew.
Today we step deeper into that history.

Jerusalem has fallen,

the people have been carried into exile,

and hope feels shattered.

Into this landscape of loss, God gives a vision to Ezekiel that insists the story is not over.
Let us listen for the Word that breathes life where life seems impossible.

INTRODUCTION TO THE GOSPEL — JOHN 11:25–26

We continue hearing the stories of the Hebrew Scriptures through the lens of John’s Gospel.

As God promised life to bones that were long dead,

Jesus now stands beside Martha at her brother’s tomb and speaks a promise stronger than grief. He says:

“I AM the resurrection and the life.”

Let us listen for how Christ’s abundant life meets us even in the places we fear are beyond hope.

ADVENT 2 SERMON — PREPARE

“Breath Enough for the Valley”

Ezekiel 37:1–14; John 11:25–26

When Harper was about four years old, he was staying with my mom and my stepdad, Ralph during an ice storm.

He and Ralph had bundled up, walked outside into the sleet, and built a small icy snowman.

It was the kind of wobbly creation that only a Louisiana child and a grandparent would have the patience, much less the desire to make.

But it came out pretty cute.

At some point, Ralph went back inside to get a hat for the snowman.

As he rounded a corner just out of sight, his feet slipped out from under him on the icy path.

He fell hard and sliced his head open.
He lost consciousness for a few seconds, then came to and stumbled inside.

My mom sat him down, trying to clean him up, trying to piece together what had happened, and realizing he didn’t quite know himself.

So she called me to come get Harper so they could head to the ER.

By the time I arrived, they were wiping away the last of the blood and getting ready to go.

I stepped through the door ready to just scoop Harper up and head out quickly so that he wouldn’t be too traumatized by it all and so they could be on their way to get Ralph help.

But before I could reach him, Harper’s scared little face lit up.

He ran—not to me, but to his Ralphie—and wrapped his arms around him.

And with all the confidence a four-year-old heart can hold, he said,

“It’s ok, Ralphie. It’s gonna be ok. Momma’s here now.”

In his little mind, my presence could still heal anything.

Momma could fix anything.

My presence made his own fear lose its sharp edges.

And he was sure I could offer that to his Ralphie.

He didn’t understand what had happened and he knew that he couldn’t make it right on his own...

But he knew someone he trusted to make the world less scary and less painful.

And in that turning, in that instinctive leaning toward presence,

he prepared a small but holy space for hope in his own heart.

I think these moments are what Scripture is referring to when it tells us that “a little child will lead us” or when it invites us to have the faith of a child….

And Advent invites us into that kind of faith and that kind of preparation:

Not the hurried preparation the world expects.
Not the endless lists or the pressure to perfect.

Advent preparation is quieter.

Gentler.
It is the clearing of a little room inside ourselves so breath can return.
We prepare by turning toward God with open hands and honest hearts.
Advent is when we lean into trust and say to God, “This mess is too big for me, but your presence can hold it and heal it.”

Ezekiel lived through the devastation of the Babylonian exile.

Jerusalem had fallen.
The temple lay in ruins.
Families had been carried off to Babylon.
Everything that once felt steady was gone.

The people repeated the same sentence to each other, like a psalm of despair: “Our bones are dried up. Our hope is lost. We are cut off.”

And Ezekiel felt it too.

He had been a priest-in-training for a temple that no longer existed.
His own calling had crumbled with the stones of Jerusalem.

So when God places Ezekiel in a valley of dry bones,

God is not showing him someone else’s catastrophe.
God is showing him the truth of where he is standing.
The valley is a mirror for him and his people.

Can these bones live?

It is a question that echoes through every age, every grief, every valley we walk.

Ezekiel cannot imagine how life could return,

but he makes one small opening for hope:

“O Lord God, you know.”

This is not certainty.

This is not a solution.

He has no idea how it might be possible,

but he makes just enough room to think that

maybe God could make these dry bones live again.

And into tiny window of hope, into that prepared room, God breathes.

Breath rattles the bones.
Breath knits sinews and flesh together.
Breath fills lungs that had long forgotten how to breathe.
Life stands again on feet that had grown used to the dust.

This is God’s way…

Life begins with breath.
Hope begins with breath.
Resurrection begins with breath.

We see it again John’s Gospel - in Bethany.

There is a house full of mourners,
a sister grieving her brother, and a tomb sealed against the world.

This is another valley.
Another moment when breath feels absent.

And Jesus stands right there, close enough to touch the grief in Martha.
Close enough to hear the tremble in her voice.
Close enough to feel the weight of death in the air around them.

And before anything changes,

before the stone rolls away,

before Lazarus steps into the light,

Jesus says,
“I am the resurrection and the life.”

This is not a promise about a distant someday.

It is a declaration of presence in that moment.
Life is here.
Hope is here.
Breath is here.
Christ is here.

And Martha, much like Ezekiel, makes a small but holy room for trust.

She cannot imagine how resurrection could come.
She cannot yet see what Jesus sees.
But she turns toward him and in doing so, she prepares just enough space for life to rise.

Advent is the season that teaches us to prepare that kind of space.

Not perfect space.
Not polished space.
Just honest space where God can breathe.

Sometimes preparation is a candle lit in a dark room.
Sometimes it is a whispered prayer.
Sometimes it is the steadying breath taken before facing another day.
Sometimes it is leaning toward someone we know who can hold what we cannot.
Sometimes it is the smallest turning toward God, a childlike trust that says, “It’s ok. I know you are here now.”

And so, as Advent walks us toward the Babe Born in Bethlehem,

let us return to this breath:

Breath that sweeps across the valley of bones.
Breath that warms the body of Lazarus.
Breath that fills the lungs of a newborn child.
Breath that echoes through prophets and angels and shepherds and seekers.
Breath that still moves, still stirs, still brings life to the places we fear are too far gone.

Advent and Christmas teach us that resurrection does not always begin with trumpets and fanfare.

Sometimes it begins as a breath so faint we almost miss it.
Sometimes it begins as a quiet stirring in a valley that has been dry for a long time.
Sometimes it begins with a child’s instinctive turn toward the presence that makes them feel safe.

This season invites us to trust that breath again.

To notice the movement of God gathering what has been scattered.
To feel life rising inside places we had given up on.
To recognize Christ beside us, speaking resurrection into our sorrow.

Today, as the Advent candles flicker their soft, determined light,

may we notice the breath of God moving in us, around us, and through us.
May we feel life stirring in places that once felt silent.
May we trust the Spirit who still knits bone to bone and calls us to stand.

Even the Christmas hymn reminds us that

before we can shout “Joy to the World”,

“every heart” must “prepare him room”.

Before heaven and nature sing,

we must invite the God who meets us with resurrection breath

to fill our lungs with courage

and make us ready for abundant life.

Amen.