One notable trait of Old Testament prophets: a resistance to their calling. They never seem to race to the “Now Hiring Prophets” booth at the holy job fair and beg, “Please, please let me be the super weirdo around town who performs bizarre acts, makes people uncomfortable, and delivers mostly terrible news.” Case in point: When Moses is tapped to talk to Pharaoh about the future, he stutters that he’s not cut out for public speaking. When Jeremiah discovers that God ordained him to be a prophet in the womb, he argues that he’s far too young. And when Isaiah receives his assignment, he protests, essentially whining, “But how long do I have to do this?”
Ezekiel is no exception.
During the first wave of attacks on Jerusalem led by Nebuchadnezzar in 597 BCE, Ezekiel, among a slew of other Jewish prisoners, is kidnapped and imprisoned in a refugee camp. Five years later, still stuck in the squalor, Ezekiel turns thirty. The day called for an epic celebration surrounding his installation as a priest to serve in the temple, but it turns out to be a birthday to forget.
Amid disappointment, the Spirit ignites Ezekiel’s imagination with images of storm clouds, mysterious creatures, and spinning wheels within wheels—conveying that God’s presence isn’t limited to the ark of the covenant: God lives in a mobile home, or rather, a mobile throne.
When Ezekiel drops face down, the Spirit lifts him to his feet and appoints him as a holy mouthpiece. The Spirit warns him not to get his hopes up, for most days his words will fall on deaf ears. The prophet soon feels the deep distress of his calling.
Ezekiel uses everything from spoken words to street theater to garner the people’s attention and deliver the Spirit’s messages. He builds a model of Jerusalem and stages an attack. He shaves off his hair and dices it with a sword like he’s a theatrical chef at a hibachi restaurant. He plays the role of the fuzzy scape-goat on the Day of Atonement. He even lies on his side eating food that tastes like smoked dung for a full year as a sign of what’s to come. Talk about a crappy meal.
All the prophet’s warnings come true. Jerusalem falls. The temple everyone hoped to return to is destroyed. The false prophets are purged. In the wake of the catastrophe and chaos, it looks like all is lost. But, as we have learned from the Spirit hovering over chaotic waters, that’s when the Spirit of God does something surprising and delightful.
Though God may have abandoned his temple, he hasn’t abandoned his people. There’s a future beyond captivity and a hope for Israel, for all nations, and even for all of creation. A new king will rise who will be like no other.
The Spirit of the Living God rekindles hope among a discouraged Israel, lifts Ezekiel through a vision, and plops him down in a bone-strewn valley. The landscape likely makes Ezekiel queasy, as these are human bones and touching them serves as a fast pass to becoming unclean. Skulls and scapulas. Vertebrae and ribs. Femurs and phalanges. Shoulder blades and tailbones as far as the eye can see.
“Can these bones live?” the Lord asks.
Unsure of how to respond, Ezekiel confesses, “Only God knows.” I suspect the Lord takes pleasure in the prophet’s humble response, because he invites Ezekiel into the process of speaking life into this graveyard. Ezekiel closes his eyes and prophesies. Not once, but twice, the Lord declares to the bones that when ruach is in you, then you will come to life. The gripping scene continues:
And as I was prophesying, there was a noise, a rattling sound, and the bones came together, bone to bone. I looked, and tendons and flesh appeared on them and skin covered them, but there was no ruach in them.
To envision this, lean in and listen. Barely a shadow can be made out in the near pitch darkness. Ezekiel paces through the bone-strewn alley, following the Lord across the valley floor. The dry, white, sun-bleached skeletons are the only objects bright enough to reflect the dim light. The Lord commands The Spirit of the Living God rekindles hope among a discouraged Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones. Ezekiel doesn’t flinch; he simply obeys. The guttural syllables echoing off the surrounding hills are soon joined by a soft rustle that grows into a steady shuffling—before, behind, all around Ezekiel.
Close your eyes and listen as the words are punctuated by the bang of hard objects clacking against one another. Ezekiel’s words are drowned out as the constant rattle rises to a raucous clamor. “Then you will know that I am the Lord,” Ezekiel pronounces into the storm of noise. He looks on as the valley fills with thwacking—no, snapping—as if tens of thousands of workers are slapping mortar on bricks throughout the valley. Then, a mysterious rush like tens of thousands of tent lashes being tightened in a camp. Next, dead silence. Before Ezekiel’s eyes, these thwacking and stretching tendons and flesh appear on the assembled bones. The sequence is no accident.
Anyone who has witnessed the slaughter of an animal, whether in antiquity or today, understands this order is the reversal of the decomposition process.
It’s as if God has hit the rewind button, not in an instant but in phases—a reminder that coming back to life takes time. Whether it takes three days or fifty days or four hundred years, you can’t rush a resurrection—let alone predict how long it will take. The prophet stands before the dead bones and observes, “There was no ruach in them.”
The Lord commands Ezekiel:
“Prophesy to the ruach; prophesy, son of man, and say to it, ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Come, ruach, from the four ruach and ruach into these slain, that they may live.’ ” So I prophesied as he commanded me, and ruach entered them; they came to life and stood up on their feet—a vast army.
Ezekiel obeys and the Spirit breathes life. Diaphragms rise and descend. Coughs release at the flood of oxygen. Gleaming sparkles light up eyes. Fingers and toes wiggle. Torsos rise. Imagine smiles sweeping across faces. Gusty laughter breaking free.
Through this vision, the Spirit reveals to the prophet and to us that life comes from the Spirit and is also restored by the Spirit. Beyond the veil of impossibility, the Spirit breathes life into barren places and resurrects hope from the ashes. Even in the darkest nights, the work of ruach continues, weaving threads of redemption into the fabric of existence. Not even death can halt the purposes of God.
Excerpted with permission from The God You Need To Know, By Margaret Feinberg. Copyright 2025, Zondervan.
Photo Credit: ©iStock/Getty Images Plus/BartekSzewczyk
