Can These Bones Live Again

It is hard not to feel the pain of this place. It is hard not to be consumed by the death and destruction that seems pervasive. When I was in Israel eight months ago, the IDF had not yet entered Gaza. The country was still in shock. We knew so little compared to what we know now. Even with some hostages returned, the war rages on. On Tuesday, while I stood at the Nova Music Festival site just a mile from the Gaza border, the sound of shelling was a stark reminder that the war was ongoing. Today’s drone attack in Tel Aviv, killing one man and injuring ten others, further underscored this painful truth. Even more personal was my visit to Kibbutz Nirim, where Deborah’s family was kidnapped, killed, and their homes burned.

In one of the homes, Deborah’s cousin Ravid Arie Katz’s house, a photo of its former inhabitants stands by the doorway—like many other homes in Nirim, where the pictures of those who once lived there remain. These reminders of life in the midst of death and destruction bring to mind the vision of the prophet Ezekiel, who was led by God into a valley of dry bones. Ezekiel’s vision begins with God setting him in a valley filled with bones—bones that were many and very dry. God then asks, “Mortal, can these bones live again?” Ezekiel, like many of us when faced with the impossible, responds, “O Sovereign God, only You know.”

As I walked through the burnt-out homes and around a kibbutz once thriving with 380 to 400 members, now reduced to only three people, Ezekiel’s words echoed powerfully. God commanded Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones, promising, “I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live again.” Ezekiel obeyed, and the bones assembled, grew sinews and flesh, but they lacked breath. God then instructed him to call upon the four winds: “Come, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.” The breath entered them, and they stood, a vast multitude—reminding us that life, even when reduced to bones, can be restored.

The vision of the dry bones parallels human creation in Genesis, where God formed a body from dust and breathed life into it. God later explains that the bones represent the exiled Israelites, who feel cut off and hopeless. Yet, unlike Ezekiel’s vision where dry bones symbolize despair, Israel today is filled with life and hope, even amidst its suffering. God’s promise to the exiles—”I will open your graves and bring you back to Israel”—reminds us that renewal is always possible.

Two final images illustrate this message of hope. The first is Kibbutz Nirim, where, despite tragedy, trees, flowers, and gardens persist. Members have recently returned to swim in the pool—a symbol of life reclaiming its place. The second image is the new National Library of Israel. Within it are two identical doors—one leads to a small synagogue, the other to a prayer space for Muslims and Christians. This simple architectural choice represents the possibility of coexistence and harmony. Even in the face of profound loss and violence, there remains a vision of peace and equality that sustains hope.

These reminders of shared humanity, of life and renewal, give me hope. They speak to a future where life, not destruction, prevails, and where the dreams of Ezekiel and generations of prophets find fulfillment in a land of peace.