And so Ezekiel prophesies. The sand of that dry valley becomes his bema. The dry bones become his congregation, and to his amazement, his sermon causes quite a stir. There is a noise like a truckload of dredels going over a Tallahassee speed bump. A rattling and a clattering and a coming together of bones, and before Ezekiel knows it, he’s got--what? A bunch of bodies all lined up in neat rows, listening politely and showing no sign whatsoever of any life. In short, my friends, Ezekiel has a valley full of Presbyterians.

“What do I do with these?” Ezekiel wants to know. “They look good. They’re certainly well mannered, but they haven’t got any life in them. What’s next?”

“Keep preaching,” The LORD tells him.

Then he said to me, “Prophesy to the breath, prophe…