Rethinking Ezekiel 37 in Light of Torat Edom
The Valley of Dry Bones in Ezekiel 37 is one of the most powerful eschatological images in the biblical canon. In the aftermath of catastrophe—bones scattered, hope extinguished—God commands the prophet to speak, and breath returns to the lifeless. For many, particularly in the 20th century, this vision became a central text for modern Zionism. The Holocaust left a valley of bones; the State of Israel seemed like the resurrection. Yet this reading, while emotionally potent, risks missing the deeper covenantal thrust of Ezekiel’s prophetic sequence—and in doing so, risks falling into the very pattern the prophecy warns against.
To understand Ezekiel 37 properly, we must read it within its immediate context. Ezekiel 35 is a judgment oracle against Mount Seir—Edom. Edom is condemned for its ancient enmity and for seeking to possess the land of Israel in the day of her calamity: “Because you said, ‘These two nations and these two lands will be mine, and we will possess them,’ although the Lord was there…” (Ezekiel 35:10). This is a powerful charge. Edom is not just guilty of cruelty—it is guilty of trying to inherit what was never covenantally its own. The land was holy not because of its soil but because of the presence of the Lord.
This brings us to a key corrective: the modern focus on the Holy Land—as though it possesses an inherent sanctity detached from covenantal obedience—is, from a prophetic perspective, deeply flawed. The land is only holy insofar as God’s Spirit and Name dwell there. When Israel defiled the land, God’s glory departed (Ezekiel 10–11), and the land itself expelled them (Leviticus 18:28). To focus solely on the land as a political possession or a symbolic homeland, without reference to the divine Presence, is to commit the Edomite error: assuming one can inherit without covenant, possess without purity, dwell without divine breath.
Ezekiel 37 answers this distortion. The bones are not just exiles returning to territory—they are a people reborn by the Spirit. The climax is not the national flag, but the divine indwelling: “I will put My Spirit in you, and you shall live, and I will place you in your own land” (Ezekiel 37:14). The order matters. Spirit precedes land. Covenant precedes inheritance.
This reading also reframes Edom. Often cast as the eternal enemy, Edom becomes more complex when viewed through the lens of Torat Edom. The problem with Edom is not merely ethnic or political—it is theological. Edom imitates Israel while bypassing covenant. Yet the aggadic tradition offers a surprising nuance: at Isaac’s funeral, the head of Esau is buried with the patriarchs. While the rest of his body is cast away, his rosh—his head—is honored. This suggests a partial reconciliation, a redemptive potential buried deep within Edom. The Talmud (Sotah 13a) preserves this memory as if to say: Edom is not beyond hope. The brother may be healed. But only the part aligned with the fathers—with Isaac, with repentance—enters the tomb.
When applied to modern Zionism, this dual image becomes a mirror. The dry bones vision offers hope—but not carte blanche. The resurrection of Israel must be spiritual, covenantal, and humble, not triumphalist or possessive. And Edom—whether in the form of religious imperialism, Christian abstraction, or Jewish nationalism devoid of the Spirit—is invited to repentance. The head can still be buried with Isaac. But the body of empire and pride must fall away.
Torat Edom thus reframes Ezekiel 35–37 not as a simplistic nationalism, but as a profound call to covenantal restoration. It is a warning to Edom, a mercy to Israel, and a promise to the nations. The land may be holy, but only if the people are set apart. Bones may rise, but only if they breathe the breath of God.
