Tag: Lent

Sermon on Jeremiah 31

Fifth Sunday in Lent, Given March 21, 2021

Reading: Jeremiah 31:31-34

Today’s reading from Jeremiah contains some of the most comforting language to be found in the Bible: “I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.” It’s a passage in which God reaffirms deep and ongoing relationship with God’s people. This relationship is not one of stoic or distant observation, but rather, a promise etched on the hearts of God’s chosen ones, never to be taken away.

The passage is beautiful on its own, but it leaves me wondering about the context. Just looking at it here, it makes me think that this is the conclusion to a story; maybe it’s the summary after a long journey.

I find myself asking: What is happening here? Why does God need to make a new covenant now? And is it relevant to us today?

To begin to answer these questions, it’s helpful to enter the historical moment:[1]

The year was 627 BCE and the people of Judah were finally feeling hopeful again. Years of threats from the militant Assyrians were finally passed, and the Assyrian Empire was beginning to crumble. King Josiah was on the throne, and he promised to build back better. He wanted to restore things to the glory days of King David and Solomon, and first on the list was getting people back together for worship at the Jerusalem Temple.

You see, years of hardship and threats of war meant that the people were no longer participating in worship services at their central sanctuary. Instead, if they were participating in religious life at all, they were doing so in their own homes or in small, local gatherings. It felt like they were only connected by a thread to their religious community. If they were alive today, maybe they would be worshipping on Zoom.

So, when King Josiah announced that they should worship again in the recently-renovated Jerusalem Temple, I imagine many were thrilled. “At last,” they must have thought, “we are worshipping God the right way. At last, things are getting back to normal.”

But Josiah’s plans fell apart almost immediately. In 609, he was killed by Egyptians during battle. By 597 BCE, his people, the Judeans, were being rounded up, torn from their land, and exiled as enslaved peoples and refugees to the great Empire of Babylon.

Their hopes were dashed. Far removed from the sanctuary yet again, they deeply grieved their loss. “Where is God?” they asked. “Who will save us?” They sang songs of mourning, like this one:

By the waters, the waters of Babylon. We lay down and wept, and wept, for thee Zion. We remember, we remember, we remember thee Zion.

—

Here’s the interesting thing: God’s new covenant is declared by the prophet Jeremiah before the exile begins. It is made in practically the same breath as destruction is foretold. We see that this is not a context in which everything is sorted out, but one in which everything is still up in the air…

The new covenant God makes with God’s beloved people isn’t the conclusion to the story at all. Instead, it is made in the very midst of a people’s confusion, anger, and grief.

 It is made in that middle place between fear and hope. That place that keeps you up at night wondering what will happen next. In the context of the prophecy’s storyline,it is made in the nerve-wracking moment before the people allow themselves to anticipate a better future, and before their hardship is over.

—

            Like the Judeans, we are a people on the brink of hope. After months of hardship, we have finally started to believe that things will be back to normal soon. The vestry has been discussing how to safely reopen the sanctuary. Many in the congregation, including myself, are antsy for outdoor services. I’ve heard more than one person describe the Eucharist so graphically you’d think they were describing some kind of decadent dessert.

We just want to make all the baggage of the past year go away, and to slip back into the joys of our old life. We want to be able to worship God the way we were always supposed to, with the creature comforts of liturgy and a familiar worship space.

            But what we may not fully realize is that we’re still in the middle of things. The effects of Covid-19 are long term. The grief of death persists, and there have been profound economic consequences that put many families at risk. The evil of white supremacy still acts in the world, just this week with the murder of eight people in Georgia, primarily women of Asian descent.

We recognize that we are collectively a people of exile. Physically and psychologically, what we have endured marks us as survivors. Like the Judeans, we will eventually go back to pick up the pieces of our old lives, but we will be forced to confront the rubble, and the scars. We will be forced to internalize that the idealized world we remembered in our songs of mourning is not the same one we will re-enter.

This will not be easy. It may leave us just as shaken as we were last March when the world shut down. It may leave us raw with rage. It may bring us to our knees with grief. And we may feel as though God’s promise to be with us has been broken.

But Jeremiah reminds us that God never broke God’s promises. No, God compassionately responded to upheaval, accompanied these beloved ones on the journey into unknown territory, and even made a new covenant. And this one wasn’t tied to only one way of knowing God or one way of worshipping. It wasn’t dependent on whether or not the sanctuary was open.

Through Christ, God’s covenant to Israel has been written on our hearts, buried down deep. The hardship we face today, the anticipation for the future, and the trials we will inevitably face throughout the course of our lives are never faced alone.

The days are surely coming when we will touch hands as we pass the peace, sing together in harmony, and shout for joy in the sanctuary. The days are surely coming when we will participate in the beautiful, holy mysteries of the Eucharist. This is cause for joyful anticipation!

But, since God’s new covenant is affirmed in the very middle of our fear and hope, let us not forget to cherish what is here in front of us, now. Among the swift and varied changes of the world, we know that we are already the hands and feet of Christ, with a heart full of God’s love. We know that our hearts are fixed in the embrace of God, who turns our mourning into dancing, and responds to our human need with intimate understanding. In the middle of things, let us hope, and let us grieve, knowing that God accompanies us on our way.

[1] Harper Collins Study Bible

I was asked to do the homily for March 3rd’s evening service at the church I attend here in Charlottesville. Now that it’s done (and I managed not to faint or run away from the podium), I thought I’d share it here. 

Readings: Exodus 3:1-15, Luke 13:1-9

In today’s biblical texts, we can trace a clear progression. It has to do with human responsibility. But it’s not an obligation we place on ourselves. It’s one God has compelled us toward since his first meeting with Moses in the burning bush and maybe even before.

It’s a responsibility to personal growth that turns to action.

The Exodus passage begins with Moses going about his daily tasks. In the Old Testament’s typically understated fashion, the text tells us that Moses is suddenly quite curious about a burning bush that is not consumed: “I must turn aside and look at this great sight.”

The commentary in the New Oxford Annotated Bible notes that the motif of Divine Fire is common in this period and that it: “arouses dread, for divine holiness is experienced as a mysterious power that threatens human existence.”

So we can assume that Moses approaches with some understanding of what he’s seeing. When God tells him, “You will set your people free,” he doesn’t need to waste time figuring out if it’s God; he doesn’t doubt. He knows.

And he is so in awe of the Divine that he is afraid to look at God.

Though many of us have heard this passage before, it struck me this time in that it shows an incredible measure of trust on God’s part. Though he has seen the pain and struggle of his people himself, though he has the power to show himself in a bush that isn’t consumed, he tells Moses that HE will do it. God, knowing that perhaps he is unsuitable to act as liaison to Pharaoh considering a general “DREAD” of the Divine, in a sense needs a human to implement his plan. And Moses doesn’t seem to be a random choice. He is the right person for the job.

The first step we take in living within God’s will is one we don’t take at all. It’s an acceptance to let the blazing fire – the passion – of God be kindled in us and the moral diligence to not let it be consumed by doubt, apathy, worry, or self absorption. It’s also the confidence that this passion will lead us forward in ways that suit us, even if not in ways that make us feel comfortable.

And that brings us to Luke.

In the first part of chapter 13, Jesus addresses our human tendency to turn a blind eye to those we perceive as the Other. He confronts a bias born of privilege, one that states that My life is good because I’m a good person and gets reiterated every time someone other than us or our loved ones suffer.

Jesus extends the work of his father in Exodus, who insisted that mere humans feel the passion of his people’s pain and DO SOMETHING about it. He says, “unless you repent you will all perish as they did.”

You’re not better. You’re not more righteous. You got out for now, but you have to do something with that.

His parable ties it all together. God expects great things from us, but we’re just as led astray as a sterile fig tree. Jesus comes to us with grace. He gives us a second chance. He opens our eyes by coming not in the form of a burning bush that makes us turn away, but in the recognizable, comforting form of our own species. It had become clear that we were too consumed in fear to be consumed in God’s loving justice, so God became one of us to show us we could succeed. We see Christ and his mission and we don’t have to turn away – we can embrace it.

God came first with passion, with fury and movement and an impatient drive to protect his people. And he let one of us in. He gave us the power to do something and the motivation to do it. But, just like the disciples and Jesus’ listening crowds, we got lost again in our own concerns. And we saw suffering and only felt lucky not to be suffering, too. And we repeat the cycle daily.

But we aren’t better. We aren’t better because we’re Americans or Episcopalians or Liberals or Conservatives or Charlottesvillians or UVA students. We see suffering and do nothing. We aggressively consume products presented to us through slave labor – we ignore the bullying, prejudice, and apathy in our own communities and in our own hearts – and we consume ourselves in the process of curating and collecting things and experiences, gluttons to our wants. And we think it’s ok because we’ve told ourselves other people are worse than us. All the while, the burning fire God presented us with is burning out.

We know through today’s texts that we are no better than anyone else. We all come to this life as equals in both merit and guilt. We need this humility to see suffering and empathize with it. We also learn through Moses that God shows us suffering in the places where we have influence, where we can take action.

For instance, our lives as consumers have the power to change or destroy lives. Human beings – people like us – suffer long hours, poor wages, and poor working conditions in the futile attempt to make ends meet at the hands of American corporations fueled by American consumers. Instead of feeling lucky to be here, we should recognize that we aren’t better, that we are the same. And once that hits us, we should realize that WE have the collective power – and the moral obligation through the Bible’s teachings – to make changes to set the suffering free. We can only liberate ourselves when we liberate others.

If we shut down from the important moral responsibilities laid out before us, we deserve to perish. But we’re given a second chance because Jesus believes in us, believes that with a little prodding, we can bear fruit again, and stands by us as we turn away, as we deflate our egos, as we press on to equality and progress.

As Christians, we are tasked to do something with the fire of God in front of us, and through Christ, we can face it head-on and not turn away. We are commanded to “turn aside [from the things that distract us] and look at this great sight” of suffering on earth and change our habits, our minds, our hearts. To set the slaves of unethical values, consumption, trafficking, patriarchy, hatred, and false conceptions of God free. We can only do that if we see that we are all the same, and that God is with us as we move toward equality under the banner of Christ’s grace and love.

I encourage you to assess your values and priorities during the remainder of the Lenten season and to make positive, visible, DIFFICULT changes in your own life.

Image source: Illustration from the 1897 Bible Pictures and What They Teach Us