On Jeremiah 31:7–9. At Advent Lutheran Church, Tuscarora, PA.
The prophet Jeremiah was the most outspoke critic of the way of life in ancient Israel. A prophet’s job is to see the world the way that God sees it. And so while it was clear to Jeremiah what the potential of God’s people truly was—what wonderful, holy joy they could bring to the world—it was also clear how far short reality fell. Instead of living in God’s love, people were exclusionary, selfish, gripped by fear and hatred, behaving in ways that harmed and oppressed others in order to protect themselves. In everything he said and did, Jeremiah warned that any nation lacking in compassion and justice and mercy would soon find itself in desperate need of compassion and justice and mercy, and there would be none to be found. But the people of ancient Judah didn’t listen, so when the Babylonian army arrived at Jerusalem’s door, they found a weak capitol city with an ineffective king, and soon Jerusalem was destroyed.
If I were Jeremiah, I think my response would be to say, “I told you so.” Which is perhaps why I am not a prophet. For most of his book, Jeremiah seems to never have anything nice to say. But after the prophet of destruction sees his words come true, he brings a new message to the people of Israel, the one we hear today in our Old Testament reading. “Sing aloud with gladness for Jacob, and raise shouts for the chief of the nations.” The people of Israel were hardly the chief of the nations; they were a tiny, backwater people, practically forgotten by the movements of the world stage.
But Jeremiah says that they have not been forgotten—at least, not by God. He tells the people to call out to God with praise, and ask him to “Save, O Lord, your people, the remnant of Israel.” Save the handful of us who are left over.
But before they can even open their mouths to ask, God speaks. “See, I am going to bring them from the land of [Babylon in] the north, and gather them [even] from the farthest parts of the earth—the blind and the lame, those with child and in labor, a great company.” Not a tiny handful of a remnant, but a great crowd.
Jeremiah dies before he gets to see this new prophecy fulfilled, but it is indeed fulfilled. Babylonia is defeated by the Persian Empire, and the new emperor sends the Israelites home. When they arrive in Jerusalem—it would be too generous to say they find the ruins of their old city. The devastation is severe. As they begin building, the oldest people of the community, those who remember what Jerusalem once was, are found crying, for they know that things will never be like they were.
And they are not. Israel is never under its own power again. In biblical times, the Persians are traded for the Greeks, who are traded for the Romans, who eventually drive the Israelite people out of their own home again. And yet that same nation, its people and its ideas, gives rise to the largest cultural and spiritual movements in the history of the world, in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. And while Israel never found itself free from foreign power, it did make itself—and all of us—free from the power of a greater enemy, death, in our connection with God incarnate in Jesus Christ. No, things will never be like they were. But God’s promise is to return us, not to what was, but to something even better.
I can barely believe that it has been over twenty years since I graduated from high school and headed off to college. I chose a small, obscure school in central Michigan, not because of its academic potential or the kind of job it might lead to, but because I had family nearby. A good reason, but the wrong one. It proved to exactly the wrong place for me, for a number of reasons—but primarily, I think, because it wasn’t able to provide the support I needed to grow into the independent adult I needed to be. And far more than any heady education, that really is what college should be. I should say that there were plenty of other students there who got what they needed; I just wasn’t one of them.
I had one particularly bad semester, where my grades just didn’t measure up, and I dropped out. A short while later, I decided to go back again, give it another try. This time, my failure was nearly complete, and that was that. My life was over. I was pretty low, then. I had to leave my hopes for the future, my friends, my life—and I had done it to myself. I didn’t really see a way of rebuilding. I of course knew that a degree wasn’t necessary to have a joyful and successful life. But after focusing so strongly on that expectation for my whole childhood, it was hard to see that. I felt like I had died.
But in Jesus, death always leads to resurrection. Rather than allowing me to just sit around the house feeling sorry for myself, my mother (who is here today) told me to try again. Well, that, or go get a job. I did both. The community college down in Reading was hardly my idea of a good replacement for an expensive, private four-year school. But it gave me something to do while I tried to make a pathetic income in the fabulous temporary employment industry. And I took to it well. It turned out to be better than a fancy four-year college, and a year later, after transferring some credits in, I finished my associate’s degree, and found the beginning of a career as a system’s administrator. By 2005, I’d finished a bachelor’s. In 2006, I moved to Chicago and begin studies to begin moving toward ministry. In 2010, with my master’s degree in tow, I was called to two congregations in Massachusetts. This year, I finished a second master’s degree at Princeton, and next year, I will be a professor of Old Testament, teaching other people studying for their Master’s degree to become pastors.
All this is never something I could have ever expected doing with my life. To be sure, it shows something of how wonderful I am to accomplish all this. But my first experience with college shows me that relying on my own strength of will and ambition, I will get absolutely nowhere. It is only through God, and God’s constant promise of renewal, that anything can happen at all. No, I will never be the theoretical physicist that I set out to be after high school graduation. Things will never be like they were. But God’s promise is to return us, not to what was, but to something even better.
This is our story. The foundational story of Christianity is also the story of our lives. Everyone has moments of despair—some more than others. Some people have relatively charmed existences. Others can’t seem to get a break. But the happiest life still has many times when things take a turn for the worse. And the most despairing of us still gets to glimpse the silver lining from time to time. This is why our faith is so important, so meaningful, so true. We each experience the constant cycle of brokenness and repair, of exile and return, of death and resurrection. And this truth is what is revealed to us—and promised to us—in Jesus Christ. Sometimes life brings us great pain. But if Jesus can triumph over even death, what can happen to us that he cannot defeat? Death is a reality of life. But God always turns even death into new life—not the life that was, but something even better.
That is the reason we celebrate the Reformation each year—the religious movement to renew Western Christianity that began 501 years ago. The experience of the Reformation—and while all Christians know this, we Lutherans are perhaps most aware—tore apart and devastated all of European society. You could easily call Martin Luther the most divisive character in our history. But the Reformation also led to rediscovery of the Gospel, the emergence of new churches as well as the inner renewal of the Catholic church, a flourishing of culture, and the idea of religious freedom that is fundamental to our democratic society. At the time of the Reformation, Catholics and Protestants alike were horrified at what was happening. It seemed like things would never be like they were. And of course not. But God’s promise is to return us, not to what was, but to something even better.
And that leads me to the elephant in the room. The one that must always be in this room. I cannot imagine what it is like to be part of a congregation this small. One that looks back to its life, say, fifty years ago, and sees what no doubt was a joyful vibrant church full of people and full of life. And now, those of you who remember what our view of Jerusalem from this congregation once was, are found crying, for you know that things will never be like they were. And I don’t want to give you false hope. They will not be like that again.
But I do, very strongly, want you to hear the prophecy of Jeremiah today as if it were spoken directly to you—and not just because that would be a nice thing, but because it is true. These are God’s words for you, his children at Advent Lutheran, both for your own personal lives, and for the future of your congregation. 25-hundred years before you could even cry out to God for help, God said this to you: See, I am going to bring them from the land to which they were taken, and gather them even from the furthest parts of the earth, among them the blind and the lame, those with child and those in labor, together; a great company, they shall return. With weeping they will come, and with consolations I will lead them back. I will let them walk by brooks of water, in a straight path in which they shall not stumble. Because I have become a father to you, and you are my firstborn.
It may take a lot of creativity and hope to see the future of your community. I might even suggest it will be reformed into something you cannot possibly imagine, something that won’t look like a church has ever looked before. No, things will never be like they were. But the Reformation of our Church and of our world is not 500 year-old history. It is happening today, it is not over yet, because it is founded in Jesus Christ, who is not dead, but is alive. And in Jesus, God’s promise is that he will indeed return us, both ourselves and our church, not to what was, but to something even better.