18th Sunday after Pentecost Sermon

For many good, faithful Christians, the Old Testament in the Bible remains totally foreign ground. On your own, you’d never think to pick up your Bible and read from the Old Testament. When the first lesson is read on Sunday morning, you go into something of a trance and simply can’t hear it. There’s this kind of suspicion that the Old Testament is about the mean-old-grumpy god, while the New Testament is about sweet baby Jesus God.

But it needn’t be so. The Old Testament is really quite a fabulous collection of stories and wisdom. It’s an anthology of sorts, a kind of curated testimony of voices spanning centuries – all in pursuit of the elemental human need to know: Who are you, God? And what does it mean for us to be human in this world we inhabit.

So if you’re unfamiliar with the basic narrative arc of the Old Testament, here it is in a nutshell:

• It begins with God creating everything – and its affirmation that God is the God of all creation

• Then God picks one tribe, the Israelites, and enters into a special relationship with them – with the intention that they would become something of a showpiece or template for all people eventually to be drawn into.

• Part of that special relationship is their agreement to follow the Law God gives them – that this law would be the basis for an ideal society – both the way they live in relationship with God, and with one another. It’s filled with specific instructions for worship and how to create a just society that particularly safeguards the poor from being exploited.

• And God gives them a place to call home – the land we know as Israel. But, in the law, it’s really clear: If you don’t follow the law – if you’re not faithful in loving me and loving your neighbor – you will eventually lose this land. It will be a punishment. No doubt. But even if (and when) this happens, that won’t be the end of it. I will be still be your God. You will be my people. And there will yet be a future and a hope.

And that failure and that consequence are exactly what happens. In two successive conquests – first by the Assyrians in 721 BC and then by the Babylonians in 586 BC, the people of God are conquered and taken into exile. Everything was lost. Their homes. Their land. Their loved ones. Their way of life. Their hope. It’s all gone. Some were left behind, the farmers and the poor living in the countryside. But many were taken into exile and forced to live amongst their captors in Babylon. You can imagine how frightened and anxious they must have been, to say nothing of their hatred for Babylon and everything associated with it.

And then the prophet Jeremiah tells them,

Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters…Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.

Jeremiah’s message is basically this: “You’re going to be in Babylon for a long time. So get used to it. Get over your outrage and settle down. Build houses. Plant gardens. Get on with the necessary things of life.”

And – you know – I find this to be very reassuring. When the worst has happened, if we are amongst those who are still alive, there comes a point simply to get on with it. Keep living.

I’ve found for myself for these past few years (and last several months, especially), a kind of deepening despair that the world I belong to, that we belong to, is crumbling.

Basic civility is eroding and being replaced by a kind of course nastiness of spirit.

The stability of our republic and its basic tenants of the rule of law are at risk.

Crime and violence and homelessness seem to be rising everywhere.

Then along came COVID, exacerbating all these other problems, to say nothing of the millions who have died.

Mental health concerns are surging amongst young people.

Then the war in Ukraine and its global threats on so many fronts.

And beyond all that, this monumental, looming threat of climate change and how it will affect everything.

There’s just so much to despair about. And I feel its weight – no – more than weight – I feel it as a kind of saturating, despairing presence.

But then something interesting happened last week. I was on vacation and out walking in a city I didn’t know, and stumbled upon a Design Museum. Now, you know me, I love good design. I was a design major in college. And the first exhibit I walked through was all about design for the future. And the more I walked through it, the more I saw, something unexpected happened in me. I went in just expecting to see and enjoy pretty things. But what happened, was I was beginning to hope, in a new way.

There are designers out there – smart, talented, principled, hard-working designers – who are facing head-on the threats of climate change and social change and whatever change and imagining new solutions for the problems ahead. I felt myself to be part of this human family that includes people, hard at work, who care – who can do something needful. And they are.

And when I consider this world, and all that is it, I must believe that it all matters, that God is in every thing, and that God is just as invested in the work of designers and technicians and researchers as God is invested in the work of the church.

And when I left the museum, and was back out on the streets, watching strangers going to work, strangers who just may be part of the solution for tomorrow’s challenges, I felt a spirit of gratitude: Thank you. Thank you for doing your part.

But just as God is calling people everywhere – of all trades and disciplines of work – to do their bit for the welfare of the whole, so God calls the church to its particular responsibility and giftedness, in bringing life and health to this world.

And the particular charism (or gift) of the church is to be a body of people in this society committed to the work of grace.

That is what defines us. It is the hope of grace that believes: God is real; God loves; God forgives. And based on that hope, we now join God in doing exactly the same thing, together. At St. John’s. In Gig Harbor. To be the church is to be a community that shares in the work of grace.

There are designers out there figuring out how to harvest renewable energy from the movement of the waves. And we need them to do that.

That are researches out there figuring out how to make more sustainable harvests. And we need them to do that.

And there is the church living with a determination to love and forgive, and to exhibit the hope that God is with us in all things. And the world needs that, too.

But if we’re not careful, it would be a very easy thing to keep up the rhythm of church – doing our liturgies each Sunday, managing the series of programs we run every year – but to fall short of actually being the church in any substantive, needful, grace-filled way.

And that’s why I am proud of St. John’s and its vestry this year.

They’ve recognized that our world and society are in a state of fear and anxiety and divisiveness. And they’ve recognized that St. John’s is a fundamentally stable and healthy church. Which means we are particularly positioned to live out the church’s charism of grace in a distinctive and mindful way. And they’re making plans to foster that.

They’ve been working since February to articulate our priorities for mission in the upcoming three years. And now, they’ve come up with a general outline of areas to focus on, of how to live out this grace – on ways we can grow to be like Jesus for one another and Gig Harbor. But they’re at the point where they need to draw the whole church into the conversation.

That’s what these “Thought Full Meetings” are all about, that you’ve heard advertised. It’s a time for folks to gather in each other’s homes, to hear and talk about the mission priorities for the next few years, and then to give feedback, that will help the vestry finalize their plans. And to excite you about what we can be together. So I do, really, encourage you to sign up for them – online or at the back of the nave after the service.

The church does have a distinctive gift to offer this struggling world. Our whole reason for existing is to live into the hope that God and God’s love is with us. But in many places, the church itself is struggling so much, it doesn’t have the capacity to be clear-sighted and intentional about living out God’s grace. But, St. John’s, we can. We really can. There is love here. There is hope here. And there is a desire to be like Jesus here, for one another and for this community.

But it will do little good if our mission becomes just so many words on paper, or the private zeal of its rector and vestry. If the church is going to be the church, it requires the whole church. It needs us all to recognize we each have a part to play. What is love, and what is hope, if not something living and shared between us?

Like the Israelites in exile, we are living in difficult days. Fear and despair are mounting. But like the Israelites, whatever the circumstances, we are not abandoned. God is with us. Always. In everything. And we are with one another. We have the substance of hope. And this is our gift for the world.