I have learned that summer is short in New England. The growing season passes swiftly. The heat of summer, though perhaps intense for a time, is short-lived. In recent days, the mornings have been cool. The days are getting noticeably shorter. An ending is coming.
A text from Jeremiah, caught my eye last night. This is one of the readings in the lectionary for September 22, 2013, which is the Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Cycle C). I am scheduled to preach in one of our churches that morning, but I will likely not bring this text into the pulpit with me. Even so, I know it will be lodged in the depths of my heart.
Here's the text that speaks to my spiritual depths in these waning days of summer:
This is not a cheery, carefree kind of text! It is so heavy, so gloomy, so deeply down. Yet, this text is where I dwell in these days. Even in the light of a new day, I relish this text. The subtext is a dose of stark reality: "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved." There is unfinished business, and the season for salvation appears to have come and gone. We missed it. It is over. We are not saved. We are not healed, as we had so fervently hoped. Many hearts still ache and break. A river of tears wells up and flows out like a fountain. We are a long way from the New Jerusalem where we hear the voice, announcing, that God is in the midst of her, that tears and death and mourning and pain and death all over. No more! In God's good time it will be so; but for now, all is still not well with God's world:
Syria poses a deadly, international dilemma. How then shall shall the world respond?
Medicaid expansion is freighted with paralyzing political posturing and rhetorical talking points, while the poor people are silenced, pushed aside, left to fend for themselves, . . . left to die.
The changes in the earth's climate are accepted as inevitable and natural when human influence is clearly involved. We are complicit in the crisis. Our actions and attitudes have consequences that will affect our generation and those yet to come.
The gathering in Washington, D.C. to commemorate the historic March on Washington, which happened fifty years ago this very week, reminds us that we have such a long, long road to walk for equality and freedom for all God's children in this land. Is there still a dream today or have we succumbed anew to the sin of a segregated society?
I know Jeremiah well; we are kindred souls. He gets to the heart of things. The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved. His words sound disturbing and depressing, but they move us toward a wider horizon, toward the horizon of hope, toward an empty tomb and a Holy City and amazing joy.
Is the Lord not in the Zion? Is the Sovereign not in the city? So, is there a balm in Gilead? Is there hope to counter the weighty despair that underlies this holy text? Answers do not spring forth quickly; but imploring questions abound. And, in these piercing questions is where I find hope. When people of faith are driven back to their questions and find their voice to ask them--this is a movement toward hope. Questions become pleas and prayers for those who refuse to give up on God's promise. Questions name the reality. They give us pause and move us to listen for deeper responses. Questions are expressions of faithful people, struggling to find their footing when all appears lost. Indeed, I am grateful for the witness of every Jeremiah, who is moved to pray in questions in the midst of disappointment and despair. It is there, near the bottom--near the end of summer--that hope is born.
O God, who joins us in our tears, our sadness, and our death: When easy answers elude and fail to satisfy our deepest longings, grant us courage to ask you the hard questions. Grant us such faith that we may trust through the sorrows and the silences of life. As this summer season ends, reassure us with the hope of restoration and resurrection. In this ending, in your good time, let life sprout and spring forth. Is there still a balm in Gilead? Do you not care that we are languishing and perishing? Will your poor people be remembered and healed? See us through, O God. Yes, see us through.
A text from Jeremiah, caught my eye last night. This is one of the readings in the lectionary for September 22, 2013, which is the Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Cycle C). I am scheduled to preach in one of our churches that morning, but I will likely not bring this text into the pulpit with me. Even so, I know it will be lodged in the depths of my heart.
Here's the text that speaks to my spiritual depths in these waning days of summer:
My joy is gone, grief is upon me,
my heart is sick.
Hark, the cry of my poor people
from far and wide in the land:
"Is the LORD not in Zion?
Is her King not in her?"
("Why have they provoked me to anger with their images, with their foreign idols?")
"The harvest is past, the summer is ended,
and we are not saved."
For the hurt of my poor people I am hurt,
I mourn, and dismay has taken hold of me.
Is there no balm in Gilead?
Is there no physician there?
Why then has the health of my poor people
not been restored?
O that my head were a spring of water,
and my eyes a fountain of tears,
so that I might weep day and night
for the slain of my poor people!
--Jeremiah 8:18-9:1, NRSV
This is not a cheery, carefree kind of text! It is so heavy, so gloomy, so deeply down. Yet, this text is where I dwell in these days. Even in the light of a new day, I relish this text. The subtext is a dose of stark reality: "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved." There is unfinished business, and the season for salvation appears to have come and gone. We missed it. It is over. We are not saved. We are not healed, as we had so fervently hoped. Many hearts still ache and break. A river of tears wells up and flows out like a fountain. We are a long way from the New Jerusalem where we hear the voice, announcing, that God is in the midst of her, that tears and death and mourning and pain and death all over. No more! In God's good time it will be so; but for now, all is still not well with God's world:
Syria poses a deadly, international dilemma. How then shall shall the world respond?
Medicaid expansion is freighted with paralyzing political posturing and rhetorical talking points, while the poor people are silenced, pushed aside, left to fend for themselves, . . . left to die.
The changes in the earth's climate are accepted as inevitable and natural when human influence is clearly involved. We are complicit in the crisis. Our actions and attitudes have consequences that will affect our generation and those yet to come.
The gathering in Washington, D.C. to commemorate the historic March on Washington, which happened fifty years ago this very week, reminds us that we have such a long, long road to walk for equality and freedom for all God's children in this land. Is there still a dream today or have we succumbed anew to the sin of a segregated society?
I know Jeremiah well; we are kindred souls. He gets to the heart of things. The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved. His words sound disturbing and depressing, but they move us toward a wider horizon, toward the horizon of hope, toward an empty tomb and a Holy City and amazing joy.
Is the Lord not in the Zion? Is the Sovereign not in the city? So, is there a balm in Gilead? Is there hope to counter the weighty despair that underlies this holy text? Answers do not spring forth quickly; but imploring questions abound. And, in these piercing questions is where I find hope. When people of faith are driven back to their questions and find their voice to ask them--this is a movement toward hope. Questions become pleas and prayers for those who refuse to give up on God's promise. Questions name the reality. They give us pause and move us to listen for deeper responses. Questions are expressions of faithful people, struggling to find their footing when all appears lost. Indeed, I am grateful for the witness of every Jeremiah, who is moved to pray in questions in the midst of disappointment and despair. It is there, near the bottom--near the end of summer--that hope is born.
O God, who joins us in our tears, our sadness, and our death: When easy answers elude and fail to satisfy our deepest longings, grant us courage to ask you the hard questions. Grant us such faith that we may trust through the sorrows and the silences of life. As this summer season ends, reassure us with the hope of restoration and resurrection. In this ending, in your good time, let life sprout and spring forth. Is there still a balm in Gilead? Do you not care that we are languishing and perishing? Will your poor people be remembered and healed? See us through, O God. Yes, see us through.
