Scripture Jeremiah 29:1-7
These are the words of the letter that the prophet Jeremiah sent from Jerusalem to the remaining elders among the exiles, and to the priests, the prophets, and all the people, whom Nebuchadnezzar had taken into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon. This was after King Jeconiah, and the queen mother, the court officials, the leaders of Judah and Jerusalem, the artisans, and the smiths had departed from Jerusalem. The letter was sent by the hand of Elasah son of Shaphan and Gemariah son of Hilkiah, whom King Zedekiah of Judah sent to Babylon to King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon. It said: Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease. But 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.
Meditation
In the year 587 BCE, the mighty army of Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar destroyed the fabled Temple in Jerusalem, the very Temple, scripture tells us, that was built by King Solomon himself. At the same time the Temple was destroyed, Nebuchadnezzar had his armies carry off most of the residents of Jerusalem, including King Jeconiah, the queen mother, the court officials, the leaders of Judah and Jerusalem, the artisans, and the smiths—in other words, every significant royal, leader, sage, or skilled craftsperson. The king and his court were imprisoned—Jeconiah, for at least 37 years. The rest of the people were left to make their way, strangers in a strange land.
There were at least two painful truths to the exile—and they were linked. The first is described in the psalm that Joan read for us earlier—you may know those words as lyrics from a song.
On the willows there,
we hung up our lyres,
for our captors there
required of us songs,
and our tormentors, mirth.
The psalmist—who was a song-writer, the ancient Israelite equivalent of a church musician, you might say—they were describing the devastation of being asked to sing songs that had been written for holy worship, to entertain the very people who had kidnapped them from their homes. The lines in the psalm that are perhaps most heartbreaking rendered this way by the King James version:
If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,
let my right hand forget her cunning.
If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth;
if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy. ~Psalm 137:5-6
In other words:
If I forget my home, and our beautiful Temple that is no more,
Let me forget how to play this harp I have hung on the willows.
If I forget my Jerusalem, let my singing voice be silenced, forever.
The first facet is: God’s people are desperately homesick.
And the second facet is almost impossible to extricate from the first—they are married, in an indissoluble knot: The Temple is gone.
In 1906, as many of you know, Union Presbyterian Church was struck by lightning and burned down. (Rumor has it the Baptist Church across the street thought it was because we had a pool table in the basement.) And that was a terrible loss. But the members of UPC, I’m sure, were able to worship at other local churches for the nine months it took to rebuild.
The Temple was different. For Jews, the Temple was the only place where true worship was possible, because its innermost court contained the holy of holies, the place where the two tablets of the covenant resided. It was believed that this place was the literal home of God on earth—to be in the presence of the covenant was to be in the presence of God. And the worship that took place in the Temple included sacrifice—of animals, birds, sometimes grain or drink—all given to God to heal the rift between God and people, for atonement, at-one-ment with God.
There was no Temple a mile away to go to. This was it. And it was gone.
Can we imagine what it felt like to lose this place of worship? I think we can. We can, because we know what it is, many of us, to be away from our own sanctuary. We know what it is to miss it and long for it, and to have no way of knowing when we will be able to be in there, together, again.
So Jeremiah sends a letter to these heartbroken people who don’t feel they have any way to truly worship God, and perhaps, even, to process that loss. How can they sing—sing the Lord’s song—in a foreign land?
Jeremiah’s advice is startling, because it reveals even more of the picture. In an effort to keep themselves together—to keep themselves faithful to this beloved place and way of worship and life they’ve lost, apparently the people aren’t actually settling in to their new surroundings. They are resisting letting the new normal be home.
I have a tiny inkling what that’s like. I moved to Binghamton in 1990, a young mother, moving here so my then-husband could get a PhD at the university. I’d left the place that had been my home for twelve years. My plans were clear: we would be in Binghamton for 2 to 5 years, and then return to Boston. I had no intention of making Binghamton my home.
Until I realized, I have to be at home, wherever I am. It’s in my nature. I was no more capable of standing aloof and apart from the place I lived than I would have been to flap my arms and fly away.
Jeremiah—speaking for God—tells the exiles to make this new place their home.
Build houses, and live in them, he says. Plant gardens, and eat what grows. Get married—don’t be afraid. Have children, and let your children get married. Be fruitful and multiply; don’t waste away. Don’t die off. Don’t just survive. Thrive. Live, abundantly.
And then, in what might be the most sage bit of that advice:
“… 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.” (29:7)
The exiles in Babylon seem to living among their own people, perhaps tucked away in a single, homogenous neighborhood of only exiles. Now, Jeremiah tells them to open themselves to the wider community. To make connections across the barriers of religion and nation of origin. To befriend, and even to seek the good for, the strangers all around them. Because, as another translation puts it, in their peace, you will find your peace.
The exiles’ old life is gone; their way of worshiping God is gone. But God is not gone. That’s the quiet assurance deep in Jeremiah’s letter. God has plans for the people for good, and not for harm. God has plans for them to return home, though it may not happen on their preferred timetable. “When you call upon me and come and pray to me, I will hear you,” God says. “When you search for me, you will find me.”
Each year on World Communion Sunday, we remind ourselves that God is not only here, but also all around the world, as faithful people gather around tables to bread the bread of life and drink the cup of salvation. This year, I think the reminder we need, is that God is here, with us, just as God was with the exiles. We are exiled from our sanctuary, and frustrated that we can’t return there on our preferred timetable. But God is bigger than sanctuaries and temples, bigger than the spaces between our homes.
And God is nearer than 200 East Main Street—though we love it and long for it. God is as near as our breath, can be heard in the beating of our own hearts. We are the eyes with which God looks out upon the world. If every church were to decay, we would remain God’s habitation.
God is with us. Thanks be to God. Amen.