HOMILY: "Game On, Church!"

A Meditation on Jeremiah 1:1-10
Sunday, February 2, 2025

The Fourth Sunday of Epiphany

1.

Big picture time.

"Jeremiah" by Yankel Ginzburg

At the heart of the Hebrew Bible is a contest – political, intellectual and decidedly theological – between the Sinai tradition of Moses and Miriam and the Jerusalem tradition (or Temple tradition) of Kings David and Solomon. Both traditions have their advocates, their poets, their beloved champions. Both traditions claim the blessing and mandate of Yahweh, the Creator of all life and Liberator of the Hebrews. But theirs is a “contest of narratives” (as the great Walter Brueggemann says) that rolls across the pages of the Bible like schoolboys brawling at recess on the playground.

One tradition (that would be Moses’ and Miriam’s) celebrates God’s liberating work in the Exodus with a vision of covenantal care and neighborly responsibility. In that tradition—the Sinai tradition—faith is embodied in concrete commitments to the wellbeing of widows, orphans and immigrants in the community. And that particular triad—widows, orphans and immigrants—is recited in Torah over and over again, and insisted upon in prophetic teaching as the soul of Jewish social practice. As God loved the Hebrew slaves in Egypt, so must the community not only love the poor—but place them at the very center of discernment, ethics and spiritual practice. The Sinai tradition.

In the other tradition, however, and that would be David’s and Solomon’s—God’s gift is protected through systems of security, consolidated wealth and concentrated wisdom. The temple in Jerusalem is, of course, the manifestation of that great Solomonic project. The kingdom is to mirror all other kingdoms and secure its future in like manner. Governance is limited to the privileged few. Who know better anyway. And running through the many books and scrolls of Hebrew scripture, then, is this contest between the two traditions: from Exodus and Deuteronomy, through First and Second Kings, and into the words and ministries of the prophets themselves. If the Hebrew Bible sounds so often like a scrappy tussle at the neighborhood bar, that’s because it is. That’s exactly what it is.

Walter Brueggemann is fond of saying that the faithful church in our own time must not abandon the Bible, but must not reduce it to a single, simple story either. It is a “contest of narratives,” he says; and the faithful church must locate itself in that contest, within that contest, and start choosing sides. Will we commit to the kin-dom of God: a world of covenantal care and neighborly responsibility, a community liberated from greed and violence, where the widow, the orphan and the immigrant occupy the very heart of all moral and theological discernment? Or…or will we settle instead for the Kingdom of Israel: a temple with tiered access, a stratified society where the privileged rule and the rest ride along?

2.

And this brings us to Jeremiah, the sixth century prophet, where the contest has become a crisis, and where the prophet insists that the people of God start choosing sides. With prayerful purpose.

And it’s no accident, I think, that Jeremiah’s story begins with his experience of inadequacy, with his sense of being overwhelmed by both the crisis and the One who calls him to speak truth in the midst of it all. How often in the past couple of weeks have I heard wonderful souls, good people, dear and loving friends describe their own inadequacy in this particularly American moment, in this particularly American crisis? How often have I heard brave and faithful folks talk about being overwhelmed by grief, overwhelmed by rage, overwhelmed by a meanspirited take-over in Washington? If you are sensitive to any degree to the vulnerability of those targeted by white nationalists in Washington and Concord, you’re probably overwhelmed by the frenzy of their takeover. No wonder we’re all feeling inadequate these days, to the task that lies before us.

“So the word of the Lord came to Jeremiah saying, ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.” That’s direct enough, and heavy enough. God making a claim on Jeremiah’s life. He’s to stand alongside the widow, the orphan and the immigrant. He’s to speak truth to the powers that pretend to rule the land. I formed you. I knew you. I consecrated you. I appointed you.

And in one of the most appropriate responses to God that you’ll ever find in scripture, young Jeremiah, inadequate Jeremiah, overwhelmed Jeremiah says, “Ah, Lord God!” “Ah, Lord God!” Or maybe, “O-ahhh—Lord God!” The thing is that believers are almost always, almost always, overwhelmed when God comes knocking in scripture, or when a dream intrudes and shakes them to the core, or when something needs to be said and God says it’s their turn to say it. I dare say we should all take this to heart. To be called is to be overwhelmed. And very often, to be overwhelmed is to be aware of God’s proximity. Let that settle. To be overwhelmed is to be aware of God’s proximity.

So Jeremiah. Jeremiah closes his eyes, wishes the whole God-thing would just go away, and he says: “Ah, Lord God! I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” In the crisis within which we find ourselves, and it is a crisis, God does not intervene apart from our kindness and creativity. God does not intervene apart from our collaboration and courage. God does not flip the tables—any of them—without asking you and me to do the flipping. God appoints you and me, Jeremiah and so many more, to speak out, stand up, initiate something brave, something just, something new.

“But I don’t know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” But I can’t intervene when ICE comes to round up my neighbors, for I am only simple citizen. But I can’t stand up for my gay friend, harassed every day at work, for I am only a programmer. I can’t stop the American President from weaponizing fear and facilitating genocide, for I am only a single congressman. I can’t change things, not big things, for I am not that brave, not that connected, not that powerful.

If the entirety of the Book of Jeremiah is about the crisis, the contest—and God’s insistence that God’s people situate themselves within that contest and take sides, if that’s what Jeremiah’s ministry is all about, it begins precisely here, where so many of us find ourselves this winter. “Ah, Lord God! I do not know how to speak, I do not know what to do, I do not know that I can, for I am only a boy.”

And again, the Sinai tradition—heralded by Moses and choreographed by Miriam—the Sinai tradition entrusts God’s dream not to heroic individuals, but to faithful communities; not to raging warriors, but to nonviolent coalitions. While we may indeed feel inadequate to the task, we need to know that we have only to join arms and walk together, we have only to gather hearts and work together, we have only to find refuge in the strength and tenderness of community. That’s where Sinai takes us. That’s where the resistance takes root. In covenantal care and neighborly responsibility.

3.

OK. So that’s the big biblical picture. A contest of narratives. Sinai and Solomon. And a would-be prophet, a should-be prophet, overwhelmed like the rest of us. In a little village called Anathoth. Which is significant. That the little village is Anathoth. That that’s where the word comes to Jeremiah.

Bishop Mariann Budde in DC

You see, when King David was passing on his kingdom to Solomon, his son, centuries before, he had done what rulers so often did and still do: he had advised the in-coming king to purge all opposition, even to execute a few of the most aggressive of the family’s detractors. Solomon did as his father had asked, and worked his way down David’s list (Attorney Jack Smith and others at the FBI, Congresswoman Liz Cheney and noncompliant Republicans, General Mark Milley) until Solomon got to Abiathar, a pesty priest who had challenged the king’s priorities and repeatedly called his regime to repentance and justice. (In a sense, I guess, Abiathar was Solomon’s Bishop Budde, asking the powerful monarch to have some mercy on the poor, to have some mercy on the children, to do right by the vulnerable and frightened.) Solomon couldn’t bring himself to execute Abiathar—but did banish him from the city, sending the uppity priest into exile in a tiny, out-of-the-way, run-of-the-mill (no-internet-service-to-speak-of) town called Anathoth. Anathoth. Read all about it in 1 Kings 2. Or maybe the Washington Post.

And years and years later, centuries later in fact, Anathoth having been completely forgotten by kings and generals and the press, seemingly insignificant in the story of God’s people: God finds Jeremiah—Jeremiah of an extended family of priests, descended from a long line of priests—and wakes him up. In Anathoth. Where Abiathar had been exiled and sidelined and silenced. Where Solomon had tried to shut up the Sinai tradition once and for all.

But God wakes Jeremiah up. In Anathoth. “Do not say, ‘I am only a boy,’” God says, “for you shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I command you. And, hey, Jeremiah: Don’t be afraid of them, not any of them, for I am with you to deliver you.” And of course, that tag line that makes all the difference in scripture. “Says the Lord.” In other words, through you, Jeremiah, God’s people will be reminded of Moses’ courage and Miriam’s dancing. Through you, Jeremiah, God’s friends will be invited once again to share bountiful harvests with the poor and open their homes to the wandering refugee and protect every precious child with love and kindness. You will resist the consolidating projects of the powerful and you will lean into covenants of care, communities of equity and justice, loving one another as God has loved you. That contest of narratives, you see, is alive and well in Anathoth, as it’s alive and well in you and me, and in our American project too.

4.

Can we be honest this morning? If indeed we’re going to read Jeremiah into our own historical moment, into our own political crisis, I think we’re going to have to locate ourselves within this great contest of narratives. And I think we’re going to have to choose sides. If we’re going to listen for God’s word in these old words, as we’re clearly committed to doing week by week, and day after day, I think we’re going to have to choose the covenants of Sinai or the seductions of Solomon. If God insists on appointing you and me to pluck up and pull down, to demystify and overthrow, to build and plant, it may well mean debunking once and for all the grotesque and particularly American myths of Christian nationalism and white supremacy.

You can’t serve Christian nationalism and Sinai’s covenant of hospitality and justice—and do right by God. You can’t serve white supremacy and the gospel of Jesus Christ—and do right by God. Christian nationalism is a perverse political program that revolutionizes Solomon’s security state and weaponizes it against anything that doesn’t fit its own notions of racial purity, theological orthodoxy and gender conformity. White supremacy justifies any number of violent policies and urges that enshrine whiteness in its so-called rightful place in American governance, education and religion. It’s no longer enough to simply sneer when these ideas come up on the evening news, or in conversations at the water cooler on Monday morning. It is time, my friends, to debunk them once and for all. To pluck up and pull down. To demystify and overthrow. To build and plant.

And that means we’ve got skin in the game—as one of you is fond of telling me—it means we’ve got skin in the game. It means your bearing witness to your faith in public settings when someone, anyone suggests that kids shouldn’t know about Black History Month. It means your standing up to be counted when someone, anyone suggests that gay marriages are an abomination to God and should be outlawed all over again. It means all of us together celebrating, and I mean CELEBRATING, our ministry alongside immigrant friends and rejoicing in the remarkable gifts these friends bring to communities like ours. And how devoted we are to their safety here, to their protection among us, to their families being reunited at last HERE. Skin in the game. It means choosing that Sinai tradition, covenant care, neighborly responsibility—over and over and over again—because it’s right, because it’s God’s will, because it’s who we are and who we will always be.

Now if you’re sitting there thinking: all well and good, Dave; all well and good. But I don’t have all that in me. “Truly, I don’t know how,” says young Jeremiah. “I’m just a boy.” I’m not brave enough for all that. I’m not free to take all those risks given my responsibilities at home and at work. I’m just a boy. Just a girl. Just a simple citizen. If that’s you this morning, I want you to hear what God’s saying to Jeremiah and I want you to hear it within this community, this particular community, this particular church. As a wildly gifted and spirited people. Doing life together. Living faithfully together. One body in Christ.

Do not be afraid. Four words. Do not be afraid. You’ve heard them before. They’re some of the tradition’s most beloved words, and most frequently summoned words. Do not be afraid. It’s been a terrible couple of weeks, but there is so much good yet to be done, so much joy yet to be celebrated, so much care still be shared. So do not be afraid.

The one who calls you has already breathed life into your spirit. That’s a forever commitment. The one who calls you has already drawn the shape of your soul across the fields of heaven. That, too, is a forever commitment. The one who calls you has already consecrated your life with a love that is boundless, eternal and stronger than any cruelty, any disappointment you may encounter. And besides all that—and all that’s pretty cool—besides all that you are not going out there alone. Once you’re in this kind of space, this kind of community, this kind of church, you are never going out there alone.

You and I always go together. Within your Open and Affirming Team, devoted to queer kids and their friends and their future, you and your team, you always go together. Within your Immigration Team, devoted to Antony and so many other refugee friends and their spirit and their hope for America, you and your team, the whole team, you always go together. The choir will sing and sing and sing some more, together. Our teens will learn to fight injustice and serve the poor, together. And in all this togetherness, the Word of God will find us, secure us and make us brave.

God’s word comes from Anathoth to Durham today. Fresh and bold. Deeply rooted in generations of lovingkindness. Emboldened by the grace that truly makes us free. “Today,” God says to the church, “I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck down and to pull down, to demystify and to overthrow, to build and to plant.”

Game on, church. The time is now.

Amen and Ashe.