What if we are neighbors?
On Wednesday evening, I attended an interfaith
Passover seder down the street at Indianapolis Hebrew
Congregation. It was not my first Passover seder, the
annual ritual meal commemorating the liberation
of God’s people from slavery in Egypt through the
wilderness to the promised land. But this experience
was unique. At my table I was joined by a rabbi, an
imam, and a family of seven from the Latter-day Saints
community. When we were invited to write down one
thing that we would let go to free our souls, a symbol
of the cleansing to open the meal, the five-year-old girl
sitting next to me leaned over and whispered, “How do
you spell ‘Yelling?’” I figured that might be a good start
for all of us.
Joined by strangers who are neighbors, we walked
through the rituals and the prayers of the seder rooted
in that ancient story. But what struck me throughout
the evening was the explicit connection between that
story and our stories. At one point we were invited to
consider what held us captive. At another time, we
were offered the charge: how can you extend freedom
to others? There was a direct link made between all
who suffer oppression and injustice in every age. It
struck me again that these Biblical stories are true not
because they happened once, but because they are
happening now. How they speak of and to universal
human conditions. How these ancient stories are built
to last.
The words you’ve just heard from a letter written to
a people in exile were penned by Jeremiah, the child
prophet, the agent of God’s will, first called as a youth.
They are written to a community in a moment of crisis.
Things had fallen apart. They were exiled in Babylon,
removed from everything they knew and everyone they
loved, forced to live as refugees in an empire ruled by
the powerful King Nebuchadnezzar. In that context,
in that crisis, in that moment, the prophet delivers a
series of astonishing orders. God commands the exiles
to begin the construction of homes, to till the soil
and plant gardens, to celebrate marriages and raise
families. God calls people of faith to build a life in a
hostile land.
What if we are neighbors?
Jeremiah tells the exiles to seek the shalom (the
wholeness, the peace, the wellbeing) of the very place
where they are captive. Why? Because their futures are
woven together. Because there is no “us” and “them.”
Because in time, the broken pieces of a shattered
reality must be rebuilt to form a beautiful mosaic of
unity. Because the wilderness of exile will not last
forever and must be refashioned into a neighborhood.
Confirmands, I’m talking to you. The wilderness of exile
must be refashioned into a neighborhood.
In just a few moments, we will welcome you, the Class
of 2024 confirmands, as new members of Second
Presbyterian Church. For many weeks now, you have
prepared for this day—studied scripture, reflected
on what it means to follow Jesus, deepened your
understanding of the Church and this church. You have
crafted your own statements of faith, and I have read
them. Friends, like all of us, our confirmands recognize
that we live in difficult times. They feel the foundations
shaking. They know that total collapse is as likely as
restoration. And so, these ancient stories of exile feel
relevant to us. We, too, know dislocation, division, and
despair. We, too, must ask, “What does faithful living
look like right now?”
I am no prophet, but in the words of Jeremiah I find
a three-part charge that might offer a roadmap for
rebuilding in exile. Call it three phases of construction.
First, we are called to build a sense of self. You see, the
exiles living in Babylon were assaulted with messages
designed to deconstruct and redefine their very
identity. They were denied the rituals that reminded
them of who they were and to whom they belonged.
And so, before they could begin the work of building
houses and planting gardens, God’s people had to
remember their primary identity.
Who are we? In our exilic time there is no shortage
of messages designed to answer that question for
us. Social media companies invest billions of dollars
in algorithms that sort us into tribes and feed us
information designed to increase engagement by
driving our enragement. We are relentlessly reminded
of what we lack, of who we are not. We are compared
to the filtered images and imagined lives of strangers
and told that we just don’t measure up. And so, to resist
the subtle siren songs and sophisticated systems that
aim to deconstruct and redefine us, we must regularly
be reminded who we really are and what truly matters.
You are a child of God. Full stop. Your primary identity
will never be the labels placed on you or the messages
fed to you by those only interested in capturing your
attention for monetary gain. Yes, the chaos and the
noise that surround us threaten to drown out the voice
of the Spirit. Do not let this happen. Do not let them
define you. Remember who you are.
Next, we are called to build community. This is what
Jeremiah commands the exiles to do, to make a home
right where you are. Call it the art of neighboring. It
takes a lot of time. It takes intention. A couple of years
ago, some of us had the opportunity to hear Bryan
Stevenson speak at Butler University. Bryan leads the
Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama, and
in his book Just Mercy, he describes what it was like to
grow up in the racially segregated community that was
his home in Delaware.
Stevenson remembers his grandmother telling him,
“You can’t understand most of the important things
from a distance. You have to get close.” Stephenson
describes this as the power of proximity. Getting close
changes us. Intention. Time. Once you discover the
humanity of another person there is no going back to
writing them off. The work of the faithful is to transform
spaces of hostility into neighborhoods—the kinds of
places where relationships matter.
I think you should know about my friend Bud
Braddock. Bud shares a birthday with our son Ben,
eight decades apart. I first met Bud back in 2008 when
a mutual friend invited me up to the mountains where
my friend has a cabin and Bud lives full time. After
forty-two years in the Forest Service, Bud and his wife
Pat returned to her hometown of Suches, Georgia—
population 888. They built a home in the hardwoods
of Appalachia. Then Bud remembered his father’s
wisdom. “Son, when you retire, don’t sit on the porch
in a rocking chair, or you’ll be dead in two years.” So,
Bud got busy. He started by leading hikes, and then
he learned and taught the history of the region to
locals and interlopers like me. He would lead “history
hikes,” complete with photographs and timelines.
He mentored students in the community school
that serves kindergarten through twelfth grade. He
became a deacon at the Mt. Lebanon Baptist Church.
Before long, he began to hear about the needs of his
neighbors, many living in poverty but too proud to ask
for help. So, Bud quietly gathered a few folks together
under the radar, and soon they were surreptitiously
drilling wells for neighbors who needed clean water.
They anonymously purchased tombstones for families
who couldn’t afford them. Christmas presents showed
up for children who wouldn’t get any. Without fanfare,
they fixed screen doors, built ramps, patched roofs,
split wood, planted gardens, brought groceries, and
sat on porches listening to the stories of the elderly.
Now Bud is a man of very few words, especially
about himself. He is also one of the finest preachers
of the gospel message I have ever met. He loves God
by loving his brothers and sisters. Right next to his
meticulously planted garden, no weed in sight, bursting
with vegetables he will one day give away, there is a
large shed that Bud built with his own hands. And on
that shed, there is a simple sign which he also made,
painted forest service brown. The sign says, “When
your barn is well fill’d all snug and secure/ Be thankful
to God and remember the poor.”
What if we are neighbors?
In the shalom of your neighbors, you will find your own.
The final charge comes with a promise. When you call
upon me, when you come and pray to me, I will hear
you. When you search for me, you will find me. We are
called to build a sturdy faith.
Today we celebrate a milestone in the lives of our
confirmands, and perhaps it’s a good day to reflect
on those moments in our own lives of consequential
decision, those moments that have been turning
points for us, those moments of deep commitment,
those moments of transformation, those moments
around which there is a before and an after. But we
should also remember today that discipleship is never
a destination, always a journey. If God has a plan filled
with hope for you, then living into that plan is a daily
decision. You see, we build faith the same way we build
a life. Brick by brick. Choice by choice. Step by step.
Moment by moment. How we spend our days is how
we spend our lives. If you are looking, you will find God
in the messy middle of it all.
So, how do we live in times of exile and uncertainty?
Remember who you are.
Get close enough to practice the art of neighboring.
Build faith by walking daily with God.
I was reminded again this week of the distinction made
by the writer David Brooks between resumé virtues and
eulogy virtues. The first are those skills and experiences
that you bring to the marketplace—they are necessary,
and they are helpful, but they are far from sufficient for
a meaningful life. Eulogy virtues are different. They are
those qualities of your life that will one day be lifted up
at your funeral. Now, having given and heard hundreds
of eulogies, I can tell you this: when it comes time to
summarize your earthly years, those who love you will
say precious little about the pile of accomplishments
you have earned, even less about all the things you’ve
accumulated. The bullet points on your resumé will
be a blip on the radar. Their gratitude for you will be
rooted in the kind of person you became, the quality of
community you formed and served, the depth of faith
you cultivated.
You have been given this one precious life. For God’s
sake, don’t waste it on anything less. Amen.