A sermon by Associate Minister Elsa A. Peters, December 28, 2008
Jeremiah 31:7-14
Fulfilling prophecy. That’s why we read the prophets – so we can understand what happens later in the Gospels and the Epistles, when God finally has a message of love to share. Uh huh. I know what you’re thinking. And it’s somewhat true, I’ll admit.
Fulfilling prophecy is what Matthew does. It’s important to this storytelling. It gives context. It sets the stage. It puts it all in perspective. Matthew finds this to be so important that he cites the Hebrew Scriptures a grand total of 40 times. In the Christmas story alone, Matthew quotes the Hebrew Scriptures a grand total of 5 times – mostly pulled from the prophets. Personally, I find this a tad annoying. Not just because it seems repetitive – but because it makes Matthew sound like a jerk insulting his readers for not knowing the text themselves. It’s insulting, especially for Matthew’s original audience who knew the text better than we do.
Luke, on the other hand, doesn’t have this habit. Luke assumes that the Hebrew Scriptures are so familiar that it’s simply interwoven to the storytelling. This is the only way that Luke can explain the drama of the birth of Christ. It’s the promise that was foretold. It’s the prophecy that was fulfilled in Christ Jesus. Or that’s how we read the story on Christmas Eve. Micah and Isaiah predict this birth; this possibility; this hope for the world; this child born in Bethlehem.
But, let’s be clear. It doesn’t begin with this birth. It begins long, long before that in the promise and fulfillment that begins when a 90-year old woman laughs at God’s promise. Sarai’s promise is retold again and again in the possibility of birth, which is lovely except that it’s never just birth. It’s not just the possibility and hope. It’s never just that the “those with child and those in labor” are gathered together. It’s not just about their return. It’s more complicated than that so that “messages of hope coexist with threats of doom.”
That’s what makes it hard. You get both at once. Both the doom and the hope – which we know because we read the newspaper. We watch the evening news. We’re fully aware of the threats of doom in our world – whether it comes in a never-ending war, a failing economy, bailouts, or Nor’easters. We have plenty of threats of doom in our world so that it’s difficult (if not impossible) to imagine anything but a spiritual reading of the birth of Christ. We leave the sweet story of a child in a manger in the past without realizing that this child, this promise, this possibility could be a total “transformation of this world.”
That’s what Jeremiah wants. He’s not writing about Jesus or any other divine birth. Jeremiah’s a prophet. He knows nothing about the future. He’s a “spokes[person], not fortune-teller.” Instead, he talks about the “fiercely troubled times” in Judah. And things were bad. The Kingdom was invaded 3 times. The second of these attacks destroyed Jerusalem. The area was forced under Babylonian control. People were exiled. Things are not good – at all – but Jeremiah has his eye on transformation. He sees hope in the doom.
You might not agree with his approach, which I can understand because Jeremiah shakes his finger at everyone he can – including the government, the clergy, the rich, the poor and even God. No one listened to him, but that didn’t stop Jeremiah. He’s insistent. But, of course, the people still ignore him. There’s no hope in his words. Why would they listen to him? And yet, hope comes. Even among so many threats of doom, we know that hope comes. That’s all we have, just “shreds of hope” which is what Jeremiah offers here.
It’s not just singing and young women dancing. It’s not rosy. They’re shreds of hope where there will be weeping and the people will need to be consoled. This is not just a promise of possibility. It’s realistic hope that imagines a change for this world, for Jeremiah’s world, where Jerusalem can be rebuilt and the people – all of the people, the blind, the lame and those with child – will return home.
This isn’t about divine birth. Not exactly. It’s about the birth of hope. It’s about how hope can be born even among the most impossible circumstances. It’s about hope for this world that requires justice and peace. And while we may search this ancient prophecy for God says, or how God speaks through Jeremiah, I think it may be more important how we fulfill that prophecy.
Christmas creates a possibility that most people ignore. It’s something we don’t think about as we imagine this child that is born to save the whole world. It’s a happy image. There’s no reason to mourn. No one needs to be consoled. It’s just joy, joy, joy – except that we know better. We know that this birth didn’t change everything. There is still poverty and war. There’s still loneliness and abandonment. Hate still exists. There are still so many threats of doom so that seems impossible that any prophet who can imagine mourning becoming joy or sorrow becoming gladness must be crazy. It’s too impossible. We know better. There is still too much that needs to change. There is still work to be done.
And yet, we are a people that tell an impossible story. We tell a crazy story where an angel comforts a young woman with the simple assurance that “nothing will be impossible with God.” Not nothing was impossible with God; not nothing is impossible God, but nothing will be impossible with God. A baby was born. Hope was born, and nothing will be the same. All that we dare to hope for in this world will be possible. The threats of doom will all end – but not without our help.
We must realize that we are the ones that we’ve been waiting for. We are the fulfillment of that prophecy. We are the ones to uncover those messages of hope – however small and insignificant they may seem. It’s our task to be speak, even when others won’t listen. It’s our challenge to share the good news that we believe is possible for our world – here are now. This is how we will fulfill the prophecy: simply to embody Jeremiah’s urging to “proclaim, give praise and say” what is on our hearts.