Growing Toward

This is my sermon from Sunday (the one where I sang) based on Jeremiah 17:5-10 and Luke 6:17-26. I wasn't going to post it, but I have developed a slight ego from all of the affirmations I have received from my congregation this week. One of the members of the Search Committee cried (I learned yesterday). There were emails and notes under my door. It's hard not to feel overwhelmingly affirmed. Anyhow, I am sharing it with you.


It was in pieces on the ground. No longer OK. It’s fresh wood was pale pink against the muddy ground. A jumble of bits where there once stood a relic. This is how you find things in the forest. It had snapped in half below the last living branch. A branch that had big filmy greens leaves last spring. That had buds fat with promise all winter.Is it dead now? Will its roots go on living into the spring and summer longing for food from leaves that will never unfold? Where trees are concerned the exact time of death is hard to figure. Perhaps it is the point where they can’t grow back.

As I soon as Julie Zickefoose had said that last sentence and the radio show continued on NPR’s All Things Considered, I said aloud “Huh.” Perhaps it is the point where they can’t grow back. Huh.

The prophet Jeremiah describes a tree “planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. It shall not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit.” It’s a metaphor. And it’s a really pretty one if… well, if you don’t feel like the shrub. That’s the beginning of the metaphor. A shrub in the desert. The poetry is not as eloquent, and perhaps rightly so. The shrub is withered and without water. Who needs poetry to describe something so bleak?

Well, maybe it doesn’t need to be poetry. But, there need to be words that describe how we feel. Whether in poetry or lyrics, we need words for those times when we feel like we are just pieces on the ground; no longer OK.

When we are no longer OK, we need words to calm. Words to soothe. Words to bless those parts of us that feel like broken pieces on the ground. We don’t need to be nagged about how to be happy. We don’t need instructions about how to make things better. We don’t need to be reminded about how miserable we might be. Instead, we need words that name the “assurance that [these words] are God’s word to us and that God’s word is not empty.”

That’s where Jesus brought them. Down from the mountain. Down among the people, the disciples followed Jesus to stop on a level place. And then, he looked up at them and begins this sermon of uneven assurances.

Blessed are you who are poor, Jesus begins. Blessed are you who are hungry, weeping, despised and rejected.

And woe to everyone else. Woe to the rich, the full, the laughing and the socially accepted.

Though sometimes hard to hear, these are Jesus’ words of assurance from a level place. These are not lofty ideas spoken above the people. Instead, these words of assurance are offered while everyone is on the same level. No richer. No poorer. Everyone is on the same plane, even Jesus who looks up to begin his sermon.

He looks up to the gathered people longing to hear words that soothe. Words that calm. Words that bless. He looks up at these people who “were poorly adjusted to things as they were. They were suffering under the conditions of their lives. Many were disinherited, insecure, hungry and oppressed.” They were pieces on the ground. No longer OK.

And he blesses them. He names their insecurity and hunger. But it is not just by standing on a level place and naming the reality of the parts that are no longer OK that makes these words an assurance. Jesus goes a step further and names what will come.

It’s like the song that has been echoing in my head all week – a familiar gospel hymn, though the words have often changed in the struggle for justice and freedom. Maybe you recognize the lyrics from our Call to Worship:

[singing]
We shall not/We shall not be moved
We shall not/We shall not be moved
Like a tree planted by the water
We shall not be moved.

On the picket line, in freedom marches or mass meetings, these lyrics were sung to celebrate the risk of what might come if their hopes were realized. They were poorly adjusted to things as they were. No longer OK, they sang. They sang these lyrics looking toward something better.

[singing]
We shall not/We shall not be moved
We shall not/We shall not be moved
Like a tree planted by the water
We shall not be moved.

Did you hear Jeremiah’s metaphor? Actually, these words don’t even belong to Jeremiah. It was a song long before Jeremiah borrowed the metaphor. It’s found in the first hymnal our sisters and brothers sang from. And we’ve been singing this psalm ever since.

Like a tree planted by the water. Knowing that most of the time we feel like shrubs, Jeremiah borrows this metaphor to remind us to trust. When we are poorly adjusted to things as they are. When we are no longer OK, Jeremiah reminds us of a tree planted by the water. A tree that does “not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit.”

Even when we feel disinherited, insecure, hungry and oppressed, the tree reminds us to trust. When things are no longer OK, to trust that somehow God is present in this. When we are pieces on the ground, to trust that our faith will somehow get us through.

And I hear you. I know what you are thinking. What happens when trusting seems impossible? What happens when we can’t remember the power that these lyrics once held for our sisters, our uncles, our grandparents or ourselves? What happens when we can’t remember that longing – that longing that we have been singing about since the Psalms were recorded – that longing for something better? What happens when we stop singing?

[singing]
We shall not/We shall not be moved
We shall not/We shall not be moved
Like a tree planted by the water
We shall not be moved

Can we trust that we will remember the lyrics? Can we trust that the song will continue? Or is there something deeper? Something beneath the surface. Something like what I heard on NPR when a commentator dared to ask the question: Will [the] roots [of a tree] go on living into the spring and summer longing for food from leaves that will never unfold?

This tree on the edge of Julie Zickfoose’s property had big filmy greens leaves and had buds fat with promise waiting to bloom. But, now there are pieces on the ground. Now, it’s just a jumble of bits. No longer OK. At least, that’s what it looks like. That’s what we can see. But, even this commentator reminds us that

Where trees are concerned the exact time of death is hard to figure. Perhaps it is the point where they can’t grow back.

Sometimes we must look a little deeper. Sometimes we must go back to the roots. Sometimes we must remember. Perhaps we can learn from the tree. Tree roots “grow where the resources of life are available.” That’s it. “They do not grow toward anything.” This ruins the beautiful Jeremiah’s poetry of a tree “sending out its roots by the stream.” Scientifically, the roots won’t grow toward water. They grow because they are in water. They grow where they are planted.

And this, this is where we have become planted. This is where we will grow. Even when we can’t find the right words to explain what this place is to a neighbor in aisle 14 at Hannaford, it’s in our roots. It’s where we are planted. Sure, we might still be poorly adjusted to things as they are. We might still be disinherited and insecure. But, we are not at the point where we can’t grow back.

We can see beneath the surface. We can see the roots. And as we welcome new members into our root structure, let’s trust God’s words of assurance. And let’s remember to keep singing ancient psalms about we have found and what will come.

[singing]
We shall not/We shall not be moved
We shall not/We shall not be moved
Like a tree planted by the water
We shall not be moved