The end of exile is the beginning of rebuilding.
Way back in September, we began this program year
at Second Church by introducing our theme, “A Time
to Rebuild.” That very first Sunday, I quoted the writer
Alana Newhouse in a 2021 essay titled, “Everything
Is Broken.” I thought it was a hopeful way to start the
new year! In depth, Newhouse describes the erosion
of trust, the decay of institutions, and the collapse
of communal identity that have characterized
recent years. The writer Jonathan Haidt, in a 2022
piece with the memorable title, “Why the Past Ten
Years of American Life Have Been Uniquely Stupid,”
compares our era to the story of the Tower of Babel
in the Book of Genesis, which he describes as “a
story about the fragmentation of everything…the
shattering of all that seemed solid, the scattering of
people who had once been a community.”
We’re returning to the themes of fragmentation
and rebuilding, the stories of exile and return in the
Old Testament prophets this spring. The book of
Isaiah covers a lengthy stretch of ancient history,
from the conquest of Jerusalem and the capture
of its residents by the Babylonians, through the
stretched out exilic period, and finally to the return
of many of the exiles under the rule of the Persians
two generations later. This morning’s passage
takes place at the beginning of the return. And
given that context, we might expect it to be a text
of celebration. A time of joyful reunion. Triumphant
homecoming. But that is not what happened. What
the returning exiles find, what they discover, is
not what their grandparents left behind seventy
years earlier. Their beloved city is in shambles. The
temple, the center of faith and community, utterly
destroyed. It is not relief but grief that characterizes
the end of exile.
Everything is broken. The prophet knows this, but it
is not where he lingers. Not for long. Isaiah moves
swiftly from the indicative (that is, description of the
wreckage) to the imperative (time to get to work,
guys). You see, the end of exile is the beginning of
rebuilding. The sooner we move from grievance over
the past to the possibilities of the present, the better
our future will be.
Alana Newhouse puts it this way: “Once you stop
spending your time being outraged, you’ll realize
how much energy you suddenly have for whatever
work you’re called to do. Build something new; invest
in current institutions to see if they can be made
better. Think bravely and creatively…be deliberate
about what you are doing and try to understand
those who do it differently.”
When the exiles come back to Jerusalem, they cannot
simply inhabit the normalcy of the past. There is
no going back again. There is nothing left. And so,
the prophet calls them. Put up the sign. Warning:
Construction Area Ahead.
So, what does faithful rebuilding look like now? The
prophet has some thoughts on this.
He begins with two clear commands: “Maintain
justice and do what is right.” Given the opportunity
to build something new in a devastated place, God’s
people must first establish a foundation. Isaiah
proposes “justice.” As we look to future building, we
too must determine which set of values will serve
as our foundation. I think the primary questions at
the heart of our collective life are these two: What
kind of people do we want to become? What kind of
communities do we want to build?
Are we really content with the reality that the zip code
in which you are born determines the chance you will
have, or do we want to construct another reality?
Are we really comfortable surrendering our children to
screens and our attention to cycles of rage, or could
we build more life-giving relationships?
Are we really satisfied with leaders who appeal to fear
and sow division, or do we want to invest our lives in
the formation of those who will call us to virtue?
These are not hypothetical questions. They are choices
we all make, whether intentionally or unknowingly.
The exiles released from captivity in Babylon are
encouraged to construct a new reality, a place of
belonging. And who belongs? I’m glad you asked
because this is the unexpected—even offensive—twist
in the prophetic text. Isaiah makes what would have
been a stunning pronouncement of God’s expectation.
“My house shall be called a house of prayer for
all peoples.” Having been excluded and exiled,
God’s people must break the cycle of retribution by
extending the invitation to all.
Now, there are requirements for membership. Just
not the ones they might have expected. There is the
expectation that the newly welcomed will hold fast
to the covenant. That means, in other words, act like
a neighbor. And there is the command to practice
the Sabbath, to lives marked by rhythms of work
and worship.
Under the banners of covenant and Sabbath, God
gathers an incredibly diverse collection to begin the
work of reconstruction. There are surprise guests and
unlikely allies. Former enemies gathered for the task
of rebuilding.
Now it is tempting to imagine this gathering
through an exclusively spiritual lens, the vision of a
coming kingdom where reconciliation is complete,
where heavenly mansions line golden streets, and
humankind learns war no more. And these are images
of scripture to be sure. I believe that day will come,
when God will restore all that we have broken. But let
me suggest that this vision is meant not to absolve us
of responsibility but to infuse our efforts with hope.
I’ve always loved these wise words preserved in the
Talmud, “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the
world’s grief. Do justice now. Love mercy now. Walk
humbly now. You are not obligated to complete this
work, but neither are you free to abandon it.”
Second Church, it is not enough to dream and pray
and sing about a distant future where all will one day
be welcomed. It is not faithful to use God’s promise to
excuse our inaction.
Isaiah’s vision is not strictly spiritual. It is political in
nature. By this, I do not mean that it fits neatly into
the categories of partisan polarization or issue-based
identity that the term might evoke for you. But what
I do mean is that God’s words to the returning exiles
have everything to do with how we structure our life
together. How we interact with our neighbors. How
we relate to outsiders. How we live in covenantal
community. There is a redefinition of political life in
these ancient texts. It stands on the foundation of
justice. It compels the faithful to build a different world
beginning with the most basic and ordinary acts. Be a
neighbor. Practice the Sabbath.
If everything is broken, then perhaps the time for
rebuilding has come. I am convinced that rebuilding
can only happen if it begins in places like this one.
Right here. You see, we cannot expect market-driven
corporations or slow-moving bureaucracies to save
us. Not now. Even if their intentions are ethically
sound, their purpose is not primarily the creation
of community and the care of the neighbor. That
change must begin with us.
Last Sunday, I stood up here and looked across
a packed sanctuary on Confirmation Sunday. A
word lingered in my heart and mind. That word is
renewal. What is happening here is unusual. It’s
exciting. It’s hopeful.
The thing about spiritual renewal is that it always
leads us to engage the needs of our neighbors and
the concerns of our world. What kind of people do
you want to be? What kind of community do you
want to build?
I want to be a person invested in renewal. I want to
be a person defined by hope and committed to doing
my part. I want to bear witness to Christ and set an
example for my sons and all who may be watching.
I am convinced that we together can become a
community where renewal inspires rebuilding. And I
am further convinced that it will take every single one
of us.
A house of prayer for all people. Always under
construction. Amen.