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Joel. One of what are called the
“Minor Prophets,” not because they are the “minor league,”
less important, but simply because of their size. The Major
Prophets are the heavy-hitters—Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel. It
took up a full scroll to record them. But these little guys
played shortstop. They were the quick-read, the USA Today
version—short enough for all of them to be recorded on
one scroll. So they came to be known as “The Twelve” or the
Minor Prophets.
In Joel’s day, it seems the
worst had come to pass. It was a day of utter desolation; a
day of destruction, a day of dismay and death, the day of
the locust. Unexpected, unpredictable and totally
uncontrollable, swarms of locusts could overtake the entire
land in moments, literally blacking out the skies, and in no
time completely denude the fields of every bit of grain or
green growth, leaving nothing but total loss and devastation
in their wake. Joel says:
What the cutting locust left,
the swarming locust has eaten. What the swarming locust
left, the hopping locust has eaten. And what the hopping
locust has left, the destroying locust has eaten. (Joel 1:4)
It’s all gone. In the light of
such tragedy, Joel’s purpose is clear. The question he
confronts is, “What will we tell our children?” How
will we describe the events of our era, the tragedies of our
lives, the devastation of our days?
Hear this, you aged men; give
ear, all inhabitants of the land! Has such a thing happened
in your days, or in the days of your fathers? Tell your
children of it, and let your children tell their children
and their children to another generation. (Joel 1:2-3)
He asks how
we are to interpret this tragedy, this destruction, this
death to future generations.
And
is it too much to draw an analogy here?
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The
sudden events of 9/11
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The
destruction of war and the lingering aftermath of
conflict and anarchy
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The
locusts of hatred and prejudice which seem to swarm
around us
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International tensions and the potential for more of the
same
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And now
a movie version of Flight 93—an attempt to tell the
story, to pass it on, to tell our children
So perhaps Joel’s question is
our question: What will history say about these days? How
will we interpret this to future generations? What are we to
tell our children?
1. There are certainly no
easy answers for Joel or for us, but Joel’s first response
is to see it as a call to repentance, a call to return to
God.
Yet even now, says the Lord,
return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with
weeping, and with mourning; and rend your hearts and not
your garments. Return to the Lord, your God; for he is
gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in
steadfast love. (Joel 2:12-13)
In the
midst of the swarming locusts, to hear God’s voice.
In the midst of the destruction, to return to God’s mercy.
In the face of insurmountable sorrow, to experience God’s
abounding, steadfast love.
Now let me be quick to say that
though, with the prophet Joel, one might see God’s hand at
work in the plague, I don’t believe God “sends” the locusts.
God does not orchestrate things like planes crashing into
buildings, lost jobs, sudden illness, shocking death, shaky
economies and spreading genocide to get our attention, like
whompin’ us upside of the head with a 2 X 4. God does not
“send” personal tragedy or national loss to get us to
repent, to turn to Him.
But I do believe that in the
midst of tragedy and loss, conflict and war, in the face of
personal testing or national crisis, if we listen, we can
hear God’s call: “Return to me…I will be gracious and
merciful. I am abounding in steadfast love.”
When it seems the locusts have
devoured everything good in our lives, when we look across
the landscape of our world and see nothing but death, when
it seems the swarming locusts have overwhelmed us, in those
moments God can call us to return, to repent, to experience
God’s healing and new life.
Years ago, I came across an
incredible sermon by the late Arthur John Gossip, written
soon after the death of his young wife. I have used it in
countless funerals. The sermon is entitled “When Life
Tumbles In, What Then?” and it is not unlike Bill Ritter’s
amazing sermons after the death of Bill, Jr. In it, Gossip
says: “Many people’s religion is a fair-weather affair. A
little rain, and it runs and crumbles; a touch of strain and
it snaps.”
But then he
builds to his climax:
I do not understand this life of
ours. But still less can I comprehend how people in trouble
and loss and bereavement can fling away peevishly from the
Christian faith. In God’s name, fling to what? Have we not
lost enough without losing that, too?
If Christ is right, then we can
see through these dark days. But if Christ is wrong; if God
has set his foot on my home crudely, heedlessly,
blunderingly, blindly, have I not the right to be angry?
If Christ is
right, and the immortality and dear hopes of which he speaks
do really lie a little way ahead, we can manage to make our
way to them. But if it is not so, if it is all over, if
there is nothing more, how dark the darkness grows.
You people in the sunshine may
believe, but we in the shadow must believe. We have nothing
else.
(The
Protestant Pulpit, edited by Andrew Blackwood, page 198)
In the times of the locust, if
we listen, we can hear God’s call to repent, to return, and
experience God’s abounding, steadfast love.
Every time we come to this table
of broken bread and shared cup, it is a time of “return.”
Out of the confusion of our lives, out of the stress and
pressures of our daily work, out of the concerns about our
lives, our families, our world...listen. Hear the still,
small voice calling us back: “Return to the Lord, your God,
for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding
in steadfast love.”
2. Return to God…and in
the end…be glad.
That’s the second part of the
message we can give our children…the promise and hope of
God’s goodness and redemption. Return, and be glad.
Fear not, O land, be glad and
rejoice, for the Lord has done great things. Fear not, you
beasts of the field, for the pastures of the wilderness are
green; the tree bears its fruit, the fig tree and vine give
their full yield.
Be glad, O sons of Zion, and
rejoice in the Lord your God; for he has given the early
rain, abundant rain, the early and the latter rain.
I will restore to you the years
which the swarming locust has eaten, the hopper, the
destroyer, and the cutter, my great army which I sent among
you. You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied, and praise
the name of the Lord your God. You shall know that I am in
the midst of Israel, and my people shall never again be put
to shame. (Joel 2:21-26)
Rejoice….be
glad…the Lord will restore your life.
Can we take one more look back
over our shoulder, one more glimpse into the recent days of
Lent and Holy Week? For me, one of the most intriguing parts
of the Maundy Thursday narrative comes at the very end.
After the meal and after the washing of feet; after the
breaking of bread and the word of betrayal, and just before
the prediction of denial and the agony of the Garden; in the
looming shadow of the cross, Matthew says, “When they had
sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives.” (Matthew
26:30)
Just imagine…in the light of all
that was happening and all that lay ahead, they sang a
hymn. For Jesus to be able to sing in this moment…it’s
incredible. Don’t you wish you knew what the hymn was?
Perhaps it was the plaintive “Tis Midnight and on Olive’s
Brow” or the eloquent “O Love Divine, what Hast Thou Done?”
or the powerful “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded.” Oh, I
know it was none of those songs, but I just wonder what the
song was.
For me, one
of the songs I have sung through more than one dark valley
is Andrea Crouch’s:
Through it all, through it all,
I’ve learned to trust in Jesus,
I’ve learned to trust in God.
Through it all, through it all,
I’ve learned to depend upon His word.
Well, I thank him for the
mountains
and I thank him for the valleys
and I thank him for the things he’s brought me through.
Cause if I’d never had a problem,
I’d never know that God could solve them,
I’d never known what faith in his word could do.
I know it
couldn’t have been any of those, but whatever the song…just
think:
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Around the table that night,
they sang a hymn.
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Around
the table of Jesus’ farewell dinner, his last supper,
they sang a hymn.
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Around
the table where we break bread and lift the cup in
remembrance of him, we sing a hymn. And it is the hymn
of final victory, the hymn of triumph, the hymn of joy.
To be able to sing in the hope
of our Lord’s resurrection; to be able to sing in the
promise of God’s final victory; to be able to sing around
the table when it seems the locusts are swarming and death
is having its day, yes, even then, the prophet says, “Sing
and be glad…for God will give you a new day.”
And in passing, take note. The
song includes the beasts of the field and the land itself.
You see why ecology is, at its heart, a theological issue
and global warming is a spiritual issue…the whole earth is
invited to join in the song.
The great Mozart was obviously
brilliant. Gifted, we would say. He composed his first
symphony at eight years old. His meteoric career was cut
short by a death which came all too soon. He was in the
process of writing his last great work, the Requiem, when he
died. He left it unfinished. Tradition says the day before
he died, he called his friends around his bed and held the
unfinished score in his hands. They sang the score together,
and when he came to the Lacramose, Mozart began to weep
uncontrollably. Eleven hours later, he was dead. Just
imagine. Even in the shadow of death, to be able to write
such incredibly beautiful music, to sing.
Singing,
even in the days when locusts swarm.
Singing around the table of our Lord.
Singing, “Rejoice and be glad in God’s abounding, steadfast
love.”
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