The Joy of the Lord Is Your Strength | A Sermon on Choosing Hope, Faith, and Joy
A Sermon by the Reverend Mother Crystal J. Hardin on the Third Sunday after the Epiphany (C), January 23, 2022.
Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10
When the seventh month came . . . all the people gathered together into the square before the Water Gate (Neh. 8:1).
Imagine, for a moment, being one of many thousands of people crammed into the public square on the East Side of the City of Jerusalem. Shoulder to shoulder, shuffling impatiently, perhaps maneuvering to get a better line of sight. A platform stands at the ready and many important figures are already there, including Nehemiah. Signs of construction linger, as Jerusalem is still in the process of being rebuilt. Anticipation builds. A hush begins to fall over the crowd.
Of course, to truly place yourself in the story told in today’s first reading, you’d have to go back to the beginning. Imagine that you’ve been brought up in a foreign country, speaking with an accent –a dead giveaway that you are not like everyone else. The stories you learn in school distinctly different than those you hear at home. Babylonian not Hebrew. Your parents constantly talking about their lives before –their longing for home never far from heart or lips. You’ve been raised knowing that this is not home. That home is somewhere else entirely. Jerusalem. And yet, you’re growing up in Babylon, perhaps feeling torn between its culture and your own deep Hebrew roots.
Heartache is always close at hand. But one day, it is announced that some will be allowed to return to Jerusalem and your family is among them. The joy is palpable, but short-lived. Jerusalem is still in ruins. The Persians still hold the power. And external and internal threats still loom large. This is not the homecoming you hoped for; this is not the home your parents remembered or promised you it would be.
There’s nothing else to do but go to work. You labor alongside others rebuilding the beloved city. The temple and walls begin to take shape around you, and things begin to look up. Now you stand in the crowd before the Water Gate, wondering what the future holds. A hush begins to fall over the crowd. The priest, Ezra, is now on the platform. He begins to read from an ancient scroll. Of course, you are intimately familiar with the words he reads; these are the words of your parents and your ancestors. Words you heard again and again during your years away from Jerusalem. [1]
Together you stand; once displaced, but now returned. As one commentator writes:
As Ezra goes on and on, the people, starved for the Word, hungrily listen to stories of creation, of Noah and the ark, of Abraham and Sarah, of Joseph and his brothers, of the Egyptian captivity, of Miriam and Moses, of the Ten Commandments and God’s instructions for creating a community.
In a world of doubt and despair, and of questions about the meaning and purpose of existence, [a weary people] hear of God’s glory, God’s forgiveness, God’s mercy, and God’s love, of his intention for the world, and of his promise to make it all good in the end. [2]
Together you stand; hours pass, as the Word of God is spoken. And you begin to weep. To weep for lost time and lost friends; for injustices large and small; for plans made and then foiled; for the known past and for the unknown future. You weep.
For all the people wept when they heard the words of the law (Neh. 8:9).
Imagine that.
Tears can be beneficial; holy even. Lamentation is, after all, a Biblical enterprise. How much is too much, well, I’m not sure I know the answer to that. But in that public square, so many years ago, the people wept. And, as the story goes, in the face of their weeping they received an instruction:
Go your way, eat the fat and drink sweet wine and send portions of them to those for whom nothing is prepared, for this day is holy to our Lord; and do not be grieved (Neh. 8:10).
Tears without hope; lamentation without joy; this simply will not do for our Lord. Or, rather, this is not what our Lord wants for us.
For the joy of the Lord is your strength (Neh. 8:10).
Nehemiah, perhaps, anticipates a turn: a loss of hope and a resistance to joy which can creep into our lives when we grow weary and begin to let despair or apathy take the wheel.
Certainly, we’ve all been there at some point (perhaps you’re there right now) –weighed down by despair, crippled by our own limitations, inclined to turn away, to turn inward, the world growing smaller and ourselves growing more isolated. Longing for a past that just won’t come again; standing in a present that is not what we had hoped for nor what we thought was promised to us.
On Being with Krista Tippett, which many of you are no doubt familiar with, features a segment occasionally called Living the Questions where Tippet muses on questions put to her from her community of listeners. A few years ago, she addressed a recurring question, one just as relevant now (perhaps even more relevant now) than it was then:
How can we be present to what’s happening in the world without giving into despair and hopelessness? [3]
I’d reframe the question like this: As we stand in the crowded public square, how do we remain attentive to the Word of God when it is spoken amid destruction, oppression, sickness, grief, anger, or fear? How can we remain present to a hurting world while appropriately tending to the Christian hope in our own hurting hearts?
Our Baptismal Covenant calls us to attention, perseverance, proclamation, service, and a commitment to striving for justice and peace among all people, respecting the dignity of every human being (BCP 305).
How are we meant to do this and not to also weep over the state of the world? And yet, our first lesson brings with it a word from God: Do not be grieved (Neh. 8:10).
Are we truly meant to not grieve? What if this admonition is less about grief and more about hopelessness? Less about lamentation than about a deficient of true joy? Less about us and more about the God we follow?
For the joy of the Lord is your strength (Neh. 8:10).
In the words of Krista Tippet, “However seriously we must take what’s happening in the world and what the headlines are reflecting, it is never the full story of our time. It’s not the last word . . . It’s not the whole story of us.” [4]
As Ezra goes on and on, the people, starved for the Word, hungrily listen to stories of creation, of Noah and the ark, of Abraham and Sarah, of Joseph and his brothers, of the Egyptian captivity, of Miriam and Moses, of the Ten Commandments and God’s instructions for creating a community. [5]
We belong to a larger narrative, one held in the very palm of our Lord. This is what Ezra goes on and on about. And this is a narrative in which we play an important part. We must trust the long view even as we “embody and walk with and towards” [6] the promise.
It is true that hope and, especially joy, can often feel wrong, privileged even, where there is so much hurt. And yet, it is the joy of the Lord which is our strength.
In the words of Tippet:
I don’t think joy is a privilege. . . . I think luxury and comfort can be a privilege. But joy is a piece of basic human resilience. It’s a human birthright. And in fact, one of the paradoxical and amazing things about our species is how people are able to get through the worst, also, with their joy muscle intact.
So I think, if we want to call the world not just to justice but to joy and to flourishing, of which joy is a part, we have to find those ways and those places where that is also what we are finding and stirring and keeping alive in others. It’s that both/and. [7]
We are people of both/and. We are people that both grieve for the world, yes, and yet we are also people called to wake up into this hurting world and proclaim, Halleluiah, anyhow. [8]
Yes, it matters. Yes, we care. Yes, it hurts. Yes, we see it. Yes, we lament. Yes, we grow weary. And yet, we choose hope. We choose faith. We choose joy. Halleluiah, anyhow!
So let us remain hopeful. Let us purposefully and committedly practice joy. For we are people of God, part of a much larger narrative arch, that has been, is, and will be redeemed.
It is for this reason we can join that beloved spiritual as it cries out . . .
When peace like a river attendeth my way
When sorrows like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say
It is well, it is well with my soul. [9]
Amen.
[1] Written with gratitude to Fritz Wendt for his commentary and lovely contextual imaginings, which inspired my own.
[2] Fritz Wendt, “The Joy of the Lord is our strength,” The Politics of Scripture, Political Theology Network, 21 January 2019, https://politicaltheology.com/the-joy-of-the-lord-is-our-strength-nehemiah-81-3-5-6-8-10.
[3] “Living the Questions: How can we be present to what’s happening in the world without giving into despair and hopelessness?”, On Being with Krista Tippett, 16 July 2018, https://onbeing.org/programs/living-the-questions-1.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Wendt, “The Joy of the Lord is our strength.”
[6] “Living the Questions,” On Being.
[7] Ibid.
[8] The term “hallelujah, anyhow” has been used by systemically oppressed people for centuries. It is the title of a much-beloved Gospel hymn and a memoir authored by the Rt. Reverend Barbara Harris.
[9] Horatio Spafford, “It is Well with My Soul,” Lift Every Voice and Sing II, ed. Horace Clarence Boyer (New York: Church Pub., 1993), #188.
