Trinity 3 2023
In the mid-1970s, a group of
women gathered together in Argentina, just a few to start with, and quite
ordinary women. The only thing they had in common was that each of them had a
son or a daughter who had been abducted by the ruling military dictatorship
who'd been “disappeared,” as they put it. Grieving and angry, they
couldn't rest without knowing what had become of their children. They couldn't
rest without calling to account those who had tortured and probably killed
them.
So, they gathered each
Thursday afternoon in the Plaza de Mayo outside Government House in the
capital. Eventually they took to wearing white headscarves with the names of
their children written on them, and carrying nails to remind them of that other
mother, whose son had been nailed to a cross. The mothers of the disappeared,
as they became known, were part of the process which led to the collapse of
military rule in Argentina. Their courage and persistence were quite awesome.
Despite the cost to themselves, they wouldn't give up. As one of them said, “when
the foreign journalists began to ask about us, the military used to say don't
take any notice of those old women. They're all mad. Of course, they called us
mad. How could the armed forces admit they were worried by a group of
middle-aged women? And anyway, we were mad when everyone was terrorised. We
didn't stay at home crying. We went to the streets to confront them directly.
We were mad, but it was the only way to stay sane”.
Those mothers weren't natural
campaigners. Most had spent their lives caring for their families, focused on
their own homes. But their passionate love for their children meant they
couldn't just shrug their shoulders and leave it to someone else to challenge
the injustices of their society. I thought of those brave women as I read
today's passage from the Old Testament. Poor Jeremiah. He was regarded by his
contemporaries as mad and troublesome like those mad old women in the Plaza de
Mayo, and he was treated with contempt and brutality too. He'd never wanted to
be a prophet, but he couldn't escape his calling any more than they could
escape the pain that led to their protest.
The time of Jeremiah was a
bad time to be a prophet, if there's ever a good time. The Babylonian army was
advancing inexorably on Israel, conquering and destroying. But the people of
Israel refused to acknowledge that they were at risk. The priests had told them
that God wouldn't let anything bad happen to them, and they chose to believe
it. Who wouldn't? They were convinced that it didn't matter what they did or
how they lived. It would all turn out for the best. God was on their side.
Protected by this fantasy,
corruption thrived. The wealthy oppressed the poor and the cohesion of the
nation was undermined. They only paid lip service, if that, to God, so they
weren't developing the kind of deep, trusting relationship with him that they
would need to carry them through the terrible times that were coming. So, God
called Jeremiah to speak out. Wake up! Open your eyes! It matters what you
do and how you live.
His message went down like a
lead balloon. He was ridiculed, arrested, maltreated. No one wanted to know.
Jeremiah was having a particularly bad day when he spoke the words we heard
today. He'd been prophesying in the temple the day before, and the priest,
Pashur, wanted to shut him up, so he'd put him in the stocks overnight. It was a
humiliating and painful punishment, and when Jeremiah was released in the
morning, he was furious: furious with the priest, but most of all furious with
God for calling him to this thankless task. You have enticed me, he
complained to God, and I was enticed. The word enticed is a very strong
one. In some versions it's translated as seduced or even deceived.
That's how Jeremiah feels about God at this minute, as if God's pulled a fast
one on him, got him into this without really telling him what he was letting
himself in for. And yet there's a tension in Jeremiah's lament. However furious
he is with God, he knows people need to hear this message, and in the end, he
cares more about that than his own safety. The words burn within him and insist
on being spoken. He's come to realise that God isn't motivated by
vindictiveness or cold judgement, but by love. This is a God who is passionate
about his people, desperate to help them through the days that are coming.
It's this passion that's
overpowered Jeremiah, seduced him, enticed him. But it's a true passion. It's
not a false trick. He's seen the depths of God's love, this God who delivers
the life of the needy from the hands of evildoer.
Jesus’ words to his disciples
in the gospel reading today are an attempt to prepare them for an equally
dangerous and unpopular ministry. And Matthew's account is written, of course,
for early Christians who also faced the daily reality of persecution and the
danger of death. Don't be afraid, says Jesus. What you're doing is worth
doing. It may sometimes feel like failure. Death and defeat may seem to
stare you in the face. But in the end, those who lose their lives for my sake
will find the true life that can't be destroyed.
The Bible passages we've
heard today, like the witness of all those who stood up for justice over the
ages, invite us to ask ourselves two questions. The first question is this. What
difference does my faith make to the way I lead my life? What impact has it had
on me and through me on others? What do I do because I'm a Christian? What do I
not do because I'm a Christian? When I come to a tricky situation, how does my
faith influence the way I deal with it? If we can't think of a way that our
faith changes us, well, that's something we should surely ponder, because when
push comes to shove, what's the point of it?
The second question follows
on. Faith should change the way we live, but that's not enough on its own. The
terrorists who destroyed the Twin Towers on September 11 2001, had a faith, and
it made a difference to their lives. But it was entirely destructive. Destructive
faith doesn’t have to look as dramatic as theirs, though. Plenty of people have
destroyed themselves and others through joyless faith, narrow faith, faith that
is driven by fear or the desire to dominate. Faith can be deep and powerful and
sincere, but not healthy at all. But that's not the faith that Jeremiah and
Jesus call us to. Their witness was rooted in the knowledge that God cared
passionately for them, as for all people, and so they should care passionately
too.
The mothers of the Plaza de
Mayo couldn't stop protesting because they couldn't stop loving their
children. God can't stop loving us, even if he wanted to. If we know that, if
we really know it, we’ll not only have a faith that’s strong and deep, but a
faith that's loving, sustaining and enriching too. And though it may bring
challenges, that kind of faith will keep us going long after a faith rooted in
fear or self-righteousness has faded away. So, this week we're invited to ask, How
does my faith change me?, but also Why does it change me? Is it
rooted in fear? The desire for approval? Just plain habit? Or is it rooted in
the knowledge of God's passionate, personal, endless love? God calls us all to
serve, to witness, to work with him in great ways or in small. If that feels
daunting, as perhaps it should, we need to open our ears to his words of
reassurance that whatever happens, his passionate love for us means that like
those brave, Argentinian mothers, he'll never give up on his children.
Amen
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