Reading through the Bible, you will no doubt find passages that strain credulity. A fish opened its mouth and spit Jonah onto the shore? Another fish opened its mouth and spit out a coin for the disciples’ taxes? Hmm. Then you read other stories, and all you can say is, “Yep, of course.” Then, now, for as long as the world is what we know, true, absolutely true.
At the church council retreat Saturday, I read a passage from Ezra—admittedly, a book I don’t often cite—the third chapter, verses 10-13. Around 538 B.C., after half a century or so in Babylon, the exiles return in groups and waves to Judah and Jerusalem.
After a few months, they come to a holy moment. The rubble of Solomon’s temple, destroyed by the Babylonians, has been cleared and the foundation of a new temple laid on the site. The people gather to celebrate. This is a new beginning. Priests in their holy attire preside; musicians play; and the people shout with joy. For the younger folks in the crowd, Jerusalem and the temple were the stuff of dreams. “Someday,” they had said, “someday.” Now! Today! Home.
There are other folks in the crowd, much older, and they bring with them memories. They look at the new foundation, simple and small, and remember the glory and joy of worship in the one now gone, and they remember the people, memories now too, with whom they shared it all. This moment is a new beginning—joy, yes—and it’s a reminder of what is no more. They weep. They can’t help it. And we’re told that their weeping mixed with the joyous shouts, so that those hearing it all couldn’t tell the difference.
Yep, of course.
The writers could have left out the part about the weeping; it’s a prettier story without it; but they didn’t, because they couldn’t, because it’s true.
Your baby takes her first steps, and it’s wonderful, but you remember the infant in your arms. You watch your son head off to college. Wonderful. So, why the tears?
Every step forward carries us away from what was, and the path behind us disappears. Sometimes that’s a gift, sometimes a loss, and so often both.
We are returning from a pandemic, not as quickly as we thought, but returning nonetheless, in groups and waves. Home again and a new beginning. It’s joy. But we wonder: What have we lost? Whom have we lost? What was, that now won’t be? Is there grief with the joy?
I’m guessing it isn’t too hard for you to recall the best days of your life in the church. Your children were kids and involved, and the family together. Or you volunteered, working with friends: Hard work? Yes. Joy? Yes. Or maybe the best days were all about the people who sat around you in worship or Sunday School. The memories are gifts.
And now, with all our memories, we return, but it’s a new day, and the path behind us disappears. Are those shouts of joy I hear? Is there some weeping?
I invite you: Come home … with all your mixed feelings, with rejoicing and with tears.
Come with thanksgiving for your best days in the church. And come with prayers for what will be. This is indeed a new beginning in a new day, and the path stretches ahead, not back, but Christ is with us as we take the next steps, and we’re together. In this journey of ours, we’ll find worship, prayer, study, service, and the gift of presence and simple conversation—grace upon grace. We know that because we’ve known that.
And we know this, too: Somewhere years down the road, as the church looks back on these days of return, someone will smile and say, “Those were the best days for me, you know, my very best in the church.”
Yours in Christ,
Mark Westmoreland,
Senior Pastor