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.