What if we are neighbors?

On Wednesday evening, I attended an interfaith

Passover seder down the street at Indianapolis Hebrew

Congregation. It was not my first Passover seder, the

annual ritual meal commemorating the liberation

of God’s people from slavery in Egypt through the

wilderness to the promised land. But this experience

was unique. At my table I was joined by a rabbi, an

imam, and a family of seven from the Latter-day Saints

community. When we were invited to write down one

thing that we would let go to free our souls, a symbol

of the cleansing to open the meal, the five-year-old girl

sitting next to me leaned over and whispered, “How do

you spell ‘Yelling?’” I figured that might be a good start

for all of us.

Joined by strangers who are neighbors, we walked

through the rituals and the prayers of the seder rooted

in that ancient story. But what struck me throughout

the evening was the explicit connection between that

story and our stories. At one point we were invited to

consider what held us captive. At another time, we

were offered the charge: how can you extend freedom

to others? There was a direct link made between all

who suffer oppression and injustice in every age. It

struck me again that these Biblical stories are true not

because they happened once, but because they are

happening now. How they speak of and to universal

human conditions. How these ancient stories are built

to last.

The words you’ve just heard from a letter written to

a people in exile were penned by Jeremiah, the child

prophet, the agent of God’s will, first called as a youth.

They are written to a community in a moment of crisis.

Things had fallen apart. They were exiled in Babylon,

removed from everything they knew and everyone they

loved, forced to live as refugees in an empire ruled by

the powerful King Nebuchadnezzar. In that context,

in that crisis, in that moment, the prophet delivers a

series of astonishing orders. God commands the exiles

to begin the construction of homes, to till the soil

and plant gardens, to celebrate marriages and raise

families. God calls people of faith to build a life in a

hostile land.

What if we are neighbors?

Jeremiah tells the exiles to seek the shalom (the

wholeness, the peace, the wellbeing) of the very place

where they are captive. Why? Because their futures are

woven together. Because there is no “us” and “them.”

Because in time, the broken pieces of a shattered

reality must be rebuilt to form a beautiful mosaic of

unity. Because the wilderness of exile will not last

forever and must be refashioned into a neighborhood.

Confirmands, I’m talking to you. The wilderness of exile

must be refashioned into a neighborhood.

In just a few moments, we will welcome you, the Class

of 2024 confirmands, as new members of Second

Presbyterian Church. For many weeks now, you have

prepared for this day—studied scripture, reflected

on what it means to follow Jesus, deepened your

understanding of the Church and this church. You have

crafted your own statements of faith, and I have read

them. Friends, like all of us, our confirmands recognize

that we live in difficult times. They feel the foundations

shaking. They know that total collapse is as likely as

restoration. And so, these ancient stories of exile feel

relevant to us. We, too, know dislocation, division, and

despair. We, too, must ask, “What does faithful living

look like right now?”

I am no prophet, but in the words of Jeremiah I find

a three-part charge that might offer a roadmap for

rebuilding in exile. Call it three phases of construction.

First, we are called to build a sense of self. You see, the

exiles living in Babylon were assaulted with messages

designed to deconstruct and redefine their very

identity. They were denied the rituals that reminded

them of who they were and to whom they belonged.

And so, before they could begin the work of building

houses and planting gardens, God’s people had to

remember their primary identity.

Who are we? In our exilic time there is no shortage

of messages designed to answer that question for

us. Social media companies invest billions of dollars

in algorithms that sort us into tribes and feed us

information designed to increase engagement by

driving our enragement. We are relentlessly reminded

of what we lack, of who we are not. We are compared

to the filtered images and imagined lives of strangers

and told that we just don’t measure up. And so, to resist

the subtle siren songs and sophisticated systems that

aim to deconstruct and redefine us, we must regularly

be reminded who we really are and what truly matters.

You are a child of God. Full stop. Your primary identity

will never be the labels placed on you or the messages

fed to you by those only interested in capturing your

attention for monetary gain. Yes, the chaos and the

noise that surround us threaten to drown out the voice

of the Spirit. Do not let this happen. Do not let them

define you. Remember who you are.

Next, we are called to build community. This is what

Jeremiah commands the exiles to do, to make a home

right where you are. Call it the art of neighboring. It

takes a lot of time. It takes intention. A couple of years

ago, some of us had the opportunity to hear Bryan

Stevenson speak at Butler University. Bryan leads the

Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama, and

in his book Just Mercy, he describes what it was like to

grow up in the racially segregated community that was

his home in Delaware.

Stevenson remembers his grandmother telling him,

“You can’t understand most of the important things

from a distance. You have to get close.” Stephenson

describes this as the power of proximity. Getting close

changes us. Intention. Time. Once you discover the

humanity of another person there is no going back to

writing them off. The work of the faithful is to transform

spaces of hostility into neighborhoods—the kinds of

places where relationships matter.

I think you should know about my friend Bud

Braddock. Bud shares a birthday with our son Ben,

eight decades apart. I first met Bud back in 2008 when

a mutual friend invited me up to the mountains where

my friend has a cabin and Bud lives full time. After

forty-two years in the Forest Service, Bud and his wife

Pat returned to her hometown of Suches, Georgia—

population 888. They built a home in the hardwoods

of Appalachia. Then Bud remembered his father’s

wisdom. “Son, when you retire, don’t sit on the porch

in a rocking chair, or you’ll be dead in two years.” So,

Bud got busy. He started by leading hikes, and then

he learned and taught the history of the region to

locals and interlopers like me. He would lead “history

hikes,” complete with photographs and timelines.

He mentored students in the community school

that serves kindergarten through twelfth grade. He

became a deacon at the Mt. Lebanon Baptist Church.

Before long, he began to hear about the needs of his

neighbors, many living in poverty but too proud to ask

for help. So, Bud quietly gathered a few folks together

under the radar, and soon they were surreptitiously

drilling wells for neighbors who needed clean water.

They anonymously purchased tombstones for families

who couldn’t afford them. Christmas presents showed

up for children who wouldn’t get any. Without fanfare,

they fixed screen doors, built ramps, patched roofs,

split wood, planted gardens, brought groceries, and

sat on porches listening to the stories of the elderly.

Now Bud is a man of very few words, especially

about himself. He is also one of the finest preachers

of the gospel message I have ever met. He loves God

by loving his brothers and sisters. Right next to his

meticulously planted garden, no weed in sight, bursting

with vegetables he will one day give away, there is a

large shed that Bud built with his own hands. And on

that shed, there is a simple sign which he also made,

painted forest service brown. The sign says, “When

your barn is well fill’d all snug and secure/ Be thankful

to God and remember the poor.”

What if we are neighbors?

In the shalom of your neighbors, you will find your own.

The final charge comes with a promise. When you call

upon me, when you come and pray to me, I will hear

you. When you search for me, you will find me. We are

called to build a sturdy faith.

Today we celebrate a milestone in the lives of our

confirmands, and perhaps it’s a good day to reflect

on those moments in our own lives of consequential

decision, those moments that have been turning

points for us, those moments of deep commitment,

those moments of transformation, those moments

around which there is a before and an after. But we

should also remember today that discipleship is never

a destination, always a journey. If God has a plan filled

with hope for you, then living into that plan is a daily

decision. You see, we build faith the same way we build

a life. Brick by brick. Choice by choice. Step by step.

Moment by moment. How we spend our days is how

we spend our lives. If you are looking, you will find God

in the messy middle of it all.

So, how do we live in times of exile and uncertainty?

Remember who you are.

Get close enough to practice the art of neighboring.

Build faith by walking daily with God.

I was reminded again this week of the distinction made

by the writer David Brooks between resumé virtues and

eulogy virtues. The first are those skills and experiences

that you bring to the marketplace—they are necessary,

and they are helpful, but they are far from sufficient for

a meaningful life. Eulogy virtues are different. They are

those qualities of your life that will one day be lifted up

at your funeral. Now, having given and heard hundreds

of eulogies, I can tell you this: when it comes time to

summarize your earthly years, those who love you will

say precious little about the pile of accomplishments

you have earned, even less about all the things you’ve

accumulated. The bullet points on your resumé will

be a blip on the radar. Their gratitude for you will be

rooted in the kind of person you became, the quality of

community you formed and served, the depth of faith

you cultivated.

You have been given this one precious life. For God’s

sake, don’t waste it on anything less. Amen.