Everything is broken. At least, that is the sweeping

and disconcerting conclusion drawn by writer Alana

Newhouse in a piece for Tablet Magazine. In her own

words, “The central idea [is] that we must accept

what is broken beyond repair in order to build our

communities and institutions anew.” I found the piece

captivating and ultimately hopeful, which surprised

me given its starting point, which was the harrowing

journey to find a diagnosis and treatment for the

author’s very sick infant child. At one point in that

journey, Newhouse remembers a doctor confessing,

“I don’t know how else to tell you this but bluntly.

There are still many good individuals involved in

medicine, but the American medical system is

profoundly broken.”

Everything is broken. Paradoxically, acknowledging

this reality might be the best way for us to begin

a new program year at Second Presbyterian

Church. After all, confessing brokenness is what

we do. It is one of our core spiritual (and profoundly

countercultural) practices in Christian community.

Whenever we gather in the presence of a Holy God,

we are aware of how often and how far we fall short

of our own call to live holy and faithful lives. We are

broken. This is true of each of us individually, and it

is true of the systems and institutions that we broken

humans create. Brokenness is a hallmark of humanity.

And so, it is the level ground on which all of us stand

together as one. So let’s start there.

Everything was broken. That’s how the book of the

Prophet Isaiah begins—the people of God under risk

from within and threat from beyond. The prophet

describes it in the first chapter in graphic poetic

terms, writing, “The whole head is sick and the whole

heart grows faint…your country lies desolate, and

your cities are burned with fire.” This is the context

in which the prophet begins his God-given task of

imagining a different reality. By acknowledging the

collapse, the destruction, the desolation, the sickness

of the head, and the faintness of the heart, Isaiah

clears the way for prophetic imagination—the path

from painful present to hopeful future.

This morning’s passage, fifty-seven chapters later,

describes the return of the exiles from their captivity

in Babylon back to the holy city of Jerusalem. But

what they find is not what their grandparents left

behind seventy years earlier. The city is in shambles.

The temple—the house of God, the dwelling place

of the Almighty—utterly destroyed. Faith is failing.

Hope all but lost. It is not relief but despair that

characterizes the end of exile. Everything is broken.

So, what is to be done about such pervasive,

pernicious, painful collapse?

What is our responsibility in such a time as this?

There is grieving, to be sure. There is a period of

looking back and remembering. Many of us will

spend time in the coming days remembering the

tragic events of September 11th, 2001, and the

lament over what was and no longer is. There will

be communal sadness over what has been lost. And

so there was for the prophet Isaiah. There is grief to

be sure.

But there is more. There is another chapter. There

is a new beginning. The prophet’s task is to

intentionally move God’s people from immobilizing

heartbreak to galvanizing vision. There is a

future. Embracing it begins in the defiant act of

imagination. Nothing is impossible for the God of

creation. And so, prophetic communities dare to

imagine another way forward.

We grieve. We imagine. And then, only then, we

rebuild. We renew and revive our commitment to

what matters most. That’s the message of the series

of “if…then” statements that permeates Isaiah’s

prophecy to the returning exiles. If you…then God.

So, what was theirs to do? The prophet is clear,

the list comprehensive. Share your bread with

the hungry. Bring the homeless into your house.

Clothe the naked. Remove the shackles of injustice,

the pointing of fingers, the speaking of evil. If, if, if

you do that…then, then, then God’s light will rise,

your parched places will be refreshed, your failing

strength will be renewed. If we…then God.

I take it from the prophet’s words, and the wisdom

of a 17 year old from Brownsburg, Indiana1

, that the

work of rebuilding is not the result of some grand

unifying theory. It’s not a strategic plan. It is about

intentionally living the way God commands us to live.

And so, I take it the work of rebuilding begins in the

most basic decisions of individuals—turning away

from accusations (finger pointing) and acrimony (the

speaking of evil), turning toward our neighbors in

compassion and care. When everything is broken, it

may seem to us that only powerful people or dramatic

systemic change can have any positive impact. But

the truth is that rebuilding happens brick by brick by

brick, that each of us has a role to play and, yes, a

brick to lay.

Afterall, everything is broken. We are a deeply divided

land, where disagreement has given way to distrust,

and even disgust, threatening to fully sever the

bonds of commonality that have held us together for

centuries. This is no hyperbole, no overstatement.

Collapse is the context of our communal life. We

read about it. We experience it in our own lives. And

then we come in here, and in such a time as this, the

temptation for us in the church might be to withdraw,

to turn away, to hunker down, to retreat from the

chaos of the world. I hear it from time to time. I hear it

from some of you. Can’t you just talk about Jesus and

leave the other stuff out? I hear it. I hear it from some

of you. I come to church to get away from all of that. I

get it. It’s understandable. But it would be unfaithful.

I am fully persuaded that God calls us to more than

sectarian isolationism.

What God calls us to is Tikkun Olam. That’s the

Hebrew phrase. It literally means “to repair the

world.” The phrase was used by rabbis in the first

and second century to describe the role of the faith

community. Tikkun Olam—to repair the world—points

to the notion that we bear responsibility not only for

our own moral and spiritual welfare, but also for the

good of the society at large, especially for those at

greatest need.

We are called to repair the world. And if that call feels

overwhelming or intimidating…good. You’re beginning

to grasp its meaning. The work of justice, compassion,

peace, love is difficult at any age, in any context, and

in our time of disconnection and division it may be

harder still.

And so, we need to trust that the promise voiced by

the prophet is true for us as well. Listen one more

time. If you stop pointing your fingers, if you cease

speaking evil of each other, if you give your food to

the hungry, if you satisfy the needs of the afflicted…

then God will guide you, the Lord satisfy your needs,

make your bones strong, you shall be like a refreshing,

watered garden. Isaiah says that God’s people will be

called repairers of the breach.

And so, I wonder, what if this phrase was the

animating force of the Christian movement in our

time? What if we adopted as a slogan words straight

from our holy text?

The Church:

We repair what is broken.

We restore community.

We insist on seeing the image of God and the spirit of

Christ in all whom we encounter.

We live not for ourselves, but for Christ who died for us.

You see, the world will know we belong to Christ not

by the cleverness of our message, by the arguments

we win, the points we score, the opponents we crush,

the purity we maintain, or the power we acquire.

They will know we belong to him by the way we love.

That’s all.

The tears in the fabric meant to weave us together

are so easy to find. Distrust and division imperil

every movement toward the common good we might

pursue. There are threats of violence and lack of

decency driving us further into fear and enmity. This

moment demands a courageous faith rooted not in

human power but in the sovereign grace of Almighty

God. So, let that grace be the fuel for a movement of

reconciliation, healing, and repair. It’s time to rebuild.

I have mentioned before the interesting and

sometimes disquieting subject lines of emails that

I receive. You seem to enjoy those, so here’s one

more. Before a recent sermon on faith and politics,

an email was titled, “Bad Idea.” Fair enough. Way

back in April, an email arrived from a longtime

member of the church with the subject line: “Protest

Sign?” I gathered my strength for a testy exchange,

particularly given the pressures of the last three

years. The text of the email reads: “Entering 7700 N.

Meridian Street, I see this sign. Look, if Second is

going to protest, why don’t we focus on world hunger

or war or pollution. Let’s shoot higher next time.” The

attached picture was of something you’ve all seen.

The orange sign in our driveway. End Construction.

Now, while I imagine many of you who have had the

pleasure of driving up or down Meridian this summer

would endorse that movement, I think that sign

gets it entirely wrong. This is not the place where

construction ends. It is the place to begin rebuilding.

So, what if we did something truly radical? What if we

stood in the rubble of collapsed community and failed

institutions and we imagined a different way of being?

What if we made the bold decision to disengage

from an endless cycle of rage and retribution? What

if we divested from the anger industrial complex?

What if we stopped majoring in the minors—pointing

fingers and speaking evil of each other? What if

we confessed the brokenness that is within us and

around us and part of us?

And then, what if we simply started over?

Everything may be broken, but, you see, this is the

great gift of faith—faith in something bigger and

more powerful than ourselves. It is the promise that

we can always begin again because God is never

finished with us. It is as true for individuals as it is of

institutions. We can start over. And, when we do, the

prophet declares, “Then you shall call, and the Lord

will answer; then you shall cry for help, and God will

say, ‘I’ve been here all along.’” For the Spirit of God is

always waiting to respond to our heartfelt prayers, our

faithful action.

And so, my friends, this year, let us be committed.

Let us be courageous. Let us be kind.

Let us show a better way.

Let’s do this.

Let’s lead a movement toward reconciliation.

Let’s launch a revival of compassion.

Let’s spark a renewal of civility.

Let’s repair what is broken.

Let’s pray and work for the restoration of the streets

in our city, and our relationships, and our hearts, and

our land.

And let it begin here. Let it begin now. Let it begin

with us.

Let’s rebuild. It’s time. Amen.