Here
Baruch 5:1-9
Take off the garment of your sorrow and affliction, O Jerusalem,
and put on for ever the beauty of the glory from God.
Put on the robe of the righteousness that comes from God;
put on your head the diadem of the glory of the Everlasting;
for God will show your splendor everywhere under heaven.
For God will give you evermore the name,
‘Righteous Peace, Godly Glory’.
Arise, O Jerusalem, stand upon the height;
look towards the east,
and see your children gathered from west and east
at the word of the Holy One,
rejoicing that God has remembered them.
For they went out from you on foot,
led away by their enemies;
but God will bring them back to you,
carried in glory, as on a royal throne.
For God has ordered that every high mountain and the everlasting hills be made low
and the valleys filled up, to make level ground,
so that Israel may walk safely in the glory of God.
The woods and every fragrant tree
have shaded Israel at God’s command.
For God will lead Israel with joy,
in the light of his glory,
with the mercy and righteousness that come from him.
The Book of Baruch probably isn’t super familiar to most of you. It’s not to me. That’s because, while it is an option for the lectionary this week, it’s not actually officially part of our Protestant canon. It’s in the Apocrypha, which is a group of stories written between 200BCE and 400CE with direct connections to Biblical stories, prophets, and other figures that a bunch of learned and snooty scholars in 16th and 17th centuries decided shouldn’t be considered official canon. Some of these books are considered canon in Catholic and Orthodox traditions, but not in Protestant traditions. But when I read this passage that Sue read for us today, I couldn’t not pick it. It’s so beautiful, and so perfect for the second Sunday in Advent—a day when we’re supposed to focusing on both hope and especially peace.
But because of our collective lack of familiarity with Baruch, it’s going to require a little background and context. And when I say a little, I mean a little, because there’s not much known about Baruch. It’s not even known for sure whether or not he was a real person. If he did indeed exist, he was known to be the major prophet Jeremiah’s scribe, secretary, and close confidant. He’s mentioned a few times in Jeremiah, one of the most meaningful times in chapters 43-45, in which the Babylonian exile is prophesied. Jeremiah explains to Israel’s leaders that the Babylonian takeover will indeed occur, and that God wanted the Jews to stay put, and essentially grin and bear it for a while. Well the noblemen of Jerusalem do not like this instructions, so instead of trusting Jeremiah and Baruch, and therefore, instead of trusting God, they decide to try to revolt, and then when that doesn’t work, to escape to Egypt. Baruch is then forced to go with them, against his own will, and against the will of God. In Egypt, Baruch is despondent, sure he will be punished by God for fleeing to Egypt. But God, seemingly speaking directly to Baruch, in Jeremiah, 45:5, says, “…I will give you your life as a prize of war in every place to which you may go.” “In every place to which you may go.” God is making it clear that God knows Baruch is a good and faithful person; that he was forced to Egypt because of circumstances out of his control; that Baruch will be safe and protected by God no matter where he may end up. So this, I believe provides great context for the book of Baruch—a book that starts as a lament, continues through to confession and repentance, and ends with consolation and hope—for a time in which the world is finally at peace.
It’s worth noting that if we look back a little in the book of Baruch, to chapter 4 verse 20, the section of confession and repentance, Baruch writes, “I have taken off the robe of peace, / and put on a sackcloth for my supplication…”. The beginning of today’s passage is the reverse of this—“Take off the garment of your sorrow and affliction, O Jerusalem, / and put on for ever the / beauty of the glory from God. / Put on the robe of the righteousness that comes from God …”. Now, when this was written, the Babylonian exile was still happening. But it seems there’s a light at the end of the tunnel here; it seems that Baruch truly believes that the end of this time of struggle is near, and that God is leading them back to the promised land. Thanks to God making it clear that God never left Baruch’s side, Baruch’s hope and faith remained steadfast during this difficult time, and he’s now looking forward to a future of hope and light.
At Bible study this week, Maggie pointed us to a wonderful episode of the podcast On Being from a couple years ago, in which host Krista Tippett interviews Irish theologian, poet and peace activist Padraig O Tuama. At one point in the interview, O Tuama shares some of his favorite poem, Lost by David Wagoner. The beginning of the poem reads, “Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you / Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, / And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, / Must ask permission to know it and be known.” Wherever you are is called Here.
We all want to be in a place where we can take off our masks in sing freely. We all want to be in a place where we know for certain that this next COVID variant is nothing to worry about. We all want to be in a place where there is no more Christmas stress, no more socioeconomic difficulties or disparities. But we are Here. And Here is a place we haven’t been before. Even in these familiar physical spaces—whether it be in this festive church, or in your cozy homes on Zoom, Here is a place we haven’t yet been. We’re learning as we go, and we can choose to be afraid of the powerful stranger of Here, and these changes and new experiences we’re bombarded with daily, or we can choose to face them head on—knowing that God is with us, no matter where Here is; whether Here is good and joyful for us right now, or heart-wrenching and terrifying. No matter if we feel lost or found.
Now let me recite the rest of this poem for you: “The forest breathes. Listens. It answers, / I have made this place around you. / If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here. / No two trees are the same to Raven. / No two branches are the same to Wren. / If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you, / You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows / Where you are. You must let it find you.”
The reason I chose Baruch as our scripture for this Sunday was the section of verses 5 and 6: “Arise, O Jerusalem, stand upon the height; / look towards the east, / and see your children / gathered from west and east / at the word of the Holy One, / rejoicing that God has remembered them. / For they went out from you on foot, / led away by their enemies; / but God will bring them back to you, / carried in glory, as on a royal throne.” It’s this beautiful imagery, as if God’s children were in some kind of trance, out of their control, suddenly and joyfully snapping out of it, and returning from their long exile, back to their home, back to the perfect Here. Like in Wagoner’s poem, “If you leave, you may come back again, saying Here.” We may wander, we may be tempted, we may be forced away from the Here where we want to be by our enemies, by our own inner demons, but we are always welcomed back, Church; more than always being welcomed back, we never truly leave. We’re never forgotten by God, nothing can ever separate us from that perfect love and that perfect peace, no matter how hard that love and peace may be find sometimes.
Another beautiful thing about Baruch, is that in the entirety of this short, beautiful book, he never differentiates the “good” from the “bad,” or the “unfaithful” from the “faithful.” All are included in God’s ultimate plan to bring everyone back together, those who fled by choice, and those who fled by force. In a nation as divided as we are, this is certainly an attitude that we can take some lessons from. A couple weeks ago, surely there were fractured families, split by ideological differences exacerbated by the extreme partisanship that seems ubiquitous today; in a several weeks during Christmas gatherings, this will surely be a problem again. There are, unfortunately situations where the best course of action is to end relationships with people who were once important parts of our lives, for our own physical, emotional, and mental health; but I do believe, especially in the time we live in now, that it’s important to keep a sliver of the door open to future communication with most people. It’s important to be open to someone changing, to someone getting the help they need and asking for forgiveness. It’s important to always leave the door open for peace. If we can find some nuanced gray area, some common ground with one another, maybe we can take some steps closer to making this earth as it is in Heaven. Maybe we can make Here a place that’s universally beneficial to every single person.
In that same episode of On Being, O Tuama brings up the 1998 Good Friday Agreement—the treaty that for all intense and purposes ended the 30+ years of the violent Troubles in Northern Ireland. While it didn’t make up for the years of British colonialism and violence, it did, ultimately, put an end to the extreme violence of the troubles and the occupation of Northern Ireland. But what O Tuama makes note of, is that one of the stipulations of the agreement, was that from then on, anyone born in Northern Ireland could choose a passport that claimed Irish citizenship, British citizenship, or both. In the interview, O Tuama says, “…that that piece of language is a really important piece of language. It introduces softness and more than just an either/or option into something that could have been tense.”[i] It takes away that black and white, that either/or. It moves into this gentle gray area of the being Here. And for these folks who lived through the violent divisions of the Troubles, they now had the option of the Here being what they believe is right for them; Here can be Ireland, Here can be Britain. Here can be both. Like Baruch, proclaiming the return of the exiled from the East and the West, there is a hope for a return; hope for a return of a unity and peace, in a place called Here.
While we won’t get any kind of official treaty to end the divisions in this country, I think we can still learn something from this beautiful gray area. For some of us, Here may not be where we want to be or where we think we should be; but Here can be a place challenge and growth in a place that feels tired and stagnant. Here can be a place of perseverance and strength, in the midst of what feels like failure and weakness. Here can be a place of peace and hope in a place that feels war-torn and hopeless.
Though Baruch was likely still in exile when this testament was written, he had faith and hope in better and peaceful times ahead. He faith and hope in all of God’s people, not just the ones who worshipped the same way he did. He realized that despite his current place of Here being a place of exile, it was still a place where he could feel God’s presence; a place called Here where he knew he would never be forgotten or abandoned or thrown to the wolves.
The news of this past week has been rough—between new variants, the deadliest school shooting this year, and the never-ending and debate around women’s healthcare and autonomy, I haven’t felt very good about Here. Here doesn’t feel especially safe right now, even in this idyllic Vermont setting. It’s easy to wonder if we’re being punished, if we messed up so bad that God is throwing us into exile and forgetting about us. But remember Baruch, who, even in his forced exile, even when he was sure his life was over for going against God’s will, God made it clear that he would be safe every place to which he would go.
This is not an especially peaceful world right now. But I hope we can work to see some light at the end of the tunnel; and if we can’t I believe that together we can work to make some light at the end of the tunnel. Remember, Advent is a time of waiting and preparation. And though we’re still waiting, and we’re not out of exile yet, let’s prepare by taking off our garments of sorrow; and put on our robes of righteousness, our robes of peace. And let’s make Here a place of peace, as it is in heaven. Amen.
[i] https://onbeing.org/programs/padraig-o-tuama-belonging-creates-and-undoes-us/#transcript
