Buying Land

Jeremiah 32:1-9; 2 Corinthians 4:16-18; Mark 5:35-36

In one of the strangest land deals recorded, the prophet Jeremiah buys acreage in the middle of a city under siege by an invading army intent on destroying the city, leaving it in utter ruins. Sure, the price may have been great (“EVERYTHING MUST GO!!”), but, still, it seems more than ridiculous to buy land in a city at war. But, of course, as Soren Kierkegaard pointed out, the faith in God outlined in our scriptures is utterly ridiculous by the standards of the world (Works of Love, pp. 184-192)—it is a ludicrous affirmation of hope in even the most hopeless situation or circumstance we can imagine—for instance, it is logically and rationally ridiculous to stand beside a grave as the body is lowered down, proclaiming that there is good news, life everlasting, and the certain assurance that all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well. Such thinking leads to land deals that are sure to break the buyer who stupidly clings to the promise that this is going to work out.

But is it really so stupid?

Without immediately getting defensive—which usually also entails not thinking—consider a careful response in a time and place that does not understand the hope that drives Jeremiah. He walks with God, so the world as it is matters little to him because he walks in the hope of the world as it can be in the presence of God’s transformative and transcendent love. In other words, things as they are is not as they have to be—nothing is truly fixed in place in the presence of God—or, more theologically, resurrection happens here and now.

Which lands us squarely in the middle of another conversation that rationally and logically makes no sense whatsoever. A child is grievously ill, so her father in desperation runs out to grab a wandering rabbi with a reputation for tremendous—even miraculous power—hoping beyond hope that his child will be saved. Getting Jesus takes too long, however—the child dies. This horrific news arrives, and, grief-struck, the father’s friends tell him not to bother Jesus any longer—there is no point—the situation crossed over into abject hopelessness. But listen to Jesus—it is not over—there is nothing to fear—hope still lives. 

A rational, materialist—i.e., any one of the multitude of cultured despisers found writing and speaking in any number of well-visited outlets—will immediately recoil at the absurdity and outright meanness of Jesus’ response—a man has lost his child—to tell him that all is not lost is cruel, asking him to rise to a place no parent can ever rise to—let go of the pain of the hole left by the missing child? You might as well ask him to mutilate himself—that would hurt less. You chastise his grief.

But that is not what Jesus means or does at all, is it? Jesus knows a different story, a different outcome, wrought by tapping into something immaterial and irrational—the presence of God. In that presence, outcomes are not sealed—ever. There is always hope. He is not dismissing the father’s grief. He is not criticizing him for feeling his loss to the depth of his being. What he is doing is offering the father the presence of the Father in whom there is power beyond all reason and possibilities that have nothing to do with material existence. 

This same thinking governs Paul’s writing read this morning. 

Paul assesses his Corinthians congregation, and what he finds is the ubiquity of suffering. Every person there is marked by suffering of some kind. 

That is true here, as well—we all carry the scars of being alive. As we peruse our prayer list, we see how varied, diverse, and divergent are the ways human beings can hurt. Some suffer medical problems. Some suffer emotional upheaval. Some deal with enforced separation by military service. Some deal with job stress. Some deal with grief. Some deal with simply being old. Some deal with addiction. But all deal with the same root problem—living comes with its pitfalls and pratfalls, and entering them hurts. It is not that we morally weak, or spiritually inhibited, or simply too frail to deal with life—quite the opposite—I find that something that unites human beings is a nearly miraculous resilience and fortitude in the face of suffering—but it still hurts, dimming hopes and vacating outlooks.

Paul, though, sees help on the way—the presence of God, through whom will come release, liberation, and redemption from all that breaks us—and it will be a release that nothing can touch, take from us, or eradicate. 

Which takes us back to Jesus and the grieving father.

Jesus knows that, through God, resolution will come, and that such resolution will heal the father’s grief and release him and his child from the misery endured. If you know this story, you know that what comes next is one of the most beautiful moments in scripture—Jesus goes to the little girl and speaks gently, tenderly to her dead on the bed, Talitha cum. “Little one, get up.” So great is the presence of love that she rises. 

Now take it further.

Realize that what our faith professes at its very core is that even if the child had not risen back into material, vibrant life—running to her father, laughing delightedly, free from her illness—she still would have risen into indefatigable life nonetheless. She would have risen to her Father instead of her father, but her joy, release, and wholeness would be no less. As an old, old hymn sings, “It is well with the child…”

We long and hunger for salvation to come in the material, rational events of life as we seek to make it—you know, success is the big salary, big house(s), beautiful/handsome spouse, European sedan in the driveway—but God rarely works that way, preferring the deeper, more profound restoration of existence itself that brings life into death, hope into darkness, and resurrection into the here and now.

Yes, there will be moments of miraculous recovery into life as we know it—a patient will rise and walk when everyone thought otherwise—but more often—even in scripture, miracles are miracles because they are so very rare—recovery, redemption, and release will be something other. It will be something that frees our hearts and minds. It will be something that defies all logic and expectation. What will come through without hindrance or hurdle is that suffering will end—it is limited in scope and power—and that God, love, and life will flourish. A cross—symbol of meaningless execution—can become a sign of grace; a tomb can be emptied of its power and finality. 

And that is what drove Jeremiah to buy a piece of land he would never live upon. Someone would, and someone would be well, happy, and whole.

Jeremiah believed that with every fiber of his being.

Jeremiah walked with God.