Sermon notes from Sunday, April 3rd
A highly underrated part of ministry is the gift of finding the best books for children in church. Recently I came across this delightful story entitled It Will Be Okay: Trusting God Through Fear and Change. The illustrations are marvelous, and this little book ostensibly written for small children delivers the heart of holy scripture to readers of any age. This is the story of two best friends, Little Seed and Little Fox. Little Seed lives in a cozy packet in the safe, warm shed of the Farmer. Day by day, Little Seed saw the Farmer come into the shed and take a seed in his hands and say, “I have a good plan for you.” “Little Seed knew that the Farmer was good and kind, but he did not want to leave his home.”
Little Fox lives in his cozy den in the forest. But he is scared of dark shadows and noises. One day during a storm, Little Fox runs into the cozy garden shed, and, of course, meets the little seed with whom he becomes friends. They play and laugh, and all is well and happy, until one day the Farmer comes. He takes Little Seed in his hand and whispers, “Little Seed, I have a wonderful plan for you. I have waited for just the right time, and today is the day!” Little Seed is terrified. He does not want to go! The Farmer takes Little Seed out into the garden and presses him deep into the ground. It is a dark place. It is a strange place. It is a messy, frightening place. Little Fox looks all over for his friend, but the seed is nowhere to be found. All seems lost…but - the story tells us - the Farmer was good, and the Farmer was kind, and the Farmer was always watching over them. Even when they did not know it.
The two friends are scared and lonely. But Little Fox waits in the garden for his friend. And Little Seed waits in the dark, deep dirt. And the Farmer was good, and the farmer was kind, and the farmer was always watching over them. Even when they did not know it.
Of course, little seeds pressed gently into the ground and tended by a good gardener do not stay little seeds forever. Little Seed becomes a sprout, and then a beautiful tree, and the friends are reunited once more, happy and safe, in a place far more magnificent than they had ever imagined. The story tells us that Little Seed liked things to stay the way they were. And sometimes Little Fox was afraid. But “just as they learned to trust the Farmer, we can learn to trust God. We do not need to fear…” He is good and he is kind, and he is always watching over us, even in places that are dark, strange, and messy.
This story of Little Seed and Little Fox is over two thousand years old. It is - with marvelous illustrations - the Book of the Prophet Isaiah. Isaiah was likely authored during three different eras of the history of Israel over the course of about two centuries that defined the evolving story of God’s chosen people. In the eighth century BCE, the Assyrian invasion of the northern kingdom of Israel prompted the prophet Isaiah ben Amoz to write about God’s judgment and the promise of restoration for the righteous. The middle section of the book, chapters 40 through 54, are written sometime in the sixth century when Israel has been forced into exile in Babylon. And the third section seems to have been written after Israel has returned to Jerusalem and the greater Promised Land following their captivity. The book is rich in promise, and the entirety of the prophecy tells of God’s provision. The Farmer was good. And the Farmer was kind. And the Farmer was always watching over them, even when they did not know it.
Today’s text comes from the frightening, strange, messy middle place of exile. Isaiah 43 is a song sung in the wilderness - by a seed buried in the darkness. It begins with a reminder of the foundational story of Israel: the Exodus. “Thus says the Lord who makes a way in the sea, a path through the mighty waters.” This is the story of God’s chosen people. This is the rock upon which the psalms and stories and songs of Israel are built. The liberation of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt is how they know themselves and how they know God. There was a mighty ocean. There was an undefeatable oppressor. And God made a way. This memory is an identity. It is their assurance. It is the key to understanding absolutely every other singular thing.
But then the strange turn: “Do not remember the former things or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing. Now it streams forth. Do you not perceive it?” What is this catastrophe? What is this surprising, impossible call? Imagine: you are a people in exile, oppressed again by foreign powers and over a thousand miles from the home that your history has promised to be your inheritance. The only thing keeping you strong and sane and connected with your neighbors is this story. This way of knowing yourself and of recognizing God. This history is the only thing you could take with you. This lullaby that you sing to your children. And here, thus saith the Lord: “I am about to do a new thing.”
For the Israelites, every new thing seemed to bring disaster. A new thing? What, like a new foreign enemy? A new opportunity for failure? New violence? New exile? New chaos and destruction? No thanks, I would like to remain a seed, cozy in my garden shed, if it’s all the same litanies of heartbreak. Has there not been enough darkness, enough strangeness, enough mess?
But the Farmer is good. And the Farmer is kind. And the Farmer was watching over them, even when they did not know it.
It is said that people fear change, but I don’t think that’s true. People don’t fear change. They fear change for the worse. If you are sick, for example, and your doctor knows precisely the right medicine to give you to bring you back to health - that is a welcome change. If a relationship is broken and then someone offers forgiveness, if reconciliation blossoms out of the stirrings of trust and friendship, that is a change. If a community is suffering and then one day, they together decide to do something about it, that is change. We are not afraid of change for the better. We are afraid of change that might make things worse.
We do not see beyond the coziness of our garden shed. We do not see beyond the small places of grace we have desperately carved out amidst exile. We cling to the consolations we have found in the darkness, and we are terrified of letting them go, because what will we be without them? We cannot even begin to imagine ourselves growing into a tree.
The world in which we live most often speaks to us of change as something that will make things worse. Who will we be if our stories look different? If our church looks different? If our people look different? If the voices we hear and the things that we do together are different?
We forget that our salvation came and comes from a change: the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Error into truth. Sin into righteousness. Death into life. This holy season of Lent is God’s continual assurance that he is doing a new thing, making a way in the wilderness. It is the time of the little seed, pressed into the dirt, feeling alone and afraid, the time of exile and uncertainty. It is the holy Saturday of impossible grief. And yet- the Farmer is good. And the Farmer is kind. And the Farmer is watching over us, even when we do not know it. Now is the time to perceive it.
Preached by Mother Brit Frazier
3 April 2022
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia