The kings of the earth did not believe, nor did any of the inhabitants of the world, that foe or enemy could enter the gates of Jerusalem.
What a whirlwind of emotions these last three chapters of Lamentations is. It begins with the writing bemoaning that God has abandoned the people, made them grind their teeth on gravel, shot arrows in their vitals, and made them sit in darkness. After these complaints, the author continues that God is a god of mercy and steadfast love, a love that is new every morning. The accompanying reflection is from Dietrich Bonhoeffer and reflects on the fact that since humanity has created artificial light and heat, we don’t have the same reverence for the morning, that brings with it light and heat – every day, just like God’s love.
It’s a sign of great faith that the author can talk about how merciful God is, after the deep complaints. It’s also a sign of a strong relationship, one that can withstand the complaints while still acknowledging the goodness in the other.
Another theme that appears in this section is that the people had such certitude that Jerusalem was impenetrable; they never thought an enemy could enter the gates. They’d built themselves a walled city that contained the people and all things holy, and rested in the knowledge that they were safe, they were chosen, they were ever-lasting. And then, they weren’t. They weren’t safe. Their chosen-ness didn’t indemnify them, and their reign from Jerusalem was perhaps not ever-lasting.
As I sit in my new community outside Pittsburgh, I’m struck by similarities I see between the people of Jerusalem, and modern-day people of faith. I don’t have a lot of experience beyond main-line Christianity, but I suspect there’s some relevance in other communities of faith too.
From my porch, I can see four beautiful stone churches that all have fallen into various states of disrepair. They were built at a time when steel mills were vibrant, jobs were many, and the community was thriving. The people who built and worshipped in these beautiful churches must have had a sense that they were equally chosen or ever-lasting. Now, the steel mills are gone along with the jobs, and the communities are struggling. The churches are abandoned or very sparsely attended.
It seems like this is a microcosm of mainline Christianity. There was a time when it was the in vogue thing to do - to be known as a member of a specific church, to be seen attending, and participating. It seems like there was a sense that this was a permanent state. But everyone who’s ever played King of the Mountain knows that your time on the mountain top is fleeting. You will be toppled.
I’m not suggesting that mainline Christianity has committed any sort of heinous sin that warrants God’s punishment or toppling our exalted position. But maybe it’s time for us to think about where we stand today, from a position that clearly isn’t king of the mountain. We’re perhaps in a position more like the early church, that didn’t have the benefit of cultural support, that wasn’t king of the mountain. Jesus was and remains king of the mountain, not our buildings or our denominations. Given the world as it is now, how can we use our buildings and our social capital to further Jesus’ reign? Maybe we need to focus on the real King, rather than the castles we built, thinking that the King lived in those castles. Maybe our prayer should be the same as the conclusion of Lamentations. “Restore us to yourself, O LORD , that we may be restored.”
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