Sermon: “Let Justice Roll”

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“Let Justice Roll”

By Caroline Dean

February 20, 2011

[ Audio (mp3, 6.1Mb) ]

Amos 5:21-24 we read God’s words: “I hate, I despise your festivals, and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies. Even though you offer me your burnt offerings, I will not accept them; and the offerings of your fatted animals, I will not look upon them. Take away from me the noise of your songs; I will not listen to the melody of your harps. But let justice roll down like waters, and let righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

Let us pray: Loving God, teach us to do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with you. Open our hearts and minds to your word for us today. Amen.

Amos has a tough job. He is a shepherd and a small-town guy and yet somehow he hears a call from God to speak a prophetic message to the people of Israel. Amos’ job is to call out Israel’s social injustices and religious arrogance. Now, the problem for Amos is that this is a period of prosperity in Israel’s history. They are at the height of their territorial expansion and economic influence. And the people of Israel see this time of prosperity as a sign of God’s favor. And so, unfortunately, it is Amos’ job to speak a reality that no one wants to hear. The reality is that Israel is NOT in God’s favor.

Now let’s back up. What exactly does it mean to be a prophet in Amos’ day? Someone told me once that the role of a prophet is to “comfort the afflicted and to afflict the comfortable.” A prophet speaks the truth about an injustice that a powerful person or a significant group does not want to hear. Think Martin Luther King Jr. Think Gandhi. Think about Moses begging Pharaoh to “let my people go.” Think about the peaceful protestors in Tahrir Square and throughout the Middle East and Africa. Despite dangerous situations, they speak truth to those in power that do not want to hear it. And these realities that people don’t want to hear include standing up for justice and peace, and advocating for those who have been oppressed.

Now, if a prophet’s main concern is justice and peace for all, especially the exploited. Then, what is justice? In our society, justice usually means that good people are rewarded and bad people are punished. But in Amos’ context, justice, or “mishpat” in Hebrew, means that the neediest in society are cared for. A just society looks out for the widow, the orphan, and the stranger and an unjust society does not. This is the kind of “justice” that God beckons towards in the book of Amos.

But, perhaps an even tougher question is, if Amos were a small-town-guy from New Jersey with a message for us today, what would he say about our justice in our society? Where are our blind spots? In what areas in our lives and in our social systems would Amos tell us to “let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream?”

Amos was a herdsman, and so I imagine that he was probably really good at tracking down the nearest watering holes for his sheep. The Israelite landscape has countless ravines, but very few rivers. And these ravines are called “wadis,” which fill up when the rains come, but in the other seasons, the wadi beds are bone dry. Amos probably knew how it felt to finally lead his sheep around the corner to the nearest ravine only to find that the water had run dry. And so the image for Amos of an ever-flowing stream of justice and righteousness means continual sustenance for the needy wanderer and his sheep. Not just seasonal or capricious concern for the poor, but consistent, over-flowing provision. Amos understood God’s dream that justice and righteousness would be constant, like the air we breathe.

In the New Testament, Jesus offers “Living Water” to the Samaritan woman at the well. He uses the image of “living water” as a metaphor for abundant life and he says that she will never thirst again. But what does “living water” mean? In Jesus’ day (and unfortunately in many countries today) stagnant drinking water was a secondary option at best. In pools and cisterns the water sits still, which many times allows the water to become unsanitary and spread water-borne diseases. On the other hand, ‘living’ water, flows. Streams and rivers that flow, and bubble and gush forth, provide safe, clean drinking water. Amos evokes the image of justice as “living water” that is ever-flowing in each season, climate, and country, providing safe, nourishment for all.

And so, I wonder in what areas in our context, are our streams of justice damned? Where are people literally and metaphorically drinking waters of injustice that are harming them instead of giving them life? Where are ponds of inequality muddied and compromised, crippling the most vulnerable in our society? If Amos were to name harsh truthes about injustice in our context, what would he dare to say?

In a documentary about the life of Mother Teresa, a wealthy woman from America finds Mother Teresa, whips out her checkbook, and says, "I want to write you a check to support your work." Mother Teresa looks up slowly, shakes her head and says "No. No money." "What?" "You won't take my money? I have a lot of money, this money can help you." "No money." "No money? Then, what can I do?" the woman said. Mother Teresa smiled, took her by the hand, and said, "Come and see." She led this woman deep into the barrios of Calcutta, searching, until finally she came upon a small, grimy child. Mother Teresa said, "Take care of her." and so the woman took a cloth, and bathed this little girl, she took a spoon and fed her. And she reported later that her life had changed.

Come and see. Touch someone. When Mother Teresa first came to the United States, she made a great speech in New York, in which she said, "You don't have to go to Calcutta to share in my work. Calcutta is wherever you are. Wherever you are, there are people who hurt, who need love. Find them and love them. For in loving them, you love Jesus."

As a protestant, progressive church, we do a good job at “social justice” work. We care about situations of injustice in our context and around the world. We talk about inclusivity and we give money to help people in need. And these are all good things! These are all things that are necessary and important. But, I wonder, how many of us have had dinner with a poor person this year? How many of us have to travel all the way to Nicaragua to encounter someone in need, when those in poverty live right down the street? How many of us “do” social justice work by volunteering, organizing, giving of our time, talent and money, and yet we have NO face-to-face relationships with the ones who bear the weight of poverty and oppression right here in Summit, New Jersey. Why are they so easy to ignore? Why are we afraid of neighbors in need?

And so I wonder, how can we commit together to give and receive hospitality from the most vulnerable in our own town? How can do the hard work of building relationships with the ones that we are not “supposed to know,” the ones who do not naturally cross our paths? In Ash Barker’s book, “Making Poverty Personal,” he writes, “I am convinced that the tragedy in the church is not that rich folks don’t care about poor folks, but that rich folks don’t know poor folks.”

In the tradition that I grew up in, it was important to talk about your “personal relationship with Jesus.” That sentence carried a lot of weight. I wonder what would happen if our church taught our children to emphasize our “personal relationships with those in need.” And as we commit to know “the least of these” we just might be surprised to encounter Christ in their midst.

And so, if Amos were to point out one of our “cisterns of muddied water” that we offer those in need, it might be that we are comfortable with talking about poverty and fighting for justice, but we often fail to “live out” this commitment in our own personal, local relationships.

Now the problem with evoking a story about Mother Teresa is that on some level, you are probably thinking, “Geez, Caroline, Mother Teresa is inspiring and amazing and all that jazz. But come on, you are going to hold us to that standard, how are we going to reproduce anything like Mother Teresa has accomplished in her lifetime?” And so I offer you another story to reflect on. And this story comes from one among us. A friend from the Christ Church community shared this story about her experiences in Nicaragua. She writes,

“In 2001, Christ Church took a trip to Nicaragua and I made my first visit to Inhijambia. Mirna, the director of Inhijambia, which is an organization that works with street kids, took our group to see a decrepit park full of glue-sniffing children where her staffers were doing outreach, handing out snacks and organizing ice breaker games. Each kid was asked to take center stage for a moment, state his name, and say what kinds of work she had ever done. One by one they introduced themselves: Roberto, Ernesto, Dionisio... and told what work they had done: selling gum, washing cars, carrying packages...

One particular boy caught my eye. He was a skinny kid with curly hair and light eyes, handsome beneath his layer of street dirt. I kept hoping he would step up so I could learn his name, but he didn't seem inclined to speak. But, just as our group turned to leave, someone nudged him to the front, and as I glanced back for a final look this boy stood alone and called out his name: Tony.

Tony! That was the name of my own younger son. "Tony," this boy's hoarse voice, reverberated in my head like a gong.

So this was also a Tony, but a homeless, illiterate Tony whose family rejected him, who ate garbage and slept on cardboard on the ground. To my astonishment, tears welled in my eyes. A Tony in New Jersey, a Tony in Managua. The same name, a universe of difference. My Tony was thriving. Who would give this Tony a chance? The thought stayed in my head, that day and all the following days.

That question, Who would give the Tony in Managua a chance?, was what prompted me, a few weeks after I got home, to email Mirna for the very first time. I explained how strangely moved I had been when Tony said his name that day in the park, because his name was also the name of my son. I asked: If I were to send money, could someone do something to give Tony a chance?

I was thrilled to receive a reply from Mirna. She knew which boy I meant. Yes, she said. If you are willing to send money, we can find Tony a foster family and try and get him off the streets.

So I did start to send money to Mirna for Tony, and she found him a foster home...and that was the beginning of my involvement with Mirna, and with Nicaragua.”

She continues, “It sounds corny, because I don’t ordinarily think or talk this way, but when Tony in Managua said his name, I had the impression that God was speaking directly to me.

In retrospect, it was as if my decision to go on the Christ Church trip to Nicaragua, which felt at the time like a wild impulse, had in fact been inspired so that I could experience that one fleeting moment in the garbage-strewn park when Tony stepped up and said his name. That was the moment when everything became real to me, when I first had an inkling that if the Tony in Managua were ever to have a chance, then I had a role to play, because I was Tony’s mother.”

This story was a catalyst for a friend of mine to initiate her work building relationships with Mirna, Mirna’s family, and the prophetic, courageous, inspiring community of Inhijambia. This “strange moment” in a park opened up a channel of love and compassion and mutual friendship.

Now, this story is powerful to me, because it illustrates that God reveals God’s self at a dump in Nicaragua. God is revealed when our universe connects to the universe of another, especially when we connect with a person, who our society and suburban perimeter deem unworthy of our time and our relational investment. This story illustrates that “social justice” work minus stories, faces and strange moments of connection, is not quite as transformative. It is not quite as God intended it to be.

And now this brings me to the last “muddy cistern of injustice.” We fail to bring about justice in this world when we only love those neighbors who are in “our own image.” We fail to love one another with God’s unconditional love when we only love those needy people who look like us, talk like us, think like us, worship like us, have the same amount of money and the same level of “accomplishment” as we do. These closed circles solidify our image of a God who “looks just like us.” When we create God in our own image, Amos tells us the harsh truth that “God despises that kind of worship, God hates those religious festivals.”

In Barbara Brown Taylor’s “An Altar in the World,” she quotes Rabbi Sacks who says, “The supreme religious challenge is to see God’s image in the one who is not in our image, for only then can we see past our own reflection in the mirror to the God we did not make up.” In that moment in a park in Nicaragua my friend encountered a reflection of God and God’s love that she did not make up. It came from some place outside of herself. And this new image of God and this new image of who she considered her neighbor inspired her to get involved in the lives of people there and the work of Inhijambia. God’s image in the face of Tony connected two universes that were seemingly worlds apart.

And so as we go, let us participate in the waters of justice that flow freely over every border and demarcation. Let us dive into “living waters” of abundant life that connect individuals who are worlds apart. Let us stretch ourselves to participate in vibrant relationships with those who are in need and may those relationships draw us closer to the God of love and light that “we did not make up.” Amen.