Friday
nights were special at Camp Nawakwa.
The
entire camp would trudge up
through
one of the apple orchards
that
dotted the Adams County landscape
to
a small stone amphitheater known as ‘Upper Temple,’
from
which one had a glorious view of the sun
setting
over the hills.
There
we would hold a worship service,
and
then the campers and staff
trudged
back down the hill for the end-of-week campfire.
When
everyone had gathered
at
another stone amphitheater in the woods,
a
staff member would kneel inside the stone
as
another one said,
‘Kneel
always when you light a fire;
kneel
reverently, and thankful be
for
God’s unfailing charity.
And
on the ascending flame
aspire
a little prayer,
which
shall up bear
the
incense of our thankfulness.
Kneel
always when you light a fire;
kneel
reverently, and thankful be,
for
God’s unfailing charity.’
Then
the fun would begin,
as
staff members presented skits
(the
same skits that had been done for years)
and
camp songs were sung,
and
the week at Nawakwa wrapped up with a neat little bow;
and
all that was left was tomorrow’s breakfast,
packing
up, and departure.
But
when the campfire was over,
and
everyone had gone back to their cabins for bed,
the
maintenance staff would remain behind,
and
douse the fire with several buckets of water
which
had been sitting there waiting for the occasion.
The
water was poured over the fire
until
the wood and coals were nothing but saturated ashes;
until
no ember glowed, no spark remained
to
be fanned by a sudden wind
to
start a blaze which could not be controlled.
The
fire was doused, the steam rose,
until
the steam no longer rose and all was cold.
The
fire was no more.
There
would be no more fire,
unless
and until the fire was relit.
The
fire is on the verge of going out.
Jeremiah
pours out his heart and his life
to
urge the people of God to put their hearts and lives
into
the sacrifice of prayer and praise to God;
to
pray even one little prayer of thankfulness
which
will rise up to God,
to
keep the fire going,
so
that God’s people may continue to live in the covenant
he
made with his people at Sinai.
But
the people ignore the prophet who bears God’s Word.
By
their violence and their indolence and their self-indulgence
and
their misplaced confidence that their actions have no consequences,
they
drench the fire
which
has been burning brightly to the glory of God.
And
so the fire goes out,
no
fuel can replenish it.
There
is no spark left,
no
longer can it be nudged and nursed into a flame
which
gives light and heat to those who gather around it.
The
throne is empty, the city destroyed,
the
priests killed, the people exiled.
The
temple is thrown down,
the
sacred vessels are carried away,
and
no incense is borne up to heaven.
No
songs of joy;
no
worship in reverent silence.
Nothing
but ashes,
nothing
but memories and dreams
which
can no longer be fulfilled.
This
is not just the story of ancient Judah,
as
if they were the worst or only sinners that ever lived.
Rather,
this is the story of humanity who turns from God.
It
is the story of those whose sins have covered the world in blood.
It
is the sin of David.
the
anointed one of God who became both adulterer and murderer.
It
is the sin of those in whom God’s love does not abide,
who
have the goods of the world and yet refuse help to those who do not have them.
It
is my sin and your sin,
for
perhaps our sins are of less dramatic result or impact
but
nevertheless there are times when we taste them as ashes in our mouths
and
as dreams from which we wake with no hope.
We
are as David who cannot unmake his sin,
as
Jerusalem which cannot relight the fire of God’s praise.
But
here is Jeremiah the prophet of doom
singing
a song of God’s deliverance,
that
God is making something new:
as
when spring follows winter,
as
when day follows night.
and
yet not exactly so.
Spring
follows winter and day follows night
naturally,
as a matter of course,
but
there is nothing of natural course
or
the circular rhythm of life
of
the newness of which Jeremiah sings.
lnstead,
it is God speaking into existence that which is not,
as
when God spoke creation into existence.
For
there is no spark,
there
is no glowing ember,
but
instead God kneels down into the world,
and
himself brings new light into the world,
a
new covenant to succeed the old,
to
light a fire which never can go out.
‘For
I will forgive their iniquity,
and
remember their sin no more.’
It
seems an easy thing to forgive us,
just
a word that is spoken,
until
we remember how much it costs the man who is God,
and
we hear his ‘loud cries and tears’ and behold his troubled soul;
and
we look upon him who is lifted up from the earth upon the cross,
to
draw all people to himself.
Sin,
death, and the devil
cannot
be simply wiped away by a word,
unless
it is the word that is the Word himself.
The
Word of God bears the world’s sin, is tempted by the devil,
endures
our death so that the fire of God’s praise may be relit,
so
that even the worst of humanity may never snuff it out.
On
Good Friday,
a
rough hewn cross will stand at the front of the church,
with
black draped around its base.
Black
like plants burnt beyond recognition,
turned
to ash.
Nothing
to indicate what they once were,
or
that any life was once in them or will be again.
But
on Saturday night,
at
the Easter Vigil,
a
new fire will be lit.
In
many places the tradition continues
of
striking the new fire from flint and steel.
It
is an inefficient method of obtaining fire,
but
it reminds us of how precious fire was anciently,
how
difficult to strike.
How
precious and difficult to strike, indeed,
was
the eternal fire of man’s praise to God,
struck
by the Son of God who bore our humanity in himself.
It
is his praise and thanksgiving
which
bears our praise to the Father,
the
incense of our thankfulness for the ever-new salvation
which
he creates in us and for us.
‘Kneel
always when you light a fire.
Kneel
reverently and thankful be
for
God’s unfailing charity.’
Amen.
