reached on Thanksgiving Day (Year B), November 28, 2024, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.
Joel 2:21-27
Psalm 126
1 Timothy 2:1-7
Matthew 6:25-33
The Great St. Paul’s Abyss.
“Do not fear, O soil; be glad and rejoice, for the Lord has done great things!” —Joel 2:21
Our forebears in faith are not above a little healthy anthropomorphism. They ascribe human qualities to rivers and trees, who clap their hands to praise God. They ascribe human qualities — or at least animal qualities — to mountains and hills, who skip like rams and lambs. The sea roars its praises to the Lord, and the desert lifts up its voice.
And so it should not surprise us that the prophet Joel is heard talking to the soil, to the earth, to the mud beneath our feet. Joel sings consolation to the people of God in the wake of a devastating plague of locusts that ravaged the land, causing terrible starvation and despair. The people had assumed that this was God’s punishment for their wrongdoing, and so, when the land was restored, they assumed it meant that they finally had been reconciled to God.
But again, the people were not alone in their rejoicing: the prophet bids the soil to rejoice, too. “Do not fear, O soil; be glad and rejoice!” Then Joel sings to the animals: “Do not fear, you animals of the field!” he cries, “for the pastures of the wilderness are green; the tree bears its fruit, the fig tree and vine give their full yield.” Only then does Joel encourage the human population to rejoice, to sing in the rain, oh, the luscious, life-saving rain!
Here at St. Paul’s, we are drawing close to our soil, quite literally. We have carved in the earth a huge abyss, a gaping chasm where our east entrances used to be. I have just a slight fear of heights, so I startle myself whenever I look out the office reception door and look down at the immense hole in the earth, dug by our excavation team. We’ve actually been in the muck and mud of our soil for a couple of years now, as we’ve worked to repair and improve our buildings and grounds.
Now that we’re once again in the rainy season, we have to obtain the city’s permission every single time we dig, so that they can be sure we’re not going to cause a landslide. We also have to negotiate with the city every time we want or need to do something with the trees on our property, particularly the sweet-gum trees on our north side, which are ailing and dropping large branches. We tend to the people camping directly on our soil along the eastern parking strip. This is not a safe place to camp: cars have bashed into our planters and frequently threatened to injure or kill Michael, and others. (Soon we will have to move the campers off the strip, because our soil there will be disturbed by extensive work on our electrical system.)
And there is of course the kingdom of rats that flourishes in our soil, and under our office building. When the excavators dug the abyss that will, this spring, host our new, universally accessible complex of entrances, ramps, stairs, and a new elevator, they discovered rat tunnels several feet beneath the surface. Our soil may be rejoicing at the thought of a new, safer, more attractive parking lot and entrance, but the rats are decidedly not among the creatures of God who rejoice at the renewal of the land.
All of this talk of soil, of caring for soil, digging in it, managing it, tending to the humans and the vegetation living on it —- it reminds me of a story about soil and faith that I heard when standing on the Haas Promenade, in Jerusalem. I wrote about this almost a year ago, for one of our newsletters.
The story comes from Rabbi Yehiel Poupko, who lives in Chicago. He was in Jerusalem many years ago as part of an interfaith group that included the Dalai Lama. As they all stood on the Haas Promenade, which offers a magnificent view of the Mount of Olives, the Al-Aqsa Mosque, and most of the Old City of Jerusalem, the Dalai Lama turned to Rabbi Poupko and asked, “What is the most important passage in your scriptures?”
Rabbi Poupko paused. “Is it the Shema?” he wondered to himself. Surely it is the Shema: “Hear, O Israel, the LORD is our God, the LORD alone.” But Rabbi Poupko quickly reconsidered and said to the Dalai Lama, “The most important passage in the Torah is in Deuteronomy 23: ‘You shall have a designated area outside the camp to which you shall go. With your tools you shall have a trowel; when you relieve yourself outside, you shall dig a hole with it and then cover up your excrement.’”
This response understandably gave the Dalai Lama pause. But Rabbi Poupko explained, in this approximate quote: “The Jewish people take care of the city. We put the drains right. We maintain the alleyways. We are physical and quotidian in our faith. Christians see Jerusalem as a spiritual home, but the Jewish people see Jerusalem as an actual city to take care of. Empires come and go, usually with great violence and destruction. Meanwhile, we take care of things. This is an expression of our faith.”
I love this story, but I want to correct Rabbi Poupko about one thing. Caring for the city, for the soil, is something we Christians, at our best, share with our Jewish cousins. (Well, in fairness, it’s more accurate to say that we received this ethic from them.) Our Muslim cousins, in turn, also share this virtue and express it in their fifth pillar, the pilgrimage. A major dimension of all the Abrahamic faiths is to take care of things. (It is a cruel irony, then, that all three religions historically have done great damage to Jerusalem, and to the Land of the Holy One.)
Now, we Christians place our hopes in life beyond death; we pursue justice and peace, globally and locally; we burn incense to accompany our prayers to the heights of heaven; yes, we do all of these grand things. But our faith is also expressed powerfully in the ordinary, daily work we do on the face of the earth to literally take care of things.
And that is why, finally, Joel bids the soil to rejoice. The soil has been taken care of; it has been tended; it has been healed. The locusts have departed; the rains have returned. If the people believe that the earth was ravaged because God was angry at them, well, it appears God’s anger has dissipated, and all is forgiven.
But please notice: there are really two things going on here, two things happening with the soil God made, the soil God renews, the soil God loves, the soil we humans say rejoices. First, God alone does a new thing with the soil — the soil of all the earth, including the little square of soil we steward here at St. Paul’s. But second, we also are doing a new thing with the soil. We are working it, blessing it with our labor. We are cultivating it, joining God’s creative task of drawing green and growing life from the earth. We are digging it and moving it so that everyone who walks or wheels upon it will be blessed with safety. So it’s two things: God gardens indirectly and humbly, laying down in serene quietude beneath and within and around all created matter, all the soil, all the rocks and trees, all the rivers and rainclouds, all the living cells of our own bodies.
And we plunge our spades into the soil, digging and moving it, sometimes to plant a new flower bed, sometimes to lay to rest our beloved dead. We come here not just to pray in this sanctuary with our voices and our bodies; we also pray with our excavation equipment and tree trimmers and SPiN wagons and garden hoses and brooms and shovels and rakes.
And for all of this we offer our thanks and praise. Thanksgiving is a complicated holiday, particularly in such hard times, when the land and the seas and the skies are all crying out in despair; when our human institutions are crumbling and our politicians dismay us with their violent and divisive words and actions; when we wonder how future generations will be able to live here as we do: We worry not just for their safety, but even for their basic ability to survive.
But we give thanks nonetheless: we rejoice with gratitude for God’s presence and power that reverberates even in the soil beneath our feet, and fills our hearts not just with hope but with determination and resolve. We rejoice with gratitude for one another, here to help and support each other, to raise our children together, to care for our elders together, to cultivate the soil together. And we join the prophet Joel in calling upon all living creatures, and indeed all created matter, including the soil and sand and rocks; the rivers and the sound and the ocean; to rejoice.
Rejoice, then, soil beneath our feet, soil first cultivated and cared for by the Duwamish, who are still here. Rejoice: for we’re all here, with God’s help, to lovingly care for you.