Rivers of Justice

Amos 5:18-24                   Psalm 70    1Thess 4:9-18                  Matthew 25:1-13

And so it was, at 4am on Tuesday morning in the recent past, 6 sleepy pilgrims piled into a minibus to make the journey to watch the sunrise over Everest. They quietly climbed the steps in the inky darkness, to reach their vantage point and the air was still and cold as it awaited the dawn. And then, just as the birds began to clear their throats for the first song of the day, one pilgrim – Christabel by name – broadcast through the darkness, ‘I feel like a foolish virgin for not bringing my coat’. And then, lo, within a week of returning from the trip, we have the exact same parable before us, and how is a preacher to reflect on these holy words when all she can hear is the warbling of a cold pilgrim, ringing in her ears?

And, more seriously, how is one to pass over the prophesies of Amos when they are sounding so close to the experiences of our global family, right now. And today is Remembrance Sunday and it feels so hollow a thing that we might cast our minds back to the world wars of the last century when we could more easily, and more painfully, cast our eyes over the world news this morning.

Amos woefully prophesies that the day of the lord ‘be darkness, not light – pitch-dark, without a ray of brightness’. Pitch darkness, like a group of women huddled over snuffed out lamps, wondering how they will bring back any kind of light to be able to find their way to the wedding banquet. Pitch darkness that can only be lit by those who would share their own wealth, with those who are without. Darkness that might only be lighted by the one who is the true light. The light of Christ.

That darkness is what life looks like for so many, so often.

The darkness of despair and depression. The darkness of poverty and hunger.

The darkness as they lie in wait, listening for the next bomb to fall, hoping to hear their baby cry, instead of the deep ugly silence of death.

Amos paints this picture of deep darkness. Then God speaks, cutting through the prophesy to say, ‘I hate, I despise your religious festivals; your assemblies are a stench to me. I will not accept your offerings. I will have no regard for them. Away with the noise of your songs! I will not listen…’

But the message of the parable that goes alongside this prophesy is the bridegroom appears when it is darkest. The Holy One, arrives at midnight and brings light. Those bridesmaids needn’t have gone to find the all-night oil shop – they simply needed to go to the source of Light – the one who spoke into darkness and created light at the dawn of time – they simply needed to arrive empty handed and say, ‘I have nothing and I need you’. And light would have been their gift, their reward for their vulnerability and their honesty.

Amos’ prophesy is clear – God didn’t, doesn’t want religion.

God doesn’t want crowds or big displays or sacrifices or offering or music.

God wants us. The whole of us. And God wants us to take that precious gift of light to the darkest places. To go to those darkest places and kick them until they bleed light. And we are sent with one challenge – one purpose:

To let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.

And I have thought about that verse all week. I love it so much. But in this world, where yesterday’s headline says Israel is urged to stop bombing babies in Gaza, where hospitals don’t have enough power, let alone bed-space, staff or resources, to care for those in need, where fires and volcanoes are raging and children are being recruited as soldiers. In this world, on this day, what on earth does justice rolling like a river even look like. And how can we be bringers of it. What can we even pray, let alone do.

So I took a look back to that stunning text from that River Documentary we heard last month and I read these words…

Where rivers wander, life flourishes

For rivers are world makers.

The mystery and beauty of a wild river is beyond our ability to comprehend

And I imagined justice cascading down ravines, rather than water, and bringing life.

The narrator went on to say…

To think like a river means to dream downstream in time

To imagine what will flow far into the future from our actions in the present

To be good ancestors to those who come after us

Downstream of us…

And that is our goal. That is our aim as followers of the Light, as those who are trying to live by the commands of the one who says the final word to darkness; to make the future better and brighter for those downstream. And for this we must pray.

Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.

And we pray until we find a way of being that river of justice, until we find ways to trickle righteousness to places in deepest darkest need. And we pray for light.

So let us pray…