Based on Jeremiah 8–9
Hi Guys, we continue our series on the prophet Jeremiah, bringing context and depth for you to get the most from this incredible book. Open your bibles and let’s go:
The Traveler
The sun had just crested over the Mount of Olives as I approached the city gates of Jerusalem. From afar, the golden stone walls caught the morning light - it reminded me of something noble, ancient. This was a city of kings and priests, of psalms and scrolls: But as I drew closer, the shimmer dulled.
I was a traveler, a merchant from the north, and this was not my first journey to Jerusalem. I had come in years past during feast days; when the city danced with the songs of pilgrims and the temple mount echoed with laughter and sacrifice. But now, something was different — hanging in the air like a bad smell.
The markets were open, yes. You could here the shouts of the the vendors; “Figs, dates, pomegranates” … all collected from the fertile valleys. But their voices lacked the happy notes, and for a merchant like me; whose skill lay in reading the faces of men — I could see their eyes flicking nervously: Sometimes toward the temple gates, sometimes down the road toward the northern horizon. Soldiers paced in greater numbers now. Priests murmured under breath. Those old women, who knew better than most, wept quietly as they swept their courtyards.
Something unseen pressed down on Jerusalem like a coming storm. And the strange thing was that everyone was ignoring it, pretending it was not there.
As I worked my way slowly through the streets and corners I knew best, I began to hear the name.
Jeremiah.
Not from the temple. No. The priests there stood firm, chanting blessings and rituals as if nothing had changed. But in alleyways, in wine shops, on rooftops where gossip mixed with smoke—I heard him.
“They say he weeps in the streets,” whispered a potter shaping clay with shaking hands. “Calls himself the voice of Adonai.”
“They say he speaks of bones scattered in the fields… of harvests that never come.”
“They say he’s mad.”
But I listened. I followed the trail of whispers and found the brittle fragments of his proclamations carried by traveling Levites and curious scribes.
“Even the stork in the sky knows her appointed seasons,
and the dove, the swift and the thrush observe the time of their return.
But my people do not know the requirements of the Lord.”
How could that be? I reflected upon the words. I had seen the stork flying home from Africa, I had seen the swift cutting through the sky with miraculous instinct. But Jeremiah was asking the question: How can Judah, God’s chosen, no longer know how to come home?
As I wandered that city for three days, I began to see it for myself.
I saw the temple doors open, but the hearts of men closed. I watched the scribes kiss the law but cheat their neighbors. I saw prophets comfort the people with soft lies, saying “Peace, peace,” when there was no peace. They remedied deep wounds lightly, like a bandage on a festering sore. I began to understand the smell of injustice which I had seen many times before in my own city, yet here in Jerusalem it was being covered up with a religious perfume.
One night I climbed a rooftop to breathe. The stars above were clear, and there, on the wind, I heard him.
Jeremiah. Weeping. Crying out from some corner of the city.
“Oh, that my head were a spring of water
and my eyes a fountain of tears!
I would weep day and night
for the slain of my people.” (Jeremiah 9)
His lament wrapped itself around the alleys and towers like incense, but bitter. I imagined him barefoot, hair matted, standing outside the house of the Lord, calling the people not just to change, but to return to their Father in Heaven.
“The Lord says:
Let not the wise man bask in his wisdom,
nor the mighty man in his might,
nor the rich man in his riches.
Let them boast in this alone:
That they truly know me,
and understand that I am the Lord of justice and of righteousness,
whose love is steadfast.”
And that was it: They no longer knew Him. That was the root of the decay. Not politics. Not armies. Not economics. But this: that Judah had become rich and strong and clever— and forgot her God.
The potter’s wheel still turned. The priest’s incense still burned. But the soul of Judah had wandered too far from home.
The swifts were flying south again when I left Jerusalem. Arcing in perfect patterns, obeying their invisible compass. As I passed the fig trees on the road down to Jericho, I looked back and wondered:
Would Judah ever learn to return?
And if Jeremiah spoke to me, would I be as stubborn as a horse rushing to battle? Like one who does not hear neither the warnings of death, nor the promise of life?
To be continued … tune in next time for more on Jeremiah and how is message cannot be ignored.
Some questions for your kids and family to talk about:
What is the name of the prophet in this episode?
Have you ever heard of a homing pigeon? Look it up with your parents.
Have you ever been lost? Perhaps at the shops or in a crowded place? What did you do to get back to your parents or back to where you knew you were safe?
Why were the people of Jerusalem lost?
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