Justice Has a Story: Letters to the Exiles

A few years ago, on an ordinary evening, I got an unexpected email: our seminary was selling its building. Just like that, the place where I thought I’d learn, worship, and build community was no longer part of my story in the way I imagined. 

After months of remote learning, suddenly it was slipping away. We walked to class with both joy and grief in our bones, trying to soak up every hallway, every stained-glass window, before it was gone. 

I remember one day my mom came to visit and we wandered through the main hall. She said gently, “Wow. Just as you’re starting to get to know this place, it’s about to go away.” 

She wasn’t being dramatic. She was just telling the truth. And still, I had to choke back tears. 

Who knew I could grow so fond of a place I barely got to know? A place that was beautiful and broken, ordinary and sacred. 

I’m learning this is the shape of life: holding both the precious and the heartbreaking, the rootedness we long for and the change we never saw coming.  

That memory came back to me this week as I read Jeremiah’s letter to the exiles. Because this scripture is raw and real. It’s written to people who’ve lost everything—disoriented, grieving, far from the life they imagined. 

And into that ache, God writes not a rescue plan but a letter. It says: Plant gardens. Build homes. Seek the peace of the place where you are. I know you didn’t choose this. But I’m not done with you. I still have dreams for you. 

It’s not the story we might want. It’s a call to everyday justice that blooms in exile. A kind of sacred resistance that shows up in scraped knees, late-night laughter, cracked sidewalks, and seeds planted in stubborn soil. 

As we continue through our theme “Justice Has a Story,” Jeremiah’s words remind us: justice isn’t abstract. It lives right here—in our neighborhoods, and in our tired and courageous hearts. 

I think of Bayard Rustin—a brilliant leader in the civil rights movement. He said, “Let us be enraged by injustice, but not destroyed by it.” 

This Sunday, we’ll gather in that spirit—with our holy anger and our quiet hope, our exhaustion and our laughter, our grief and our grit. 

Because even in exile, God is dreaming. And those dreams? They include you. 

Peace, 

Pastor Katie