John 4.34-38
It was the tenth year of King Zedekiah of Judah,
the
eighteenth year of King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon.
It was the year that we call 587 BCE.
And things
were bad—in fact, they were worse than bad.
Because the
Babylonian army was laying siege to Jerusalem. Again.
The walls of the city were crumbling,
the economy
had collapsed,
and death
hovered in the air like smoke.
And here, in the middle of this devastation,
Jeremiah
the prophet—ever the troublemaker,
always
out of step with the powerful—
is under
arrest, and imprisoned by the king.
It’s hard not to think of Gaza. Of Rafah. Of Jenin.
It’s hard
not to think of refugee camps and war zones,
of occupied
territories and cities held under siege
—places
where hope feels foolish,
where
futures are buried in rubble.
And into such a moment,
the prophet
of doom buys a field.
It’s an absurd thing to do.
Economically
irrational. Politically meaningless. Personally unwise.
Jeremiah’s act is not only impractical
—it’s
utterly ludicrous.
But that’s the point.
For the
prophet enacts what the imagination dares to dream:
that
land will again be bought and sold;
that
vineyards will again be planted and harvested;
that
life will return from exile.
And this morning, perhaps more than most,
we need
prophets who will buy fields.
The Book of Jeremiah, as many of you will know,
is not
exactly a comfort read.
It’s hard going.
It tells
the story of a people in collapse.
But nestled in this long, difficult book are remarkable
glimpses of hope
—what
Walter Brueggemann calls hope in spite of the data.
Chapter 32 is one of those moments.
Jeremiah is locked up, the nation is tearing apart,
and God
says to him, “Your cousin is going to come and offer you a field to buy.”
And then, as if to prove that even prophets can be
surprised,
the cousin
does.
So Jeremiah buys the field.
This is not a parable. It’s a land transaction.
It’s a
signed and sealed deed, placed in a jar for safekeeping.
It’s boringly bureaucratic.
And it is
the most powerful act of prophetic resistance Jeremiah will perform.
We often think of hope as a feeling. A mood.
But
biblical hope is something far more muscular.
From a Biblical perspective, hope is something you do.
It’s the
practice of living toward a future not yet visible,
but
promised nonetheless.
This field purchase is not hopeful because things
look good,
but
precisely because they don’t.
It’s not optimism. It’s resistance.
Jeremiah dares to embody an alternative reality.
He dares to
imagine a future shaped not by the brutality of Babylon
but by the
faithfulness of God.
And then he dares to live as if that future is coming true.
And I wonder—where are the places in our own lives,
in our
city, in our world, where we are called to buy fields?
·
What does hope look like in a climate emergency?
·
What does hope look like in a housing crisis?
·
What does hope look like in a broken immigration
system?
·
What does hope look like for churches that feel
like they are in decline, in exile?
Jeremiah’s symbolic field purchase
is not just
a gesture of delayed gratification.
It is a declaration of God’s future being enacted in the
present.
This is what theologians sometimes call realised
eschatology
—the
idea that the reign of God is not just a distant hope
but a lived
reality breaking into the now.
Jeremiah is not simply predicting that one day things will
be better.
He is
insisting that the promise of restoration
is
so trustworthy, so real, that it demands action now
—even
when the evidence suggests otherwise.
His field purchase is not about pie-in-the-sky optimism.
It is a
deeply political and theological act,
one that collapses the false divide
between
spiritual hope and material investment.
We sometimes fall into the trap of imagining
that God’s
kingdom is only about the life to come.
But what if it’s about life right now?
About
justice now, equity now, liberation now?
That’s why Jeremiah buries the deed in a jar
—not to
protect it for some heavenly future,
but to preserve it for a restored community,
on this
earth, in that land.
This prophetic imagination challenges us:
do we
believe in a God whose promises make demands of our present?
A God whose coming reign interrupts our current injustices?
A God who
does not abandon us to despair,
but who
calls us to live as if the New Jerusalem were already among us?
At Bloomsbury, we have sought to be this kind of church
—a people
shaped not by the fear of Babylon
but
by the hope of the kingdom.
We do not merely wait for heaven.
We plant
heaven in the middle of history.
And poor old Jeremiah is in prison when all this happens.
Literally
locked away.
A prisoner of the king, silenced for his unpopular message.
It is not only the city that is besieged
—so is the
prophet.
And that’s a familiar experience.
Sometimes
we are imprisoned by circumstances,
hemmed
in by loss, fear, exhaustion.
Sometimes the prison is emotional
—trauma,
regret, or grief.
Sometimes the walls are social
—systems of
injustice, racism, or economic exclusion.
And sometimes we build the walls ourselves.
But Jeremiah’s prophetic act reminds us
that even
from a place of confinement,
it is
possible to choose freedom.
Even when the future seems foreclosed,
it is
possible to enact a different story.
The work of faith is not always to escape the prison,
but to live
faithfully within it.
To do the thing that makes no sense.
To buy the
field. To prepare for return.
To invest
in a future you may not live to see.
And so Jeremiah buys the field.
He weighs out the silver. He signs the deed.
He calls
witnesses. He stores the document.
He does all the things people do
when they
believe there will be a tomorrow.
Let’s be clear: this is a terrible investment.
The land is
already under Babylonian control.
The title
deed means nothing to them.
Jeremiah will never farm that land.
And yet, he
goes through the ritual,
not
because he expects a return on investment,
but
because he expects a return from exile.
He is not just engaging in prophetic theatre.
He is
enacting a truth deeper than power:
that
empires fall, that hope survives,
and
that God’s promises outlast Babylonian armies.
Here at Bloomsbury, we also buy fields
—metaphorically,
perhaps, but no less powerfully.
When we welcome the stranger in our midst,
we are
buying fields.
When we speak truth to power through our community
organising,
we are
buying fields.
When we say that LGBTQ+ lives are holy and beloved,
we are
buying fields.
When we open our doors to artists, activists, and pilgrims,
we are
investing in futures others cannot yet see.
We are stubbornly and prophetically choosing to live into
God’s tomorrow,
even when
today feels like exile.
There’s something quietly beautiful about the detail
that the
deed of purchase is placed in a jar of clay.
It’s a preservation act—proof that history isn’t over.
The jar becomes a vessel of hope.
A container
for possibility. A sacred trust to the future.
We all have our jars.
Perhaps
they are stories. Or songs. Or sacraments.
Perhaps they are relationships, or communities, or buildings
like this one.
Things we preserve not to escape the present,
but to
proclaim the future.
“Put them in an earthenware jar,” says Jeremiah,
“so that
they may last a long time.”
We are the custodians of jars,
holding
space for God’s future.
And sometimes, when all seems lost,
it is
enough to keep the jar sealed, to preserve the deed,
to say with our actions:
this land,
this life, this future still belongs to God.
The act of placing the deed in a jar is not just about
preservation.
It is about
entrusting a story to the future.
Jeremiah knows he might not be the one to see the fulfilment
—but
someone will.
And his small, faithful act will become part of their story.
Some of us carry longings that feel unfulfilled.
Prayers
that haven’t been answered.
Griefs that
have not healed.
We wonder if the work we have done
—our
loving, our labouring, our witnessing—
has
mattered at all.
We bury our deeds in jars,
and wonder
if anyone will remember.
But the gospel assures us that nothing offered in faith is
lost.
Maybe you are grieving something that never came to fruition
—a
relationship, a vocation, a vision for life.
Maybe, as a church, we look back on times of flourishing
and wonder
if those days are gone forever.
But Jeremiah’s deed tells us that memory and hope are not
separate things.
They are
the same thing held in tension.
We do not need to resolve the tension.
We are
simply called to live within it.
To trust that what we place in jars of clay
—our love,
our witness, our longing—is held by God.
So keep the deed. Bury it in the jar.
And know
that it is safe.
Because one day, someone will find it.
One day,
someone will harvest the field we bought in faith.
And when they do,
they will
give thanks for those who dared to hope in dark times.
We don’t know if Jeremiah lived to see the fulfilment of the
promise.
Probably
not.
But the point isn’t whether he returned.
It’s that
he acted as if return were possible.
And in doing so, he planted seeds for others.
This is the paradox of prophetic ministry:
it often
looks futile in the moment.
But it seeds the ground for transformation.
Jeremiah bought a field he would never harvest.
And in
John’s Gospel, Jesus tells his disciples something remarkably similar:
“One sows and another reaps.
I sent you
to reap that for which you did not labour.
Others have laboured, and you have entered into their
labour.” (John 4:37–38)
These words come just after
Jesus has
spoken with the Samaritan woman at the well
—a woman who, like Jeremiah,
dares to
hope in the face of exclusion.
And Jesus, in turn, offers a vision of divine purpose
that
transcends the boundaries of time and tribe.
The disciples are eager to get on with the harvest
—to see
results, to do something visible, something tangible.
But Jesus points them deeper.
He invites
them to live in solidarity with the slow, patient work of the Spirit.
To enter into the labour of others.
To join the
quiet sowers of seeds.
There’s humility in this invitation, as well as hope.
Because the
work of the gospel is not a solo project.
It is
shared. Layered. Collective. Intergenerational.
We inherit the fields others have sown in tears.
We harvest
from justice movements long forgotten.
We draw
from wells we did not dig.
And still we sow again
—trusting
that even our smallest acts of love and resistance
become part
of a larger harvest in God.
Sometimes we see the fruit. Often we do not.
But still
we plant. Still we water. Still we labour.
This is what Jesus calls food
—his
sustenance, his very purpose:
“My food is to do the will of the one who sent me, and to
complete that work.”
This is the nourishment of the faithful.
Not
accolades. Not outcomes.
But the deep joy of joining our lives
to the
long, slow redemption of the world.
So yes—Jeremiah bought a field.
And we,
too, sow our seeds.
In sermons preached and bread broken.
In protest
marches and policy meetings.
In songs sung and letters sent
and prayers
whispered at hospital bedsides.
We enter into the labour of saints and prophets.
We plant
vineyards we may never drink from.
We work for justice we may never fully see.
But Christ is the Lord of the harvest.
And even
now, the fields are ripe.
In our work—whether in church, in justice campaigns,
in quiet
acts of care and compassion—
we may not
always see the results.
But we do not labour in vain.
The field
is bought. The deed is stored. The promise is alive.
One day, houses and fields and vineyards will again
be bought in the land.
And the
call to us, friends, is to live that truth now.
To buy the field.
To store the deed.
To plant the seed.
Jeremiah’s story reminds us that faith is not about escaping
exile
but about
finding God in the middle of it.
And hope in exile is not a vague feeling,
but a
radical act of commitment.
It’s not easy. It’s often costly.
But it is
the gospel-shaped way of living.
A cruciform hope that trusts in resurrection
even while
standing by the tomb.
We are called, here and now,
to be a
people of field-buying faith.
So may we, like Jeremiah, risk absurd hope.
May we invest in God’s tomorrow, even in the ruins of today.
And may our deeds of love and justice
be found in
jars of clay,
testifying
that the story is not over.
Amen.
