I want to invite you to unlock your imaginations this morning and put yourselves in the mind of the prophet Jeremiah as you hear these heartbreaking words from one who is a prophet to be sure, and a man who does not hide his emotions. As he laments the poor state of Jerusalem and Judah there is little joy or hope in his words.

If Jeremiah were a singer, Jeremiah would be singing the blues. His attention is directed at the people of Jerusalem whom God has led from slavery through the exodus to freedom. Now generations later they have forgotten, or it no longer matters, and have rejected God. If we were among them, we would stand accused of worshiping other religions, and putting our trust in leaders who do not have our best interest at heart. We have been in exile and we are in despair. “The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved” (Jeremiah 8.20). It is time for the rains, and they have not come. Now there is a drought in the land that matches the dry places in our souls.

So spiritually dry and sickening is our situation, so deep is Jeremiah’s hurt, that we feel his pain too. It is our pain. When our hearts are broken, our spirits are sick, our well of hope is nearly dry, and our faith is hanging on to a threadbare rope, it leaves us with one question, where is God? God is not in the usual places, not among my family, or friends, or work, or church. Jeremiah’s lament is our lament, ‘I am empty, God can fill me, but where is God? Is the Lord not in Zion? Is there no balm in Gilead?

Next to the accounts of the crucifixion of Jesus, Jeremiah’s expression of grief over the people’s separation from God contains some of the most painful words in scripture. They tell us that not only are there times when God seems far away, there are times when God feels absent. Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there nothing to soothe my pain? Is there no oil, no salve, no healing water, no refreshing food for my soul? Is there nothing to help me feel better?

A woman who loves God and serves the church faithfully has built her life around her family. One day after the kids have grown up and begun their careers, her husband announces that he wants a different life and walks out of their home. She is devastated and asks, is the Lord in Zion? Is there a balm in Gilead?

A fire on the west side of Columbus kills 10 people, and leaves dozens of others homeless – is the lord not in Zion? Is there something to make this pain go away?

A man sits stunned in the doctor’s office – the diagnosis still rings in his ears along with the words…”and so you might want to get your affairs in order”. Where is the balm from Gilead?

There are names that cause us to pay closer attention to the weather several states away: Charley, Frances, Ivan, and Jeanne. People in Florida and Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia, Pennsylvania, New York, and southeast Ohio know destruction from wind and water. They ask, is there a balm in Gilead?

The two-year-old toddler killed in a car accident last Wednesday was supposed to be a little flower girl in Gene and Judy Shade’s granddaughter’s wedding. Now the wedding that was scheduled for last night has been postponed, because a family is devastated. Is the Lord not in Zion, is there no balm in Gilead?

I want to know because I have no more tears to cry. Is the Lord in Zion? Is there a balm in Gilead? By faith, we answer yes, the Lord is in Zion, and among us now, and yes, there is a balm in Gilead.

Now pause there for a moment, and imagine yourselves in the place of the church in Rome hearing Peter’s letter for the first time. You are a slave, taken by a merchant or a military officer who wanted you for the reasons people have always kept slaves. You are a slave because someone has to perform the household chores the slave owner’s family did not want to do. You were simply a spoil of war, a human trophy from a conquered people, and now you have been taken to a great city but you are not free to enjoy its greatness because you are owned by someone else.

Imagine you are an alien in the society, not a creature from some other solar system or galaxy, we are not talking about ET, or one of the Star Wars characters, but a resident alien, you support the city by the labor you provide to an employer. You are not a slave, and you are not a citizen.

In the last century, you might have come from Europe, or Africa, or the Caribbean to work in the steel mills in Cleveland, or to work as a nurse or nanny. Today, you might be a refugee from a nation plagued by war, rape, and horror as in the Sudan. Life is not easy, but you have found a community.

One day your community gathered as they do every week. You study, you sing and pray, you have dinner together. You meet in a different place weekly – one week in a basement, sometimes under a boat turned upside down because your gatherings have been declared illegal and a threat to the emperor. They told you being a Christian would put you at odds with the culture around you, but you didn’t think it would be like this.

Then one day, as was the custom of the time, a letter was read aloud in worship. It is a letter from Peter who had known Jesus personally. The letter begins like most letters do, there is a greeting, and wishes for peace and grace. But there is something different about this one. He reminds us that though we own little, we are so spiritually rich in Christ that we have an inheritance that cannot be taken away (1.3-4), that we should live holy lives (1.15), and that the word of the Lord will endure (1.25), we pay attention.

He tells us to let go of some stuff we do not need, in fact it is killing our spirits. No good can come from bad acts willfully done, bad words willfully spoken, internalized anger over what we do not have, or disingenuous feelings. Those things wear us out, steal our joy, slow us down, and hurt the body of Christ. Let them go.

When we let them go, we make room in our spirits to receive an invitation from Christ. It is an invitation that makes us part of something special and long lasting. It calls us into the balm we seek. “Come to the living stone” (2.4), come to Christ, and become like Christ.

We are invited to place our trust in Christ, the one who teaches and heals, challenges and comforts us, the one who is our only strength when we are so weak. He is the cornerstone doing what cornerstones do, that is uniting two walls of a building. The cornerstone of this building (it is on the 21^st Street corner of the building) reads, “Jesus Christ himself being the chief of the corner”. The people who built and dedicated this house of faith understood that it is Jesus the risen Christ who unites our spirits, body and mind, head and heart, mission and maintenance, nurture within these walls, and evangelism and outreach beyond them. He invites us to be like him.