The Bible in One Hand and the Newspaper in the Other

I'm thinking about my sermon for this coming Sunday.  The texts are: Jeremiah 17:5-10, Psalm 1, 1 Corinthians 15:12-20, Luke 6:17-26

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You’ve built your life on what seemed like an unshakable foundation—your career, your family, your plans for the future. Everything feels solid, reliable—until suddenly, it begins to crack. You get the phone call you weren’t expecting. The doctor gives you the news you feared. The job you thought would last forever disappears overnight. You find yourself standing in the rubble of what used to be solid ground.

This isn’t just a personal experience; we see it reflected in the world around us. Consider the recent earthquake in Turkey and Syria, where thousands of lives were lost, and entire communities were reduced to rubble in a matter of moments. Homes, schools, and businesses—all the things people relied on for security—gone in an instant. News reports speak of survivors clinging to hope, waiting for rescue beneath the debris, their lives hanging in the balance.

Moments like these confront us with unsettling questions: Where do we place our trust? What holds us up when everything falls apart?

The theologian Karl Barth once said, “Take your Bible and take your newspaper, and read both. But interpret the newspaper from your Bible.” Today’s scripture readings help us do exactly that. They offer a lens through which we can make sense of both the news and our lives. They are texts about trust, rootedness, and the ultimate hope we have in God.

In our reading from Jeremiah, the prophet draws a sharp contrast between two ways of living. On the one hand, there are those who trust in human strength. Jeremiah says they are like shrubs in the desert—dry, brittle, barely surviving. On the other hand, those who trust in the Holy One are like trees planted by water, sending out their roots to the stream. Even in drought, they remain green and bear fruit.

Jeremiah’s metaphor is not just about ancient Israel—it’s a mirror for our lives. Where do we place our trust? Is it in our wealth, our abilities, or the approval of others? These things may feel solid, but Jeremiah warns that they are ultimately like chaff—fleeting and fragile.

For the survivors of the earthquake in Turkey and Syria, the physical reality of being uprooted reflects a spiritual question we all face. When the structures we rely on are stripped away, what sustains us? Jeremiah invites us to consider where our roots truly lie.

Psalm 1 expands on Jeremiah’s contrast. The righteous, the ones who delight in divine instruction, are like trees planted by streams of water. They flourish because they are connected to a life-giving source. The wicked, however, are like chaff—blown away by the wind.

This image of rootedness is powerful. Trees by streams of water don’t avoid drought, but they survive it. Their strength isn’t in their own power but in their hidden roots, drawing nourishment from the stream.

The question for us is: Where are our roots? Are we planted by the waters of God’s word and grace, or are we rooted in something that will wither when life presses in?

Paul pushes us to a deeper truth in 1 Corinthians 15. Some in Corinth struggled to believe in bodily resurrection. For them, the resurrection was just a metaphor, not a reality. But Paul doesn’t mince words: “If Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile.”

It’s a bold statement. Without the resurrection, Paul says, the whole structure collapses. Faith becomes hollow, and hope fades. But then comes the good news: “But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have fallen asleep.” This is our aha moment—the turning point. The resurrection isn’t just a doctrine; it’s the ultimate sign that God’s promises are real. It assures us that even in the midst of disaster, death does not have the final word.

In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus stands on a plain and speaks words that turn everything upside down. He declares the poor, the hungry, and the grieving blessed, while warning the wealthy and the comfortable. This is the great reversal—a theme central to Luke’s Gospel. Those who are forgotten and overlooked are at the center of God’s kingdom.

Imagine how radical this must have sounded to those on the margins. To the poor and hungry, Jesus’ words were a lifeline: “Yours is the kingdom of God.” But to those who were comfortable and well-fed, they were a wake-up call: “Woe to you who are rich.”

Jesus isn’t condemning wealth itself; he’s warning us about where we place our trust. When we rely on wealth, comfort, or power, we risk becoming like the shrub in the desert—rootless and fragile.

What does it mean to live as people rooted in God’s promises? It means living differently—not as people blown about by every headline, but as people grounded in the hope of the resurrection. It means seeing current events—not as random chaos—but as opportunities to bear witness to God’s ongoing work in the world.

For those of us who feel like the dry shrub in the desert, there’s good news: God invites us to plant ourselves by the stream of divine grace. We are not defined by our worst days. The resurrection is the ultimate reminder that new life is always possible.

So, where are your roots? What sustains you when life presses in? If you feel like a dry shrub today, take heart. God is not done with you. You are invited to be replanted by the waters of grace. Sink your roots deep into the living water of God’s love. Trust in the One who never runs dry.

When the drought comes—and it will—you’ll find yourself standing tall, like a tree planted by water, your leaves still green, your fruit still abundant. And in that rootedness, you’ll find hope—not only for yourself but for a world desperately in need of it.