Homily for Proper 11 Year C 2025

Imagine.

God’s people—once proud, once prosperous—

Now captives, war booty, 

sitting by the waters of Babylon.

Not the Jordan, not the temple steps,

but a foreign river in a foreign land.

No lyres, no psalms, just the question:

“How did I get here?”

It’s not a strategic question, not really.

It’s a soul question.

A lament in disguise.

And you remember what the prophets said—

what Amos said—

Back then

Business was booming—at least for the wealthy.

The markets were strong, the palaces full,

and the priests were keeping worship predictable, comfortable.

But,

the poor were being crushed,

the system was rigged in favor of those in power,

and, no one with power cared.

Into that smug prosperity came a voice—

Amos, a prophet.

And his word?

Not comfort.

Not blessing.

But judgment—judgment upon those with power

Those who had traded justice for profit.

Amos sees a basket of summer fruit.

Ripe, sweet, full.

And the Lord says, “The end has come.”

A pun in Hebrew—qayitz, “fruit”; qētz, “end.”

Summer fruit: the last of the harvest, it looks pleasant—

But looks can be deceiving; it signals judgment.  

The end.

They had kept the festivals.

They had sang the temple songs.

They had offered sacrifices and bowed in prayer.

But while the psalms were being sung,

the scales in the market were rigged.

The weights were off.

The grain mixed with sweepings.

Manipulation of the currency.

The practice of the faith was endured—only until the market could reopen.

“Let the new moon be over,” they said,

“so we can get back to business.”

And the business?

Buying the poor for silver.

Selling the needy for a pair of sandals.

Profiting from the hunger of others.

Reducing people to numbers.

Reducing worth to price.

It was a religion without righteousness.

Worship without justice.

Piety without equity.

And Amos says: God will not pass by again.

“Shall not the land tremble on this account?”

God asks.

Tremble—not from an earthquake—

but from moral collapse.

The land shakes when the poor are trampled.

The sun darkens when equity is denied.

Creation mourns when God’s image in the poor is defaced.

This is not just ancient Israel’s crisis—

this is cosmic.

The sun goes down at noon.

Songs turn into laments.

Feasts into funerals.

And now the earth trembles.

Not an earthquake, not weather, not some random shift in the ground.

No—this is creation groaning under the weight of injustice.

The sun goes dark at noon.

The whole land mourns.

What’s being described here is not just disaster—it’s judgment.

When the poor are trampled and the covenant is betrayed,

even the cosmos cannot stay silent.

God’s grief ripples through the world:

a trembling earth, a shadowed sky,

as if the universe itself is bearing witness—

saying, “This is not how it’s supposed to be.”

And then—silence.

Amos speaks of a famine.

But not of bread.

Not of water.

A famine of the Word of the Lord.

“They shall wander from sea to sea…

seeking the Word of the Lord,

but they shall not find it.”

This is the severest judgment:

God goes quiet.

It’s not that the Word was not spoken—

Amos had been preaching all along.

The prophets had cried out.

The scrolls were read aloud.

But they were ignored.

Dismissed.

Written off.

The truth was mocked

justice was ignored

And now…

Now they find themselves sitting on the bank of a foreign river asking themselves.  “How did I get here?”  

And thinking…“maybe Amos was right…There is no one left in our homeland who can read holy scripture.”

Amos.

They didn’t believe him—not really.

Not when he stood in the marketplace,

mouth full of fire,

eyes scanning the crowd like a plumb line.

Amos—from a distant place,

a shepherd, a dresser of sycamore trees.

No robe. No title. No official standing.

Just this burden he couldn’t put down:

“Let justice roll down like waters.”

And they rolled their eyes.

They had harvests in their barns.

Gold in their ledgers.

Songs in the temple—

oh, the worship was spectacular.

And Amos—well, he sounded like...

Well, why spoil a good feast with a sour word?

But now, 

now they sit in exile.

Not just geographically removed—

morally unmoored, spiritually adrift.

Their holy city lies in ruins.

Their temple ash and echo.

And the silence…

the silence speaks louder than any Babylonian trumpet.

In hindsight,

the memory of Amos sharpens.

The words they ignored now haunt them:

“Trampling the needy… selling the poor for a pair of sandals…

you thought the Sabbath was an inconvenience to your profits.”

They remember scoffing.

And now they wince.

He was right.

Every bitter word, every burning image.

That basket of summer fruit,

the balances false,

the songs turned to weeping.

And maybe the deepest sorrow is not just that Amos was right.

It’s that they didn’t listen while there was still time.

God sent warning—not once, not twice—

but they thought themselves untouchable, chosen, secure.

And now?

Now they know.

Amos didn’t come to scold.

He came to save.

And they missed it.

So, so now they sit, they sit beside a foreign river,

 Asking themselves, “How did I get here?”

And, then whispering through tears,

“Why didn’t we listen?”

But remembering…

Ah—remembering is not nothing.

To remember Amos—

to say aloud, “He was right and we were wrong”—

is not just regret.

It’s the beginning of return.

Because when you name the truth,

you are no longer pretending.

No longer hiding behind liturgy or wealth or national pride.

You are stripped down.

Like a tree in winter.

Bare.

But rooted.

And maybe…

maybe that’s what faith looks like on the other side of ruin—

not triumphant hymns or rebuilt temples,

but a humbled people “Letting justice roll down like waters.”

So yes,

confession is painful.

And it is faithful.

It is a beginning of something new.

When a people who once refused the Word

begin to long for it again,

something sacred stirs.