Beloved in Christ, today’s readings stretch across despair and promise, wealth and warning, exile and eternity. They ask us to look at the ground beneath our feet—whether it feels like prison, comfort, or the chasm between Lazarus and the rich man—and ask: What kind of hope do we plant here?

Jeremiah is in prison. Jerusalem is under siege. The Babylonians are at the gate. And God tells him to buy a field.

It’s absurd. Why invest in land that’s about to be conquered? Why sign deeds and seal scrolls when the future looks so bleak?

But Jeremiah obeys. He buys the field. He buries the deed. And he says, “Houses and fields and vineyards shall again be bought in this land.”

This is prophetic hope—not optimism, not denial, but a fierce trust that God’s promises outlast our present pain. Jeremiah plants hope in hard ground. And he invites us to do the same.

Psalm 91 echoes that trust: “You who dwell in the shelter of the Most High… will not fear the terror of the night.”

It doesn’t promise an easy life. It names the snare, the deadly pestilence, the arrows that fly by day. But it promises presence. Protection. Rescue.

And it reminds us that faith is not a fortress we build—it’s a refuge we enter. It’s not about controlling outcomes. It’s about abiding in God.

Paul writes to Timothy with pastoral urgency: “We brought nothing into the world, so that we can take nothing out of it.”

He warns against the love of money—not money itself, but the craving, the clinging, the illusion that wealth secures us. And he calls Timothy to pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance, gentleness.

He says, “Take hold of the life that really is life.”

That phrase lingers. Because we’re surrounded by false versions of life—comfort without compassion, success without service, religion without risk. But Paul urges us to live generously, to store up treasure not in vaults but in virtue.

And then Jesus tells a parable. A rich man feasts daily. Lazarus lies at his gate, covered in sores. The rich man never sees him—until it’s too late.

In death, the roles reverse. Lazarus is comforted. The rich man is tormented. And a great chasm is fixed.

It’s a hard story. But it’s not just about the afterlife. It’s about the choices we make now. The chasms we create. The gates we ignore.

Jesus isn’t condemning wealth. He’s exposing indifference. He’s asking: Who lies at your gate? What chasm are you choosing?

So what do we do with all this?

• We buy the field. Even when the future feels uncertain. We invest in hope—in relationships, in justice, in the long arc of God’s redemption.

• We dwell in the shelter of the Most High. Not by escaping the world, but by abiding in love.

• We take hold of the life that really is life. Not by hoarding, but by giving. Not by climbing, but by kneeling.

• And we open the gate. We see Lazarus. We cross the chasm. We live as if eternity begins now.

Beloved, the world may feel like siege. The ground may feel hard. But God is still planting vineyards. Still writing promises. Still calling us to live generously, love boldly, and hope fiercely.

So go ahead—buy the field. Bury the deed. And trust that God is not done with this land, or with us. Amen.