Let us pray: O God, be present here and in all the places from which we are worshiping. Move in us and through us, that we too would be moved and changed. Speak to us, we pray, less of me, more of you; none of me, all of you. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be pleasing in Your sight, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

I still remember one of our family trips when we had a long layover in an airport. We were tired, frustrated, and just wanted to get to our destination. The airport itself wasn’t much to look at, plastic chairs, overpriced snacks, people pacing around trying to pass the time. Everyone was watching the monitors, waiting for their flight number to be called.

And I remember feeling restless. I just want to be there already. The vacation, the fun, the actual purpose of the trip, it all felt like it was on the other side of this waiting. But then, something shifted. After some snacks, a walk around, and a few laughs together, I realized: this was part of the trip. Not the glamorous part, not the part we’d post pictures about, but it was still real life.

And isn’t that so often how we approach our lives? We treat whole seasons like a layover. We’re just waiting it out until we can get to the “real thing.” We tell ourselves: If I can just get through this season… if things would just calm down… if I can just get to the other side of this… then I’ll finally be content.

But what if that’s not how life works? What if God is inviting us to live fully, not later, but here? What if the waiting rooms and layovers are just as much a part of life as the destinations?

That’s exactly the challenge facing God’s people in the book of Jeremiah. Unlike many of the prophets, Jeremiah is not just a distant voice of judgment or hope, we actually get to know him. He’s sometimes called the weeping prophet because we see his raw honesty with God. He laments, he argues, he breaks down in tears over the devastation of his nation.

Jeremiah didn’t want this job. When God first called him, he said, “I am only a boy, I cannot speak.” He felt unqualified and overwhelmed. But God placed words in his mouth anyway, sending him into a lifetime of difficult ministry.

He was born during a time of political turmoil. Kings rose and fell. Josiah, a rare bright spot, tried to reform the nation and turn people back to God. He repaired the Temple, restored worship, and renewed covenant faithfulness. But after Josiah’s death, most of the kings who followed abandoned those reforms. They bowed to foreign gods, made backroom deals with Egypt and Babylon, and led the people further away from trust in the Lord.

One after another, their failures piled up. Eventually, Babylon invaded. Families were torn from their homes, marched across the desert, and forced into life as exiles in a foreign land. The Temple, the very heart of their identity, the visible sign of God’s presence, was destroyed.

This was the defining trauma of Israel’s story. Everything they thought they could count on, their land, their leaders, their Temple, their very sense of who they were, was gone.

And right in the middle of that devastation, Jeremiah writes a letter to the exiles.

You might expect words of comfort: Hang on, it won’t be long. You might expect reassurance: Don’t worry, God will bring you home soon. After all, other prophets were saying exactly that. False prophets told them: This is just a blip. God will fix it quickly. You’ll be back in Jerusalem before you know it.

But Jeremiah doesn’t say that. Instead, he says something almost shocking:

“Build houses and live in them. Plant gardens and eat what they produce. Take wives and have children. Multiply there and do not decrease. Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf. For in its welfare you will find your welfare.”

Do you hear what he’s saying? Don’t wait for life to start until you get home. Don’t cling to the past. Don’t put everything on hold until your situation changes. Instead, live. Build. Plant. Marry. Multiply. And, most radical of all, seek the welfare of the city where you now live, even if that city is Babylon.

Think about that for a moment. Plant gardens.

Gardens take time. They don’t grow overnight. You plant seeds in faith, believing that in weeks or months something will grow. To plant a garden in Babylon meant accepting that you were going to be there for a while. It was a call to stop living like life was on pause and start living as though this season mattered.

And then: Seek the welfare of the city. The Hebrew word there is shalom. Not just peace in the sense of no conflict, but wholeness, flourishing, well-being. To seek the shalom of Babylon was to invest in the flourishing of their neighbors, even their enemies. And God ties the people’s well-being to the well-being of their community: “In its welfare you will find your welfare.”

That’s not what they wanted to hear. But it was the truth they needed.

And it’s the truth we need, too. Because we may not be living in Babylon, but we know what it is to feel displaced. We know what it is to feel like we’re not where we’re supposed to be.

Maybe your “exile” is personal: a job loss, a diagnosis, a relationship that fell apart. Maybe it’s more communal: the way our political divisions tear at the fabric of community, the way climate change brings storms and fires, the way violence seems endless. Or maybe it’s spiritual: feeling like God is far away, like you’re waiting for something to change so that life can finally start again.

And so we tell ourselves: When things settle down… when I get through this season… when I finally arrive where I’m supposed to be… then I’ll live fully.

But Jeremiah’s word to the exiles is God’s word to us: don’t wait. Plant gardens now. Build homes now. Seek the welfare of your community now.

That’s what contentment looks like. It’s not settling for less. It’s not pretending exile is easy. Contentment is trusting that God is present, even here. It’s believing that there is enough to live on, enough to share, enough to build with, even in uncertain seasons.

Contentment doesn’t mean you stop longing for home. The exiles still prayed for Jerusalem. They still longed for restoration. But it does mean refusing to put life on hold until everything feels perfect again.

And here’s the paradox: the more we clutch at control, the more restless we feel. But the more we learn to release, trusting that God has given us enough, the freer we are to live generously, even in exile.

So what does this mean for us today? Jeremiah’s letter invites us to take part in Grace that Grows, to trust that God is already at work in the soil of our lives and our community, and to join in that slow, steady work of planting, tending, and trusting. Here are your action points for the week:

1. Plant something where you are. Not necessarily a literal garden, though it could be. But look around at your life right now. What is one small thing you can nurture? A friendship that needs tending, a habit of prayer, a project that brings life to others. Plant it, water it, trust that God can bring growth even here.

2. Seek the shalom of your community. Jeremiah’s people were told to work for the flourishing of their neighbors, even in Babylon. What might it look like for us to do the same? Here at Bothell UMC, seeking the welfare of our city looks like Becoming Christ in the Community. It looks like the Bothell Urban Project, where we are working toward affordable housing for our neighbors. It looks like our Doll Ministry, which last year provided more than 300 dolls to children through two local partner organizations. It looks like launching Connect Groups this fall, where dozens of people are walking together in faith. It looks like declaring, week after week, that all are welcome and all belong, and backing that up with our commitments to anti-racism, anti-ableism, anti-homophobia, anti-transphobia, and environmental stewardship. These are not abstract ideals, they are the gardens we are planting as a church. And in seeking the welfare of our city, we discover our own.

3. Make a commitment of trust. For us, one way we do this as a church is through our pledges. A pledge card is not just a financial form, it is a spiritual act. It is one of the ways we plant gardens in faith. When you make a pledge, you’re not saying that life is perfect, or that you have everything figured out. You’re saying: I trust that God is here, even in this season. I believe this community matters. I want to seek the shalom of this city, and I’m willing to invest in it. Think of it like planting a seed. You don’t plant because you already see the fruit. You plant because you believe growth will come. Pledging works the same way. It’s a declaration that the future is worth investing in, that God is at work in this place, and that we can live generously even now.

Church, let me be honest with you. This is why we talk about pledging each year. Jeremiah told the exiles, “Plant gardens, build homes, seek the welfare of the city.” That is what we are doing here at Bothell UMC. We are planting seeds of hope, we are tending gardens of justice and welcome, and we are seeking the flourishing of our community. And our pledges are part of that work. A pledge card is not just a financial form, it is a spiritual act. It is a seed of trust, put into the ground now, with the confidence that God will bring growth in the seasons ahead. That is what Grace that Grows looks like - a faith that what we plant today, God will nurture into something beautiful tomorrow.

Our pledges, our budgets, we claim these to be moral documents. They tell the truth about what we value, about who we are, and about where we are going. If your values do not align with the values of this church, then I want to free you from any obligation to pledge. Truly. But if they do align, if you believe in Becoming Christ in the Community, if you believe in the values of welcome and belonging for all, of anti-racism, anti-ableism, anti-homophobia, anti-transphobia, and environmental stewardship, then I am asking you to pledge. Because your commitment makes possible the gardens we plant together, the shalom we seek together, and the future we trust God to bring about together.

Church, Jeremiah spoke to a people who had lost everything. And his word was: even here, you can live. Even here, you can build. Even here, you can plant. Even here, you can seek the shalom of your community. So may we, too, stop waiting for a perfect moment. May we plant gardens here. May we seek the shalom of this city here. May we find contentment in God’s presence here. For the grace of God is already growing among us, and in the welfare of our neighbors, we will discover our own.