The news reports were dire. Hurricane Helene would hit Tallahassee as a category 4–maybe category 5–hurricane. We pulled out the generators. Secured the patio furniture. And waited.

I grew up in Florida. I knew the hurricane routine. Living outside of Florida for most of my adult life, I’d had a reprieve from worrying about hurricanes. Just two years earlier I’d moved from Asheville, North Carolina, a beautiful place known by some as “climate safe,” which means it was a place out of reach of the direst effects of climate change.

At our home in Tallahassee, we awoke Friday morning, September 27th, pleasantly surprised. Our electricity was off, but other than small limbs scattered across our yard and street, there was no damage. We breathed a sigh of relief.

And then the images from western North Carolina started coming into our newsfeed. Places we’d known and loved and bought groceries at were under water. Just a couple of miles from where we’d lived in Black Mountain, a mudslide had closed the interstate. I texted several friends to see how they were doing. I received no replies.

Once some cell service was restored, my friends started checking in. One was trying to find a way to get to her house to assess the damage. “If we can get to Black Mountain”, she said, “We can walk to our house in Montreat.” After three days, another friend still hadn’t heard from her mother and was concerned. No one had electricity or running water. Too many roads to count had been destroyed.

The devastation in western North Carolina still is difficult to comprehend. Some people are still unaccounted for. Simply navigating the mountains and towns is a challenge, and likely will be for years to come. The breathtaking climate haven has been reduced to chunks of rubble mired in mud.

People in ancient Israel, now we’re talking about the 6th century BCE, they thought they were in a safe place, too. I mean they were God’s chosen people. They were in a land they felt was theirs. Four hundred years earlier, they’d become a kingdom. They’d had a king and everything, just like the countries around them. Then, as sometimes happens, the one big kingdom split into two smaller kingdoms. Not ideal, but they made it work…

Until, in the 8th century BCE, the northern kingdom–called Israel–was conquered by the Assyrians. The southern kingdom, Judah, continued on, assuming they had God’s favor, resting in the knowledge that, because they were God’s chosen people, things would remain as they were. They would continue inhabiting the land God gave them, worshiping at the temple in Jerusalem, which they believed God literally inhabited. Their leaders might have been less than competent, there might have been rumors of war or invasions, but the people truly believed everything would be okay. Or maybe they wanted to believe that everything would be okay.

They worried. God’s prophet, Jeremiah, spoke to the worried people. “You’re going to lose your kingdom,” he said. “The Babylonians will defeat you.”

As you might guess, the people weren’t overly enthused by Jeremiah’s message. Happily for them, another prophet–Hananiah–had a different message for the anxious people. Hananiah walked through town with a yoke balanced on his shoulders. And then, with dramatic flair, he shattered the yoke on the road. Babylon’s rule would be shattered just like that in two years’ time, Hananiah said.

Witnessing this dramatic display, Jeremiah said, “Oh man! Wouldn't it be great if that happened? It’s NOT gonna happen, but wouldn’t it be great if it did?”

As Jeremiah predicted, things didn’t go the way Hananiah predicted they would go. The Babylonians came. They defeated Judah. They took many of the people from Judah to Babylon. Out of their land, away from their temple, away from their God, the people were devastated, broken. They didn’t know who they were any more.

The Babylonians had left Jeremiah back in Jerusalem. And from his jail cell, Jeremiah wrote letters to the people in Babylon. The so-called “weeping prophet,” who’d preached doom and gloom before the Babylonians came, was now preaching hope to a devastated people.

Today’s words from Jeremiah come from one of those letters. Through the prophet, God promises the people they’ll return to their land. “With weeping they shall come, and with consolations I will lead them back.” “I will turn their mourning into joy, I will comfort them, and give them gladness for sorrow.”

If the people had trouble believing Jeremiah’s words of doom and gloom before the devastation wreaked by the Babylonians, it might have been even more difficult to believe his words after the devastation. How in the world–when they’d lost everything–and I do mean everything– How were they ever going to feel hope, much less joy again?

As a community musician, one of the things that leaps out of Jeremiah’s letter for me are the references to singing. The passage begins, “Sing aloud with gladness, for Jacob!” I mean the people have lost everything and the prophet asks them to sing? And not only to sing, but to sing with gladness?

Later, Jeremiah draws a picture of what the people’s return to their land will look like. And where does he begin? With singing. “They shall come and sing aloud on the height of Zion…and they shall never languish again.”

I still keep up with several musical friends in Asheville and Black Mountain, North Carolina. I reached out to my friend, singer-songwriter, David LaMotte, who lives in the area and asked him what he’d observed about the role music is playing in the recovery effort.

A strong advocate for the power of music to heal communities, David told me that he used to say he loved music because it connects people. Now he believes that human beings are already connected to each other. So, music doesn’t connect us. Music reminds us that we’re already connected. Music also helps us access feelings–ALL the feelings– quicker than just about anything. And when we experience music together, we remember– we feel–that we’re not alone.

A week and half after the storm, David offered a benefit concert at the White Horse Tavern in downtown Black Mountain. When I asked about how people responded to the music, he said people’s feelings were all over the place. There was joy in seeing each other after navigating the treacherous roads to get there. At the same time there was deep grief over all that had been lost. That night, music helped them access all those feelings. And for that moment, music reminded them how connected they are.

David also mentioned a service of lament that happened in Asheville in early November. It was led by the musical group, The Many. (A recording of the service is available on Youtube.) “So often,” David said, “we try to get to the happiness too quickly. First, we have to take time for the sadness, for the lament.”

“They shall come and sing aloud,” the prophet said, “on the height of Mount Zion,” or Mount Mitchell, North Carolina, as the case may be. Perhaps the prophet wasn’t only inviting people to sing songs of joy. Maybe he also was inviting them to sing their laments as a means of getting to the joy. Perhaps he understood that merriness, dancing, and glad singing could only be accessed on the far side of communal lament.

“With weeping they shall come,” God says through the prophet. “With weeping they shall come and with consolations I will lead them back.” “I will turn their mourning into joy.”

Did you catch that? I will turn their mourning into joy. Not, I will Presto-Change-O their mourning into joy. Joy isn’t accessed by a toggle switch. No, getting to joy, often, is a process. And after devastation, that process can be very long.

In talking with David about signs of hope amidst the storm’s devastation, he mentioned what all my other friends in the area have mentioned: they see hope–even joy–in the way people are helping each other. “No one asks who you voted for before offering their help,” David said. “People walk down the street and ask people they don’t even know how they’re doing and then wait to hear their response.” Poignantly, David said, “The flood of kindness has hit a higher watermark than the flood of water.”

“The flood of kindness has hit a higher watermark than the flood of water.” Take a minute to picture that. “The flood of kindness has hit a higher watermark than the flood of water.” You look at pictures of western North Carolina right after the storm, you gotta say, that’s a LOT of kindness.

“I will turn their mourning into joy.” Maybe the prophet wasn’t so much making a statement as he was extending an invitation. Perhaps turning mourning into joy isn’t just God’s work. Maybe it’s work in which we all participate. Perhaps, we, too, through our kind actions, work with God to turn mourning into joy. Perhaps, we, too, can gather on Mount Zion–or in the mountains of western North Carolina–and together, sing our laments until the day, at last, when we are ready to sing aloud to God with gladness.

As David and I talked, I asked if any of his songs spoke to this moment they’re living through in western North Carolina. David wrote the song “Here for You” in response to the pandemic. As you’ll hear, in many ways the song speaks even more clearly to the aftermath of last September’s storm. I’ll read the lyrics then play “Here for You.” Included in the transcript of the sermon is a link to David’s video of the song. The video includes images of people in North Carolina helping each other in the days and weeks after the storm. “Here for You” by David LaMotte:

“Looking out my Monday window, with so few cars driving by. The main street of this river town is strangely still and quiet. Days go by so slowly with no rhythm to the song. Trying to dodge the boulders as the water rolls along. Back in March there was a meeting at the VFW that said we’re all in the same boat, but it really isn’t true. Some boats have big motors, some have wooden oars. Folks are in the water trying to swim back to the shore. Our lives hang by a thread, but you weave those threads together, they’ll make the broken strong enough to hold on to each other. If I’ll just pull a little then just maybe we’ll all pull through. As long as I am here, I will be here for you. There are many who need comfort. There are many mouths to feed. Bring what you can offer and ask for what you need. Let’s be gentle with each other. We don’t always get it right. You don’t have to be the hero. Just lean a little toward the light. You don’t have to say you’re okay. Let’s just stick to what is true.You don’t have to smile and fake it. God knows I’m struggling too. Our lives hang by a thread but you weave those threads together they’ll make the broken strong enough to hold on to each other. If all just pull a little, then just maybe we’ll all pull through. As long as I am here, I will be here for you.”

In the name of our God, who creates us, redeems us, sustains us, and hopes for our wholeness. Amen.