I want to introduce you to two prophets whom I have earnestly sought to channel for this sermon:
The prophet Jeremiah, whom we just read from in the scripture, Jeremiah 31:7-9, and Gustavo Gutiérrez, who died on Tuesday at the age of 96.
Jeremiah, often called the “weeping prophet,” was a bold and complex voice in ancient Israel during a time of political turmoil and social injustice. Born in a small village just outside Jerusalem, Jeremiah was called by God as a young man. His message was a difficult one, speaking truth to power, calling out the leaders and people alike for abandoning their covenant with God, neglecting the poor, and turning to wealth for security.
Jeremiah’s time was like ours… one of both national pride and deep social corruption. The wealthy lived in comfort, and the powerful consolidated their strength. The people believed the temple in Jerusalem guaranteed their safety. But Jeremiah saw through this façade; he knew that their disregard for the vulnerable, their exploitation of the poor, and their faith in wealth would lead to their downfall. His warnings to the leaders and the people of Judah were uncompromising, urging them to repent by caring for the oppressed and seeking justice.
Jeremiah also carried a message of radical hope. In some of the most powerful passages of his writings, Jeremiah prophesies a time when God will restore the people—a future where the scattered exiles return home, where relationships are healed, and where a new covenant, written on the hearts of God’s people, will bring about a just and compassionate society.
And Gustavo Gutiérrez, a Peruvian priest and theologian, he is the father of liberation theology—a movement born from the heart of Latin America that challenges us to see faith as inseparable from the fight for justice. Born into poverty in Lima, he experienced suffering firsthand, and this early encounter with hardship shaped his life’s work. Ordained as a priest, he initially pursued a more traditional path but soon found himself drawn to the struggles of the poor and marginalized in his country. Gutiérrez came to believe that theology could not remain an intellectual exercise. Instead, it must emerge from the lived experiences of those on the margins.
He gave his life to calling Christians to stand in solidarity with the poor, not as distant benefactors offering charity, but as co-sufferers and co-creators of a just world. Gutiérrez famously introduced the concept of the “preferential option for the poor,” a principle rooted in the Gospels that asserts God’s special concern for the oppressed. For Gutiérrez, this wasn’t about mere charity but about dismantling structures that perpetuate poverty and building a new social order rooted in equality, dignity, and compassion. He saw poverty not as an unavoidable fact of life but as a form of violence inflicted by unjust systems—systems that those with power, whether political or religious, often maintain.
While Gutiérrez worked primarily in Latin America, his ideas have resonated worldwide, especially among communities grappling with systemic injustice, such as Oscar Romero in El Salvador, The Sandinista Movement, the fight in South Africa to end apartheid, Martin Luther King Jr. and the civil rights movement, Sister Helen Prejean’s witness against the death penalty, the 50-year long fight to end the UMC’s LGBTQ discrimination, and right here at Allendale, to name just a few.
His theology challenges us to see that faith demands more than sympathy; it demands action, relationship, and transformation. He calls us to not spend our time caring for people who are poor but to enter deep relationships with them and together confront the systems that keep people impoverished.
Alongside the prophet Jeremiah, Gutiérrez would invite us to examine our city, our institutions, and our priorities. He would ask us: are we truly building a world that reflects God’s justice? Or are we merely giving the current order a new coat of paint?
In the spirit of Gutiérrez and Jeremiah, I offer this letter:
Dear Mayor Welch, elected officials, people of St. Petersburg, and the congregation of Allendale…
Thus says the God of all creation, who brings forth both the rain and sunshine:
I have heard the cries of your people, the lament of the mothers, the sighs of the weary fathers, the groans of the elders, and the shouts of the young, asking, “How much more can we bear?” I have seen the storms that rage, and I have witnessed the floods that rise. I know the devastation you have faced, and I am near to those who suffer. But do not think that this is merely the work of nature. The aftermath of this storm has roots deeper than the ocean. This is the work of human hands, a consequence of your city’s choices, a bitter fruit of the seeds that have been sown.
For too long, you have developed structures of opulence and palaces of privilege, while my people have been left exposed, unprotected, and unseen. You have placed your faith in monuments to wealth, in policies that protect the prosperous, and in promises of growth that leave the poor behind. This city has invested its resources in towers that scrape the sky, but it has ignored the needs of those who walk its broken streets. You have built for beauty, but forgotten the vulnerable. And now, you witness the unraveling of what has been sewn—an unraveling born not just of wind and rain, but of neglect and inequity.
You dare speak the word equity, lip service, as cover for your sin of dehumanizing neglect.
“The poverty of the poor is not a call to generous relief action, but a demand that we go and build a different social order.”
– Gustavo Gutiérrez
The storm has revealed the cracks in your foundation, and it is time to build something new.
To those in places of power, by election or by religious authority, including myself, to you, I say this: Your power was not given to secure the interests of the wealthy, but to protect the well-being of all people, especially the most vulnerable. This is not a critique of your response to this disaster, but of the priorities that led us here. When you choose to build a city that elevates wealth and neglects the poor, you lay down a path of broken promises. When you fill the coffers of a few at the expense of the many, you leave your people to face the storm without shelter.
So you say you love the poor? Name them.
– Gustavo Gutiérrez
Do you remember that God’s heart is with the poor, the weary, the forgotten? They are not nameless. They are not faceless. They are those who clean your streets, who teach your children, who care for your elders. They are those who struggle to pay rent in a city that celebrates its skyline while neglecting its neighborhoods. They are those whose lives have been shaken, whose homes are flooded, whose voices have been ignored.
People of St. Petersburg: I call you to imagine a different future. Imagine a city where resources are not poured into vanity, but into community. Imagine a city that does not pride itself on luxury, but on justice. A place where every person has a home, every worker has a living wage, and every child has a future filled with hope. This is the promise of God, not merely to rescue the weary, but to bring about a new creation, a world where the poor are not pushed to the margins, but lifted up to a place of honor.
Do not let this storm pass without letting it stir your hearts. Hear the call to rebuild—not in the image of the world you have known, but in the vision of the kindom of God. A kindom where the hungry are fed, the stranger is welcomed, and the oppressed are set free. A kindom not merely of charity from the haves to the have-nots, but where we show how true love exists only among equals.
As the prophet has spoken:
“Neighbors are not they whom I find in my path, but rather they in whose path I place myself.”
– Gustavo Gutiérrez
If you love this city, if you love its people, you must place yourselves in the paths of those who suffer most. This is not a call to charity that eases a moment’s pain, but a call to solidarity that reshapes a lifetime. Go out to the highways and byways, to the apartments with broken roofs, to the streets littered with debris, to the homes of the elderly left in fear. Seek out your neighbors, and make their suffering your own.
To the leaders, to the people, to the privileged and the powerful—know that the God of all creation sees beyond your walls and hears beyond your gates. The future is in your hands. Will you rebuild in the image of the old ways, in pursuit of wealth and grandeur? Or will you build anew, on a foundation of compassion, justice, and equity? Build a social order where the vulnerable are protected, where every child grows without fear, and where the prosperity of one is the prosperity of all. You drink from the wells dug by the sweat of the poor; do not let them thirst any longer. For as surely as storms rise, so too will the promise of God’s justice. And it will come not through the wealth of the few, but through the shared strength of many.
To the people of Allendale, who seek justice and yearn for a world more aligned with God’s vision,
Thus says God: you are called to be builders of a new order, not merely managers of the old one. You know the power of justice and the value of compassion. You understand the call to serve those on the margins. But let me ask you—do you truly believe that offering charity without transformation will bring my kindom closer? Do you believe that putting a fresh coat of blue paint on a decaying structure will keep it from collapsing?
I see your good intentions and your desire to make change. When you just offer food, clothing, shelter—you ease burdens for a moment. And yet, too often, this charity exists at a distance, a way to soothe consciences without committing to the deeper work of dismantling the very systems that keep the poor in poverty. You care deeply, but do you walk deeply with those who suffer? Charity is good, but it is only the beginning. The work to which I call you is greater still: to break down the walls that separate, to join hands with the poor, and to create a world where charity is no longer needed because justice has taken its place.
Do not put your faith in politicians, in those who promise change but preserve the order that benefits them. Too often, you look to left-leaning lip-servicing leaders to rescue the poor, but they are more invested in preserving their own place within the system than in overturning it. Voting is important, yes, but voting alone will not transform the world. For those who promise progress too often deliver only self-promotion, and they return to the same systems that perpetuate the very injustices and violence they claim to oppose.
As Gutiérrez warns, real transformation threatens those who benefit from the way things are. If you truly seek the kindom of God, then your faith cannot rest on policies and platforms that are comfortable with mere reform while avoiding true revolution.
Consider this: Christ did not come to merely patch up the old ways. He came to turn the world upside down, to make the first last and the last first. He ate with the despised, touched the unclean, and refused the empty gestures of the powerful. He walked alongside the poor, not to give them temporary relief, but to proclaim good news that the old order would pass away. To follow Christ is to do the same—to go beyond charity to solidarity, past allyship to being accomplices, to build relationships, to enter into the lives and struggles of those who suffer, and to work tirelessly for a society where everyone can flourish.
To love people who are poor is not only to feed them but to have their names on your hearts, to know their stories, to sit at their tables, to listen to their wisdom, and to let their needs reshape our lives and priorities. Jesus taught us not to dehumanize people who are poor as mere recipients of our aid; they are bearers of God’s image, teachers of resilience, prophets who call us to repentance. They hold the Gospel. They are partners, not projects. If you truly love them, then let them change you. Walk with them not as benefactors, but as equals, co-creators of a new future.
This is what I ask of you, Allendale: do not let your commitment to justice become merely a commitment to charity. Do not look to politicians alone to do the work that I have called you to do. Do not be content to paint the walls of a broken structure blue when I am calling you to rebuild the house from the foundation. Look to the margins, to the places where my people struggle, and place yourselves there. Involve yourselves in their lives, hear their stories, share in their burdens, and let those relationships guide the work of justice. You are called to be more than helpers; you are called to be companions on the journey of liberation. And yes, this journey is costly. It demands sacrifice, discomfort, and the humility to let go of power and privilege. But this is the way of Christ—the narrow path that leads to life.
Thus says God, the One who gathers the scattered, who hears the exiled, who brings the broken back to wholeness: a day of restoration is coming. I am the God of homecoming. I am the God of return. I am the God who leads my people back from the wilderness, who rebuilds the ruins, who restores what has been lost. The storms have struck, the waters have risen, and so much has been taken. But hear this: I will lead you home.
To those whose homes have been swallowed by water, whose belongings have been swept away, I promise you—this is not the end. I see your loss, your grief, your uncertainty. I will not leave you abandoned. I am calling on my people to rebuild, not with the old materials of privilege and neglect, but with the bricks of justice and compassion. I will restore your homes, but even more, I will make them places of refuge, security, and belonging. You will plant new gardens, rebuild new lives, and my spirit will be in your midst, like a tree beside a stream, giving life and hope.
But this restoration goes deeper than walls and roofs. To those who have wandered far from the church because it has wounded rather than healed, because it has judged rather than welcomed—know this: I am calling you home. I am calling you back, not to the religion of condemnation, but to the God who longs for you. I am the God who mends what others have broken, who binds up the wounds that others have inflicted. Come back, not to an institution, but to a love that will never let you go, to a family that stretches across time and space. Come back to your spiritual home, where you are embraced, cherished, and called by name.
And to those who feel isolated, cut off, or forgotten—to those who have drifted, lost in loneliness, longing for connection—I am bringing you home too. I see your heartache, your yearning to belong, your search for a place to rest. I am gathering a people who will walk beside you, friends who will bear your burdens, companions who will hold you in your darkest nights. I am creating a community where no one stands alone, where every person is seen, valued, and loved. I am building a home for the lost, a place where all can find family.
This is the vision: a world where the exiled return, the broken are mended, and the lonely find their place. A world where the scattered are gathered, where the forgotten are remembered, where every tear is dried, and every soul finds rest. This is the promise of God—to restore all things, to renew the earth, to make all things whole. And you, my people, are invited to be part of this restoration, to be the hands and feet of this homecoming, agents of this radical hope.
And remember this: the future does not belong to those who seek their own comfort or protect their own privilege. The future belongs to the dreamers, to the seekers of justice, to those who build homes for others. The future belongs to the poor and the oppressed, to the ones the world has cast aside. The future belongs to those who dare to hope, who dare to love, who dare to create a new social order.
So rise up, Allendale, rise up, St. Pete, and be part of this promise. Let us build a city of justice, a community of compassion, a world where all are restored. Let us go out to the highways and the byways, to the flooded homes and the lonely hearts, to the wounded spirits and the forgotten people, and let us build up a new home together.
Because God is not calling us to maintain or patch the world as it is. God is calling us to revolution.
The future belongs to we who will build it. The future of history belongs to the poor and exploited, and to the accomplices who join alongside them.
Amen.