There’s a kind of intelligence that works like a smoke alarm. It notices every frayed thread in the culture, names every crack in the foundation, and can explain in persuasive detail why everything is coming apart. We all know people who have this kind of intelligence.
Diagnosis, while necessary, isn’t healing. It takes a sharp mind to argue that we live in dark times. It takes a sharper heart to light a candle anyway, actually working in some way to drive the darkness back.
As I have been thinking and praying lately over the state of our culture and our church, I came across a line recently that put it plainly: the antidote to a season of crisis isn’t optimism, but beauty. Optimism is a forecast — it bets the weather will turn. Beauty is a practice. It doesn’t wait on the forecast. It plants something in the ground while the storm is rolling in.
As people of God, we have been here before. In Jeremiah 29, Israel is in exile in Babylon, uprooted, grieving, surrounded by an empire’s wicked gods. Unexpectedly, the word of the prophet was this:
“Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce… seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper.” — Jeremiah 29:5, 7
Hope is not a solo discipline. It is community nurtured — watered by others when our own hands lack the strength.
He doesn’t call them to escape, or to hide, or to take up arms. He charges them to plant gardens and make delicious meals from the produce. God’s answer to the crisis of exile was new creation, a table, and community with the neighbors. In short — a creative, joyful, community church.
Notice, too, that the command is plural. Gardens aren’t planted by lone heroes; they’re tended by households, by neighbors, by a people in community. Hope is not a solo discipline. It is community nurtured — watered by others when our own hands lack the strength.
That’s exactly what we see in the earliest Church. In The Acts of the Apostles, just after Jesus’ resurrection and ascension, a small band of believers in an uneasy, occupied Jerusalem doesn’t retreat into commentary. They gather.
“They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer… They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.” — Acts 2:42, 46–47
Shared tables, shared food, and shared prayers with glad and sincere hearts led to an ever-growing community.
That is still our calling. It’s still the strategy. The cynic can tell you everything that’s wrong with the country, with Rochester, with the Church, with Browncroft… and some of it will be true, but Browncroft is called to something costlier than simply knowing who Jesus is; we are called to be like Him — to carry hope, beauty, courage, honor, and love into the very places where they feel scarcest. To bring a good meal to the family down the street. To write the story, paint the wall, sing the hymn on a Tuesday. To pull up a chair at a small group table and let others tend your hope when it runs low. To pray for the city — and then plant something in it, together.
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” — John 1:5
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Plant something with us. If you want to support the intentional creation of beauty in our city, consider committing a small monthly gift to our friends at Forefront — a local nonprofit providing fellowship, feedback, and formation to artists, writers, musicians, photographers, videographers, and dancers of Christian faith here in Rochester. A few dollars a month helps keep the table set and the lights on for the people making beautiful things in the dark. Support Forefront on Patreon →
