July 14, 2026 - Jeremiah 13-16

In addition to his use of the prophetic word, Jeremiah also employed a number of word pictures.  That is, he acted out his message so that there could be no misunderstanding about his meaning.  Chapter 13 tells the stories of the ruined loincloth and the jars filled with wine.  Jeremiah was instructed to bury his loincloth at the Euphrates River, then go back and retrieve it after many days.  The cloth was ruined, a picture of God’s judgment on the people:  “I will spoil the pride of Judah and the great pride of Jerusalem” (13:9).  Referencing the jars of wine, the Lord declared, “Behold, I will fill with drunkenness all the inhabitants of this land: the kings who sit on David’s throne, the priests, the prophets, and all the inhabitants of Jerusalem” (13:13).  The following chapters report the preaching of Jeremiah in which he tells of the coming exile; of famine, sword, and pestilence; calls out lying prophets; and pretty much paints the darkest of futures for Israel.  The people will indeed go into exile and suffer calamity upon calamity.  That is settled.  Thus, facing such a brutal future, how wonderful must have seemed these words:  “Behold, the days are coming, declares the LORD, when it shall no longer be said, ‘As the LORD lives who brought up the people of Israel out of the land of Egypt,’ but ‘As the LORD lives who brought up the people of Israel out of the north country and out of all the countries where he had driven them.’  For I will bring them back to their own land that I gave to their fathers” (16:14-15).  God disciplines his people.  They will indeed go into exile.  He disciplines us.  But, oh my, how gracious and merciful is our God!

Dear refuge of my weary soul,

On thee, when sorrows rise;

On thee, when waves of trouble roll,

My fainting Hope relies.

To thee, I tell each rising grief,

For thou alone canst heal;

Thy word can bring a sweet relief,

For ev’ry pain I feel.

But oh! when gloomy doubts prevail,

I fear to call thee mine;

The springs of comfort seem to fail,

And all my hopes decline.

Yet gracious God, where shall I flee?

Thou art my only trust,

And still my soul would cleave to thee,

Tho’ prostrate in the dust.   --Anne Steele (1760)