19-OCT-2025 The Work That Is Ours To Do

Written by: Sean Alan Morris
Texts: Jeremiah 31:27–34, Luke 18:1–8

When I was ten years old — so, circa 1972 — I got what I swore at the time was the best Christmas present ever. It came straight out of the Sears Wish Book. Parents of that vintage may remember it, the thick phone book of dreams. By the time December rolled around, it had been marked up with felt-tip pen circles and exclamation points pointing to everything we wanted, as if Santa had a charge account at Sears. 

It turns out… he did. 

That year, under the tree, was a long box with my name on it. Inside was a three-foot-long plastic aircraft carrier; the kind that sailed the seas of celery-green shag carpets all over the nation that year.

A tiny helicopter was tethered to the carrier by a long arm, and with a little practice and a whole lot of finesse, you could work two levers to make it fly, hover, and circle the deck. 

If your hands were steady, and you could slowly slip the tip of your tongue out into just the right corner of your mouth, you might manage to lower its tiny hook, snag one of the little orange airmen from their lifeboats, and drop them safely back on board. 

As you might imagine, I was over the moon. 

I set it up immediately; the deck cleared, crew ready, air boss standing by. I was stoked to start flying. 

And then came the dreaded realization. 

There, stamped on the box (now torn asunder), was the legend in too-small print that read: 

“Batteries not included.” 

I feel you know my anguish. 

This cruel truth spawned an epic crisis that Christmas morning. The dratted thing needed six, or maybe eight, C-cell batteries. Where on earth were we going to find those?

My mother and step-father, to their everlasting credit, tore through every junk drawer and closet in the house searching for something, anything that might yield the precious batteries. 

Just when I had given up hope, my mother came through. She remembered the RadioShack portable transistor radio we used during power outages or on picnics at Lake Waramaug. Lo and behold, that little radio gave up exactly as many batteries needed to launch my career as a naval airman. 

And boy, did that thing fly. 

Sort of. 

It wobbled like a seagull with vertigo, made a noise somewhere between a bee and a Westinghouse blender, and once it started, it spun in mad circles like an over-caffeinated sparrow until I managed to figure out the finer points of throttle, pitch, and yaw. 

But to ten-year-old me, it was glorious. No other thing I received that year compared. It did not matter that it was difficult to make work, because I was part of the process. It was alive and I helped make it so.

We hear from Jeremiah this morning as he speaks to a people who have lost nearly everything. Their sense of identity, their homeland, their 

understanding of who they are in God’s eyes, all of it scattered. 

In that moment, God does not offer them a new rulebook or a longer list of things to perform. 

Instead, God promises something quieter, deeper, and more durable: 

“I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts.” 

No fanfare. No smoke and thunder. Just a reminder that God’s promise is not stored somewhere out there, but carried inside of us. 

It is tempting to think of faith as something to be displayed as visible proof of our belief, but Jeremiah’s vision is not about performance. 

It is about integration.

It is faith that does not need to announce itself because it is already woven into how we live, how we speak, how we treat one another. 

When God says,“I will be their God, and they shall be my people,” it is not a contract to sign nor a badge to wear. 

It is a relationship to live into, 

quietly, 

faithfully, 

persistently. 

That is the kind of faith you do not have to advertise. It shows up in the patient way we listen, the grace we extend, the small daily choices that no one but God ever sees. 

Because the covenant written on our hearts is not a performance script. It is a pulse. It is what keeps our faith alive even when the stage lights are off and the cameras aren’t rolling.

In our reading from Luke today, Jesus tells a story about a widow who will not stop knocking on the door of an unjust judge. We are told that she seeks justice, that she keeps coming, and that her persistence finally wears the judge down. 

In my study of these passages, I will sometimes refer to scholarly ruminations on their meaning. I like to hear what academics say, and see if I can manage a connection to the text, especially if it feels arcane or impenetrable. For this one, It seems to me that It has often been treated as a lesson in stubborn prayer, but I feel like it is more than that. 

The widow does not simply wait. 

She does not stand quietly at home and hope the world will improve. 

She shows up. Again and again. She refuses to let indifference have the last word, even when faced with an authority with no interest in her plight because there is no gain to be had for himself. 

Oh, my dear friends, in today’s world, that is definitely a strength.

The judge admits he does not fear God or respect people, but even he cannot ignore her forever. 

In this, Jesus shows us something powerful about faith in action. 

Real faith moves. 

It speaks up. 

It keeps showing up even when the odds are poor, and the world is tired of hearing it. 

We live in a time when it is easy to confuse volume with conviction. Faith does not need to shout to be faithful. It needs to persist. The widow’s strength is not in her display, but in her endurance. She keeps 

doing the work that others have given up on, or have told her is not worth the effort. 

This is the quiet work of discipleship: not performance, not spectacle, but a steady insistence that justice, mercy, and compassion still matter. 

The kingdom of God does not arrive through grand gestures. It grows through daily perseverance.

So now, I think again about my little helicopter. 

All these years later, I can still hear its uneven whine and see it wobbling in circles over the living room carpet. It was not graceful, and it certainly was not quiet, but as long as it was stocked with fresh batteries, it was alive. 

And it strikes me that faith, the living kind, not the decorative kind, often looks a lot like that. A bit unsteady, a bit noisy, occasionally bumping into the furniture, but alive with the energy we put into it. 

God’s promise, Jeremiah reminds us, is already written on our hearts. The circuitry is all there. But if we just leave it boxed up, waiting for someone else to provide the electricity, we will never see what it can do. 

The world does not need Christians who stand around telling others what faith ought to look like. It needs people who are willing to plug it in, give it some juice, and let it hum quietly and faithfully, through acts of grace, justice, and mercy. 

It does not have to be perfect.

It just has to be real. 

And maybe, when all is said and done, that’s what we mean when we say “batteries not included.” 

God gives the gift. 

We supply the power. 

And together, 

with all our wobbling, 

all our noise, 

and all our grace, 

we make it come alive. 

And hopefully we can do it without startling the cat!

This sermon is shared freely for personal reflection. If you’d like to use it elsewhere, please reach out to the author through the church office.