Isaiah 40:1-11
December
6, 2020
I don’t remember what words I spoke
to my children when they were little and they would wake in the night, scared
from a nightmare, or sick or convinced that monsters hid in the shadows and
dark recesses of their rooms.
I
don’t remember what words I would whisper to them, when I would pick them up
from their beds and hold them close. I do not remember the exact words that I
would whisper into their ears as I would rock them back and forth, but I know
that they were words of comfort, words that soothed and calmed. I would
reassure them that I was there, that they were safe, that they were loved.
I
would speak tenderly to them, I would speak tenderly to them, telling them it
all right, and that the long night would soon be over. They were safe. They
were loved. I was there.
When you’re little and you wake in
the darkest hour of the nigh, and the world seems so big and frightening, you
need someone to speak tenderly to you. And when you’re older, even much older,
and you wake in the darkest hour of the night, and the world seems so big and
frightening, you also need words of comfort and reassurance. You need someone
to speak tenderly to you.
When I read these verses from the fortieth chapter of
Isaiah, I imagine them in this kind of moment –waking up in the darkest hour of
their long night of exile and feeling alone, abandoned, and afraid of the world
that was so big and so threatening. Then into the darkness comes these words,
“Comfort,
O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her
that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid, that she has received
from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins.”
The people need these words of comfort. They need,
desperately need, God to speak tenderly to them once more. These people, the
Israelites, had gone from the wilderness to prosperity to exile. They were the
chosen people yet even as God had chosen them, God had also let them feel the
full wages of their sins. God had not prevented them from suffering the consequences
of their actions. So, these words, these tender words were spoken to a people long exiled from their
homes and homeland. They were announced to people who had lived generations as
strangers in a strange land. These words were told to those who may have no
longer believed that there was any comfort to be had.
Perhaps, once, they felt cherished by God, truly chosen by
God, but they had forgotten what being chosen meant and what it required of
them. These first verses were spoken to those who were lost and who believed
they would never be found again.
"Comfort, O comfort my
people."
What
wondrous and incredible news to hear! There is comfort to be had. There is
reassurance to be found. They were not alone after all. They were not forgotten
or abandoned by their Maker. These words of comfort were astonishing to hear, especially
as they follow 39 chapters that mainly speak words of judgment and condemnation
for the ways the people turned from the Lord and neglected the least of those
in their midst. Certainly, we find words of comfort, moments of hope in those
39 chapters -- I think specifically of the verses we hear around this time of
year, the words from chapter 9 about the Prince of Peace. Yet even those beautiful
verses are couched in judgment.
So, the 40th chapter of Isaiah marks
a significant change and turning point, not only for the relationship between
God and God's people, but also in the book of Isaiah itself. Biblical scholars
refer to this as Second Isaiah. This second Isaiah was most likely a different
prophet writing in Isaiah's name. Regardless of who uttered them, these words
of comfort must have felt like a healing balm flowing over the wounded hearts
and weary souls of those people far from home.
These words of comfort signify a new
call as well. The Lord is calling his prophet not only to tell the people this
news, but to herald them, to preach them. Preach to them that not only are they
to be comforted, to know that their time of judgment is ending, but that
everything will be changed. Even the physical landscape will be changed.
Crooked roads through the desert will be made straight. Mountains will be
brought low. Valleys will be lifted up. The uneven ground will be made level.
The rough places will become a plain.
Isaiah’s first response to this call
is to question, as other prophets have questioned the call they were given. In
response to being told to "cry out," he asks,
"What should I cry? All people are grass, their constancy is like
a flower of the field. The grass
withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely
the people are grass."
I wonder if the prophet is asking, "What’s
the point? “
What is the
point of preaching these words of comfort to them? Why bother telling them any
of this good news? People are no more constant than the grass or flower that
blooms for a short season then fades away. They are fickle. The word of the
Lord has been given to them over and over again. They have been warned,
exhorted, urged, even condemned, but they never seem to learn. They just don't
get it. So, what is the point of speaking these comforting words to them, Lord?
Why would God even bother?
Why bother? What’s the point?
"The
grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand
forever."
Yes, the
people are like grass, God responds. Yes, they are inconsistent and fickle, but
I am not. They may wither, but I do not. They might fade, but my words remain.
I remain. So, preach these glad tidings. Preach this good news. Tell the
people, "Here is your God!"
Here is your God.
Here is your God. Perhaps these are
the tenderest words of all. It seems to me that these four words sum up Advent,
this time of waiting, this time of yearning and watching and hoping. Here is
your God is the answer we have been searching for, longing for. Here is your
God are the tender words we need to hear.
When
I really ponder these four words, hear them, feel them, I am overwhelmed. Because I realize that my preparations for
Advent and Christmas are often a distraction from what I should be focusing on.
But this year, the distraction feels necessary. The preparations we make, here
at church and at home, distract me from my worries and my fears about the larger
world and my family’s place within it. The last eight months have felt like a
very long night, and the decorations and the lights are a bright spot in the
darkness.
But the
real light shining in the darkness comes in these four words spoken tenderly to
us in our time of such great need and fear. Here is your God. Here is our God.
Here is our
God coming to dwell in our midst once again. Here is our God, right next to us,
whispering words of comfort in our ears. Here is our God. And when I can focus
on these words, on this truth, then I remember another truth. I think my
preparations, my decorating, my baking, my gifting, my sending makes Advent and
Christmas happen. But the truth is that Advent happens to us. God comes to us.
God changes the landscape. God alters the course of history. God breaks in and
breaks through and God comes to us. God comes to us in our darkest night. God
comes to us in the midst of our fears and our worries. God comes us speaking
comfort, speaking tenderly. God comes to us and renews our hope and inspires
our peace. These words, “Here is your God,” was a balm to the exiles so far
from home and it is a balm to us in this darkest hour.
"Comfort, O comfort my people."
"Here is your God."
Speak tenderly to us, O God. Speak
words of comfort, words of hope, words of peace. Speak tenderly and open our
eyes, our minds, our hearts so that we see you, feel you, know you. Speak
tenderly so that we can proclaim with joy, “Here, here is our God!”
Let all of God’s children say,
“Alleluia.”
Amen.
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