November 14, 2010
25 Pentecost, Proper 28 (Year C)
St. Aidan’s Episcopal Church
Isaiah 65:17-25
Our first reading this morning is one of my favorites. I love this vision of the new heavens and new earth that God is going to create. It was written 2500 years ago, and it’s still, to me anyway, just as wonderful a promise as it must have been then. Still a tangible picture of how things ought to be. No more weeping; long healthy lives, homes and fruitful work all around; a closer relationship with God; peace. I can’t think of anything I could add to make the list more ideal. But the problem with beautiful visions like this is that by their very nature they make you long for them to be fulfilled. And they make you wonder what’s taking so long. And they might even lead you to start doubting the faithfulness of the promisor.
I’ve been thinking about God’s promises a lot recently in conjunction with our Godly Play stories for the Sunday School kids. I’ve been sharing a shortened version with our Day School every Wednesday morning in Chapel. A few weeks ago I told them the story of the Great Family. Where God tells Abraham and Sarah to leave their home and start anew. And so, trusting God, they take a long and dangerous journey through the desert to make their home in Hebron. They learn along the way that God is not just here or there – All of God was everywhere. And they receive the promise from God that they will have a great family with members as many as the stars in the sky and the grains of sand in the desert. And sure enough, they go on to have their child of laughter, Isaac. And Isaac and Rebecca have children and those children have children. And this goes on for thousands and thousands of years until your grandmothers and grandfathers had children. Then your mothers and fathers had children. And now YOU are part of that great family which has become as many as the stars in the sky and the grains of sand in the desert. That’s my favorite line. I love the reminder that we are all included in that hope, that beautiful promise.
And I was content to leave Abraham and Sarah safe in Hebron. God’s promise to them was being fulfilled. A beautiful story. So much to learn from.
But then, the very next week, comes the story of the Exodus. Which probably would have been fine and not awakened my flurry of theological wrestling except for the way the story began:
The People of God were living in a place where the rains did not come. The crops had no water, so they could not grow. There was no grain to grind to make bread. Everyone was hungry. The children cried in their sleep. So their mothers and fathers decided to go to a new land where there was food. They had to go even if it was across the desert.
And then they start their journey to Egypt, which, many decades later, ends in the Exodus story.
So, wait, let me get this right: Just last week, the people of God had reached this wonderful new place, become recipients of a great new promise. And now - pow! - this week the rains aren’t coming and they’re starving and crying?
Now, don’t get me wrong. I realize there’s a lot of time in between these two stories. Although given what happens in between, that’s small comfort. Those years are interspersed with the sacrifice story of Abraham and Isaac, the sibling rivalry gone viral of the twin brothers Jacob and Esau, the fake death and selling into slavery of Joseph by his brothers. And a multitude of other calamities. Of course they mostly end up okay, with Abraham getting a last-minute reprieve from killing his son, Jacob and Esau eventually reconciling, and Joseph’s enslavement being used as a catalyst for the Egyptians to hoard their food to prepare for the famine, thus saving Joseph’s own family from starvation.
And that’s true with the Exodus story, too. There’s a good ending, with Miriam leading the dancing after Moses and the people pass through the Sea onto dry land, safe from Pharoah’s army. But even here, for the Hebrews, the good ending is, once again, temporary. As we know, after this story we get the people worshipping the golden calf, and the people continuing to wander around in the desert for another generation. And then even when they do eventually reach their God-given destination there are continuous wars and bad kings and faithlessness galore.
So sure, there are a lot of stories of delivery by God – God hears their cries, forgives their disloyalty, provides for them eventually. But it never lasts. They are always having to look ahead, trying to trust against all odds that the promise will come true for them. Or at least for their descendants.
Why can’t God make things just a little bit easier for these supposed chosen people? What good are all the promises if so much turmoil and despair is involved? When will these poor people finally reach the promised land and get to stay there and relax?
Of course, the Old Testament characters aren’t the only ones who looked forward to a promise; they aren’t the only ones who hoped for the fulfillment of a beautiful vision. We see it throughout the New Testament too. From Jesus’ disciples and followers who thought they’d see him return in their lifetimes. And we’ve seen people waiting ever since. The enslaved blacks in America used to take comfort in the story of Moses and the exodus, as they waited for their freedom, their promised land. And here we are this morning, still waiting, reading these verses depicting God’s promise of a New Jerusalem that we still don’t see.
And so I wonder for the poor Old Testament characters, when will the promise stick? But I also wonder it for us, living here in this world today. When will the glorious vision from Isaiah be achieved? I wonder it for orphaned children living in refugee camps in Africa. I wonder it for the victims of the earthquake and flood in Haiti. I wonder it for the 80% of the world struggling to stay alive on 20% of the world’s resources. I wonder it for the children in Fairfax County when I hear about the 50% achievement gap between wealthy and economically disadvantaged kids on the SOLs. And I wonder it for people diagnosed with dementia or cancer and for their loved ones watching and waiting and suffering alongside them.
When will the beautiful vision from Isaiah finally stick?
In this morning’s reading we hear five promises from God, all of which are fairly radical, and any one of which would rock the world:
The absence of sorrow
Long and healthy lives for all
Housing, food, and sustainable employment for all
A profoundly intimate relationship with God
Peace and security
We aren’t talking about good fortune to a person here or a family there. This is good news for all people. What’s more, unlike the apocalyptic promises that we get in other parts of the Bible, these aren’t promises that come only after everything is destroyed. This isn’t creation out of nothing, but the universe transformed and whole. This is what God intends for all things and all relationships. Right here on earth.
And I need this vision. As jaded as I sometimes am, I need to hear these promises. Even though they are 2500 years old and still unfulfilled, I need to hear them over and over. Because even though I often get overwhelmed when I look around and see how far we have to go, even though sometimes I can get bogged down in pointing out all the ways God’s people have been let down, each time I hear these promises, I get that same longing, that same desire, for God to take this world and turn it upside down.
And those are the moments when God can enter in and use me. Inspire me, inspire all of us, to take this vision and make it not just some far-off whimsical hope for the future but a stubborn and unyielding possibility for the present. To put it in the context of this stewardship season, I believe we are each called to use our time and talent and treasure in whatever ways we can to actively participate in this new creation that Isaiah prophesies. As Martin Luther King, Jr. put it in his final speech before his assassination, “It's all right to talk about the new Jerusalem, but one day, God's preacher must talk about the new New York, the new Atlanta” and, I’ll add, the new Alexandria, the new D.C.
And so, along with Abraham and Sarah who looked at the stars in the sky and the grains of sand in the desert and trusted. Along with the slaves in Egypt and the slaves in America who sang of their exodus far in advance of freedom. Along with Martin Luther King and everyone else who has ever dreamed a dream or seen a vision, when we join in Isaiah’s song of a new Jerusalem we claim it for ourselves. We aren’t denying how far we have left to go; we are protesting and struggling against everything that tries to hold us back. We are holding up another possibility for the whole world to see -- a future filled with God, with space for every person. And we are actually becoming part of its fulfillment – taking on our role as the salt of the earth, the light of the world. Amen.
25 Pentecost, Proper 28 (Year C)
St. Aidan’s Episcopal Church
Isaiah 65:17-25
Our first reading this morning is one of my favorites. I love this vision of the new heavens and new earth that God is going to create. It was written 2500 years ago, and it’s still, to me anyway, just as wonderful a promise as it must have been then. Still a tangible picture of how things ought to be. No more weeping; long healthy lives, homes and fruitful work all around; a closer relationship with God; peace. I can’t think of anything I could add to make the list more ideal. But the problem with beautiful visions like this is that by their very nature they make you long for them to be fulfilled. And they make you wonder what’s taking so long. And they might even lead you to start doubting the faithfulness of the promisor.
I’ve been thinking about God’s promises a lot recently in conjunction with our Godly Play stories for the Sunday School kids. I’ve been sharing a shortened version with our Day School every Wednesday morning in Chapel. A few weeks ago I told them the story of the Great Family. Where God tells Abraham and Sarah to leave their home and start anew. And so, trusting God, they take a long and dangerous journey through the desert to make their home in Hebron. They learn along the way that God is not just here or there – All of God was everywhere. And they receive the promise from God that they will have a great family with members as many as the stars in the sky and the grains of sand in the desert. And sure enough, they go on to have their child of laughter, Isaac. And Isaac and Rebecca have children and those children have children. And this goes on for thousands and thousands of years until your grandmothers and grandfathers had children. Then your mothers and fathers had children. And now YOU are part of that great family which has become as many as the stars in the sky and the grains of sand in the desert. That’s my favorite line. I love the reminder that we are all included in that hope, that beautiful promise.
And I was content to leave Abraham and Sarah safe in Hebron. God’s promise to them was being fulfilled. A beautiful story. So much to learn from.
But then, the very next week, comes the story of the Exodus. Which probably would have been fine and not awakened my flurry of theological wrestling except for the way the story began:
The People of God were living in a place where the rains did not come. The crops had no water, so they could not grow. There was no grain to grind to make bread. Everyone was hungry. The children cried in their sleep. So their mothers and fathers decided to go to a new land where there was food. They had to go even if it was across the desert.
And then they start their journey to Egypt, which, many decades later, ends in the Exodus story.
So, wait, let me get this right: Just last week, the people of God had reached this wonderful new place, become recipients of a great new promise. And now - pow! - this week the rains aren’t coming and they’re starving and crying?
Now, don’t get me wrong. I realize there’s a lot of time in between these two stories. Although given what happens in between, that’s small comfort. Those years are interspersed with the sacrifice story of Abraham and Isaac, the sibling rivalry gone viral of the twin brothers Jacob and Esau, the fake death and selling into slavery of Joseph by his brothers. And a multitude of other calamities. Of course they mostly end up okay, with Abraham getting a last-minute reprieve from killing his son, Jacob and Esau eventually reconciling, and Joseph’s enslavement being used as a catalyst for the Egyptians to hoard their food to prepare for the famine, thus saving Joseph’s own family from starvation.
And that’s true with the Exodus story, too. There’s a good ending, with Miriam leading the dancing after Moses and the people pass through the Sea onto dry land, safe from Pharoah’s army. But even here, for the Hebrews, the good ending is, once again, temporary. As we know, after this story we get the people worshipping the golden calf, and the people continuing to wander around in the desert for another generation. And then even when they do eventually reach their God-given destination there are continuous wars and bad kings and faithlessness galore.
So sure, there are a lot of stories of delivery by God – God hears their cries, forgives their disloyalty, provides for them eventually. But it never lasts. They are always having to look ahead, trying to trust against all odds that the promise will come true for them. Or at least for their descendants.
Why can’t God make things just a little bit easier for these supposed chosen people? What good are all the promises if so much turmoil and despair is involved? When will these poor people finally reach the promised land and get to stay there and relax?
Of course, the Old Testament characters aren’t the only ones who looked forward to a promise; they aren’t the only ones who hoped for the fulfillment of a beautiful vision. We see it throughout the New Testament too. From Jesus’ disciples and followers who thought they’d see him return in their lifetimes. And we’ve seen people waiting ever since. The enslaved blacks in America used to take comfort in the story of Moses and the exodus, as they waited for their freedom, their promised land. And here we are this morning, still waiting, reading these verses depicting God’s promise of a New Jerusalem that we still don’t see.
And so I wonder for the poor Old Testament characters, when will the promise stick? But I also wonder it for us, living here in this world today. When will the glorious vision from Isaiah be achieved? I wonder it for orphaned children living in refugee camps in Africa. I wonder it for the victims of the earthquake and flood in Haiti. I wonder it for the 80% of the world struggling to stay alive on 20% of the world’s resources. I wonder it for the children in Fairfax County when I hear about the 50% achievement gap between wealthy and economically disadvantaged kids on the SOLs. And I wonder it for people diagnosed with dementia or cancer and for their loved ones watching and waiting and suffering alongside them.
When will the beautiful vision from Isaiah finally stick?
In this morning’s reading we hear five promises from God, all of which are fairly radical, and any one of which would rock the world:
The absence of sorrow
Long and healthy lives for all
Housing, food, and sustainable employment for all
A profoundly intimate relationship with God
Peace and security
We aren’t talking about good fortune to a person here or a family there. This is good news for all people. What’s more, unlike the apocalyptic promises that we get in other parts of the Bible, these aren’t promises that come only after everything is destroyed. This isn’t creation out of nothing, but the universe transformed and whole. This is what God intends for all things and all relationships. Right here on earth.
And I need this vision. As jaded as I sometimes am, I need to hear these promises. Even though they are 2500 years old and still unfulfilled, I need to hear them over and over. Because even though I often get overwhelmed when I look around and see how far we have to go, even though sometimes I can get bogged down in pointing out all the ways God’s people have been let down, each time I hear these promises, I get that same longing, that same desire, for God to take this world and turn it upside down.
And those are the moments when God can enter in and use me. Inspire me, inspire all of us, to take this vision and make it not just some far-off whimsical hope for the future but a stubborn and unyielding possibility for the present. To put it in the context of this stewardship season, I believe we are each called to use our time and talent and treasure in whatever ways we can to actively participate in this new creation that Isaiah prophesies. As Martin Luther King, Jr. put it in his final speech before his assassination, “It's all right to talk about the new Jerusalem, but one day, God's preacher must talk about the new New York, the new Atlanta” and, I’ll add, the new Alexandria, the new D.C.
And so, along with Abraham and Sarah who looked at the stars in the sky and the grains of sand in the desert and trusted. Along with the slaves in Egypt and the slaves in America who sang of their exodus far in advance of freedom. Along with Martin Luther King and everyone else who has ever dreamed a dream or seen a vision, when we join in Isaiah’s song of a new Jerusalem we claim it for ourselves. We aren’t denying how far we have left to go; we are protesting and struggling against everything that tries to hold us back. We are holding up another possibility for the whole world to see -- a future filled with God, with space for every person. And we are actually becoming part of its fulfillment – taking on our role as the salt of the earth, the light of the world. Amen.
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