January 7, 2007
Isaiah 43:1–7
Prayers of the People
God of fire and rain
and the ever-so-occasional snow; God of both quiet afternoons and frantic
schedules, we give you thanks for this first Sunday of the New Year and its
murky sense of all the possibilities that might follow it – seedtime and
harvest; political platforms and pre-caucus visits; school and play; new jobs,
or perhaps fresh retirements; exercise and diets and friendships and growth –
and commend them all to you. We pray
that as we live into those days we might bring with us spirits settled enough
to be patient, open enough to see glimpses of your creative movement, and quiet
enough to pay attention. We pray for
spirits adventuresome enough to risk beyond our familiar patterns, trusting
enough to stay calm in turbulent waters or heated debates, and grateful enough
to greet each moment as a gift. Bless
this year, we pray. Guide and shape and
beckon us throughout each of its opening days.
And ground us, afresh, in the presence of Christ, in whose name we pray.
Through All That is Ahead
Reflecting on this
reading from the prophet Isaiah, John S. McClure,
one of the commentators I consulted in preparation for this morning observes
that “Isaiah 43 addresses people who are fearful,
dispersed, feeling anonymous, and in danger of being overwhelmed by their
circumstances” (New Proclamation).
“So,” I thought to myself, “in other words it is a quaint little
archaism applicable only to an earlier time.”
Hardly! Anonymity envelopes whole
peoples around us like a fog, consigning them to nameless, pulseless
invisibility. Just ask the former Swift
Packing Company employees in Marshalltown – if, that is, anyone knew where they
now are in order to pose the question; or the millions of Rwanda or the Sudan
or Darfur whose unnoticed death prevents them from answering. And if you have no idea what a feeling of
“dispersion” is, just ask the refugees and immigrants struggling to learn
English in classes taught upstairs each week, along with an entirely foreign
culture. Or the laid-off workers from
Maytag who have joined the ranks of the similarly unemployed.
And fear. Blessed, paralyzing
fear. Surely that has been a stranger to
no reader of Isaiah from his day in the 5th century BC to the
present. Spiritual people in every age
struggle to make sense out of the intersection of their life and their faith,
wondering what to make of the presence of both God and the glaring fragility of
their own existence.
As if to venture some confidence in an answer, singer/songwriter Peter
Mayer offers, in a song I shared with the Elders this week, an insight that has
come to him through prayerful life experience:
that despite his preference for – indeed his desperate groping for –
anchoring stability, “God is a river, not just a stone.” I suppose it is more of an intersecting image than an overlapping one when considered
alongside Isaiah’s prophetic counsel about walking through a river, but it is a companionable conclusion, I think,
just the same. Whatever their different takes, both Mayer and Isaiah are making
full-frontal contact with the fearful ache for security that most of us get
around to feeling sooner or later.
And let’s face it: such an “ache” is not without reason. The simple boarding process at an airport is
enough to remind a traveler that we live in dangerous times in which shoes and
laptops and now even toiletries larger than 3 ounces when transported outside
the securing confines of a baggie presumably conceal life-threatening weapons. Virtually every food, aside from the
stringiest, most tasteless varieties, is a time bomb waiting to corrode or
coagulate us; every step through a pedestrian crossing is a treacherous,
sometimes foolhardy endangering undertaking; every holiday drive a potential tragedy
should one single driver, fatigued or intoxicated, cross the center line. We hardly need wars or terrorists or viral
pandemics to remind us that life is fragile and vulnerable. That awareness is revisited in the most
ordinary and daily undertakings. Only
the naďve or deluded live in total and confident and care-free bliss.
And yet nonetheless the songwriter can
sing:
God is a river, not just a stone
God is a wild, raging rapids
And a slow, meandering flow
God is a deep and narrow passage
And a peaceful, sandy shoal
God is the river, swimmer, so let go
And the prophet
Isaiah can proclaim on God’s behalf:
Do not fear, for I have redeemed
you;
I have called you by name, you are
mine.
When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall
not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you
shall not be burned,
and the flame shall not consume you.
For I am the Lord
your God, the Holy One of Israel,
your Savior.
Or, as the familiar hymn, How
Firm a Foundation, has us singing it:
When through the deep waters I
call thee to go,
The rivers of woe shall not thee
overflow;
For I will be near thee, thy
troubles to bless,
And sanctify to thee
Thy deepest distress.
When through fiery trials thy
pathways shall lie,
My grace, all sufficient, shall be
thy supply.
The flame shall not hurt thee;
I only design thy dross to
consume,
And thy gold to refine.
“No not
fear.” We have talked before about how
often the voices of heaven in scripture settle listeners with that command: Moses to the Israelites at the sight of the
Egyptian army chasing after them as they fled from slavery (Exodus 14: 8-18),
“do not be afraid”; God to the Israelites as they prepared to enter the
Promised Land (Deut. 1:21), “have no fear”; to Joshua as he prepared to lead
his army into battle (Joshua 8:1; 10:8), “do not be afraid”; to Daniel as his
faithfulness elicited the wrath of the king (Daniel 10:12, 19), “have no fear”;
the angel to Mary when announcing her imminent pregnancy; to Joseph, urging him
to follow through with his marriage to Mary despite that mysterious pregnancy;
to the shepherds in the field when announcing Jesus’ birth, “don’t be afraid”;
Jesus to his disciples as he approached them at night walking on the water
(Matthew 14:27) “don’t be afraid”; the angel to the women who had discovered an
empty tomb (Matthew 28:5); and on and on and on. “Do not be afraid.”
And it is
no wonder, because so many of our choices, so many of our behaviors are driven
by fear. Career choices. Vacation choices. Lifestyle patterns. Even patterns of discipleship.
I was visiting with friends from
out of town not long ago about their church – a large, historically dominant
congregation that was moving through some transition. And you could see the fear etched into their
faces; hear it in the stridence of their voice – fear of diminishing, of losing
ground, of growing smaller and “less important.” It wasn’t hopefulness that was driving their
ministry, it seemed to me; not aspiration and audacious articulation of the
faith, but simple, strangling fear.
And
whatever we might lament about our nation’s foreign policy or immigration
policy or legislative moral policy and the fearfulness at the core, and with
whatever relevance his words might have to systems and their operation,
Isaiah’s counsel is finally spoken to people – people like you and me – who
have some reason to behave differently:
Thus says the Lord, he who created you,
O Jacob, he who formed you, O
Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you
are mine.
The gold
standard backing up the currency of Isaiah’s promise is basic: God created you, and God will take care of
you. If frustrated parents have been
heard to say to their recalcitrant kids, “I brought you into this world, and I
can darn sure take you out,” God offers a more positive spin: “I brought you into this world, and I will do
whatever it takes to sustain you while you are here.” Or as someone has phrased it, “The God who
creates is the God who delivers” (Renita Weems).
What will
that mean for us as we make tracks into this blurry expanse of a new year
unfolding? What will it mean for your
Ministries Council gathering this afternoon for a planning retreat as stewards
of our congregational vision? What will
it mean for Budget Task Force and the Building Improvement Task Force and the
Endowment Foundation Board as they steward the more tangible resources of our
ministry? And what might it mean for
you?
One thing about which the prophet
seems clear: there will be
challenges. Isaiah doesn’t promise that
God will steer us clear of turbulent waters or fiery paths; just that God will
be with us in the midst of them.
“Do not fear,” the prophet
counsels – not as an invitation to mindless leaping, or the daring abandonment
of prudence or reflective caution – but as a freeing reminder of who – and
whose – we are.
Whatever,
then is ahead; through all that is ahead, we are the people of God, formed by
God’s own hand, and held there in love. When you pass through the waters, I will be
with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk
through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For
I am the Lord your God.
Hear in that assurance embrace, but also nudge. Through the morass and myriad possibilities
of this new year, “God is the river, swimmer, so let go.”