A New Old Thing

Isaiah 40:1-11

December 6, 2015

We've got some old, new furniture in the space this morning. Or, maybe, it's new, old furniture. Either way, we have several beautiful pieces in our worship space today that speak to me in an Advent kind of way.

As you have heard, the wood out of which these stands and the table were crafted comes from the old pews that sat in this space from 1947 until this summer. This wood has heard a lot of stories, seen a lot of weddings and funerals and baptisms, and probably suffered through more overly long worship services than anything or anybody ought to.

Even those of us who have been around as long as this wood – and I know that a couple of folks here date their time at Clarendon back that far – even Peg and Reg don’t know all the stories that have been told here, but I hope that every single one of us – even those of you who may be here for the very first time this morning – I trust that every single one of us has heard one story told over and over and over again, in all kinds of ways, from all sorts of voices speaking in this space across the generations.

I trust that we have heard an old, old story that begins with the word, “comfort.”

I trust that we have heard it; I know that we need to hear it again.

The task of the church, in every time and place, has been to comfort the afflicted with the truth of the gospel and to afflict the comfortable with that same truth.

We live in a moment that feels particularly afflicted. We are beset with violence in a culture that celebrates the myth of redemptive violence. We suffer the consequences of gross economic inequality in a culture that for far too long has celebrated unbridled greed. We are afflicted with ineffectual leaders in a culture that loves volume far more than it does wisdom.

We are afflicted.

For sure, we have brought much of it upon ourselves, and in that we are so like the people to whom Isaiah spoke.

The first part of Isaiah describes a nation longing for justice as it suffers under feckless and unjust leaders. That part of Isaiah comes from at least three different hands in significantly different eras, and we find different poetic sensibilities in the language.

Despite its disparate sources, the first part of Isaiah describes one reality: a nation rent asunder and bound for exile. The prophet is clear about the cause: the unjust treatment of the most vulnerable citizens by the most privileged, and the complete unwillingness of corrupt leaders to act with mercy and pursue justice.

The Babylonian exile is the inevitable result. Utter desolation, and abandonment of the city of God. From that exile the captives will cry out in despair, and ask, “how can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?”

The whole thing turns, though, with chapter 40 – the beginning of Second Isaiah – and it turns on a single word: comfort.

“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.”

God calls forth a word of comfort. God tells the prophet to proclaim it. Lord, could we stand to hear such a word these days.

Alas, most of the time we look for such comfort in all the wrong places, and we listen to all the wrong voices. What heralds this particular season? A season in which we ought to hear good news?

Like most years, we have the endless stream of commercials promising us exactly what we long for: comfort, security, happiness – salvation wrapped up with a nice bow on top.

That is, after all, what every commercial offers. They are nothing but salvation stories scripted to 30 seconds. You want to hear the good news? Well, here it is, according to Madison Avenue:

You want to comprehend the whole universe? That’s one image of salvation, and it’s yours with the new iPad Pro. Just watch their ad, and you’ll see.

You want you daughter to imagine all the possibilities in her future? That’s certainly good news. Buy her a Barbie. Seriously. That’s the current Barbie pitch.

You want your family to experience the full joy of Christmas? Duracell. That’s the key, apparently.

I’m not mocking consumer culture. OK, I probably am, but I’m not mocking just consumer culture. What I’m really mocking is, well, myself, and not merely because, like each of you, I participate in consumer culture. All of us do so. But frankly many of the ways that we consume deny the gospel we are supposed to proclaim.

In fact, some who dress up like preachers proclaim something entirely different. In a moment in which we all feel fear, in which we all feel vulnerable, the president of a self-proclaimed Christian university calls on his students to arm themselves against Muslims. That may be the gospel according to Smith & Wesson, but it is not the gospel of Jesus Christ.

We listen to these other gospels because we really don’t trust that we will find true comfort outside of the material goods that come with affluence nor real security except from the barrel of a gun.

So we look to goods and guns for the truth about life, despite the fact that the single best-known verse in all of Christian scripture tells us the most essential truth about the universe: for God so loved the cosmos – and, yes, that is the Greek in the original. God loves the whole wide cosmos – all of creation. All the rest of our knowledge is footnotes to that singular insight.

Despite what we proclaim in church, we really believe that the story of Christmas is about getting what we deserve and holding on to it at all costs. But the real story of Christmas is about getting what we did nothing to deserve: the gift of life, and the invitation to live it fully in the company of others striving to do the same.

Confronting this truth may afflict our notions of comfort and security, but, at the same time, acknowledging it should bring us great joy and deeper comfort.

I was listening to a song yesterday from South African singer Johnny Klegg. Klegg recorded a lot of his music during the later days of Apartheid – a particularly hopeless time of widespread violence in his native land. In the midst of the deep divisions of his country, Klegg made music with a band made up black and white South African musicians. They made beautiful music marked by profound faithfulness and hope. The song that caught my ear yesterday struck me as a nothing so much as a hymn. Its chorus proclaims, “You are the rolling ocean. You are the mighty sea. You are the breath that brings each new day to me.”

That could be a psalm, and it is certainly a song of comfort and hope. Even from the midst of very dark days, it is always possible to find the light, and, so often, the light shines through in the songs that we sing, the art that we create, simple beauty, creative acts – bringing forth something new and beautiful – like a table – from something old. Taking something simple – flour, yeast, water – and bringing forth bread. Taking some markers and flip-chart paper and making something beautiful together. These are simple, age-old, spiritual practices that bring forth comfort, hope, joy.

We do live in an economy of gracious abundance. All that we need we have been given, and at the center of it all – of all that is or ever will be – there beats a heart of love for each of us and for all of us.

This is the good news of the gospel. Speak it tenderly to a hurting world. Speak it in the art you make; speak it in the work you do; speak it in the games you play; speak it in the bread you bake. If necessary, use words.

‘In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. 
Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low;
the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain. 
Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all people shall see it together,
   for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.’ 

Amen.