Isaiah 40:1-11
Today is the Second Sunday of
Advent, a Sunday when we reflect upon the theme of peace. Peace is one of those
words we toss around a lot this time of year, right along with words like hope,
joy, and love. We speak about Jesus being born as the “Prince of Peace,” we
sing songs about angels proclaiming “peace on earth,” and even set aside
special times and services to pray specifically for peace, yet in spite of our
best efforts to sing such songs, pray such prayers, and make such
proclamations, peace has not yet come to the world: there continues to be
unrest and conflict around the globe and even here at home; nations struggle
against nation, political party fights with political party, religions are rife
with division within their own ranks while lobbing theological (and sometimes
literal) bombs at one another; racial tensions seem to be the highest they’ve
been in a generation; and the threat of nuclear war has come back around to
rear its ugly, destructive head. No, it seems peace is still just a word.
Of course, peace cannot happen on
its own. Jesus said in his Sermon on the Mount, “Blessed are the peacemakers,” not “Blessed are the peacekeepers,” or “peace-observers.” Peace doesn’t just arrive. It takes preparation, laying
the groundwork for understanding, conversation, and reconciliation. Those
things themselves are not easy, for one doesn’t just pick up the phone to call
an old enemy and say, “Hey, we’ve been threatening each other with violence for
years now, but what do you say about having a cup of coffee and burying the
hatchet?” Peace doesn’t come so easily, but then again, nothing worth having,
worth holding on to, comes so easily—freedom, for instance.
For over a generation the people of
Judah had gone without freedom. In the year 597 B.C.E. the Babylonians captured
Jerusalem and the king, Jehoiachin was deported along with many of the elites
of Judah to Babylon. A decade later, the city would be destroyed, the temple
burned down, the monarch removed, and even more of the people would be deported
to Babylon. The people would remain in exile until around the year 538 B.C.E.
when the Persian king, Cyrus would conquer Babylon and allow the exiles return
to their homeland (the books of Ezra and Nehemiah tell the stories of the
people’s return to Jerusalem). It is into this atmosphere of expectation, the
apparent arrival of answers to prayers, that the prophet (whom most scholars
call “Second Isaiah”) speaks.
The prophet’s words are aimed at a
people who have longed for freedom, longed for restoration, but have yet to
receive it. They are words that initially ring with relief: “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 prophet is
commissioned to speak words of comfort to the people because their penalty has
been paid, their sentence has been served, and God is releasing them from their
punishment in captivity. This prophet, however, knows that you can’t just show
up and tell folks who’ve been waiting for years that everything is now fine and
they can go home. This prophet understands that a people who have been held in
captivity for a generation will likely be gun-shy, skeptical not only of the
prophet but of the God for whom the prophet speaks. It’s why he says, “All
people are grass, their constancy is like the flower of the field. The grass
withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely
the people are grass.” The people are frail, frightened, suffering
perhaps from post-traumatic stress disorder, so when the prophet arrives and
says God is coming, of course, like grass scorched by the hot sun of a dry
summer, the people would wither.
Could it be, that for some, the
arrival of God isn’t good news? Could it be, that there are those in this world
who’ve had such negative images of God handed to them, that to proclaim the
presence of God, the coming of the Almighty, is to proclaim terror and induce
fear? Is it possible that there are those in our lives who have only had these
horrendous images of God proclaimed to them—images of a God who sits on a
throne in the sky, watching them like some divine prison guard, waiting for
them to step a toe out of line so he can send them to hell? Is it possible that
there are those among us who have only heard of a God who sets an impossibly
high bar for righteousness and unfairly judges those who cannot reach it? Could
it be that there are people who have only been told of a misogynistic,
prejudiced, judging, all-powerful God who’s only concern is that people follow
his rules or else they’ll have to burn for eternity? If that’s the sort of God
I had heard of, I don’t think I’d see God’s arrival as good news. So you can
see why the people of Judah might be as frail as grass—they could only recall
God’s judgement, God’s punishment in the form of Babylon and their exile from
their homeland.
Of course, those of us who, like the
prophet, know better, those of us who have experienced the grace, forgiveness,
and love of God, we have an uphill climb before us in proclaiming the truth of
just who God is, even this time of year. While it is true that “The
grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand forever,”
there are still those among us who have been hurt by those who claim to
pronounce the word of God, and there are those who simply refuse to believe
because of what they see in the words and actions of others who call themselves
the people of God, and still others who refuse to hear because God has
seemingly let them down, forgotten them in some unlit corner of life, where
hard times, bad luck, and the “wrong crowd” seem to congregate. It is not an
easy task set before us; proclaiming the arrival of God is surely difficult
enough without the baggage of false claims and religious abuse of power, but
it’s the prophet’s calling—it’s our calling: “Get you up to a high mountain,
O Zion, herald of good [news]; lift up your voice with strength, O Jerusalem,
herald of good [news], lift it up, do not fear; say to the cities of Judah, ‘Here
is your God!’"
“Here is your God!” While these are
certainly powerful words to be spoken, they are words that will undoubtedly
ring hollow in the absence of conviction, for without such conviction, without
the lived-in testimony of a life of faith, without the well-worn callouses of
failure and redemption, without the truly hard work of a life lived in
faithfulness, such a proclamation will be received with the same sincerity as
one who shouts, “Peace!” while aiming at his enemy! Proclaiming the arrival of
God is about more than just pronouncing the words, for if one is to truly hear
the arrival of God as good news, one has to believe that the God who is indeed
coming is indeed good, and for those
who have lived in captivity, those who have been held in the dark corners of
life, those who have been handed an image of God that is less than good, to believe in a God who is good, a God of
liberation and love, takes flesh and bone, it takes preparation.
That is why the voice cries out, "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…” Notice, it’s after
everything is set right, after the
valleys are lifted up, the mountains made low, the ground made plain and level
that the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all peoples shall see it
together. It isn’t after the prophet stands up, taps the mic, and says, “here
is your God.” It’s after the way has been prepared, after justice has come,
after reconciliation, after a great “leveling.” Folks cannot hear the arrival
of God as good news until the way has been prepared; they cannot hear the good
news of a God who was born, lived, died, and resurrected if that news is coming
from those whose lives do not reflect some portion of the power of that truth!
We can shout from the rooftops,
“Peace on Earth!” but until we strive for reconciliation, until we have sought
to understand one another, until we have truly sought to find in each other and
our enemies the commonality of our shared humanity, we are shouting in the
wind! We can tell others that “God is love,” but until we show that love to
others, until we strive to put others ahead of ourselves just as Christ did,
until we proclaim that love with our lives, our words will be meaningless.
Like that highway in the wilderness,
we are preparing for the arrival of God. We are making the crooked places
straight. We are lifting up our brothers and sisters from every valley. We are
bringing every high mountain of self-righteousness to the ground. We are making
the ground level so that we may see one another as we truly are—children of
God, and together, we are striving to make the rough places plain, so that the
way of the Lord will be clear, so that the arrival of our God will be one of
hope, peace, joy, and love. You and I, together, along with our sisters and
brothers around the world, are called to be a highway for our God, making the
arrival of God good news for those who might otherwise see it as anything else.
You and I, we are called to make peace, to put flesh and bone to the words we
proclaim about our God. You and I, we are called to shout the good news of
God’s arrival in Christ Jesus from the mountaintop, to speak it in
conversations, to tell it to whomever may listen, but above all else, you and I
are called to prepare the way of the Lord through out very lives.
So, on this Second Sunday of Advent, may the
word “peace” be more than just a word; may it be a reality that comes through
your hands and feet as you seek to live a life of peace. On this Second Sunday
of Advent, as we draw closer to the cradle of Christ, may the arrival of Jesus’
birth be more than just a holiday on the calendar; may it be the truth that
shapes each day of your life, the truth that is reflected in the love you have
for God and others. Amen.
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