Hope Within the Ruins

Get you up to a high mountain,

   O Zion, herald of good tidings;

lift up your voice with strength,

   O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings,

   lift it up, do not fear;

say to the cities of Judah,

   ‘Here is your God!’ 

See, the Lord God comes with might,

   and his arm rules for him;

his reward is with him,

   and his recompense before him. 

He will feed his flock like a shepherd;

   he will gather the lambs in his arms,

and carry them in his bosom,

   and gently lead the mother sheep. 

—Isaiah 40:9-11

We spend a lot of time seeking for signs that God is with us, that God cares for us, and that God is ready to help us. We scan all sorts of horizons. We ask all sorts of people about where we should look and to whom we should listen. 

And the stubborn truth is that we often come away with no more indication of God’s presence than when we began.

Isaiah’s audience surely felt that way. The prophet spoke at a fascinating time in Israel’s history—the moment when the Persians supplanted the Babylonians as the “empire du jour,” with the wondrous result that the Israelis living in exile within Babylon were going to go home—it was the Syrian migration in reverse. Isaiah spends the first few verses of Chapter 40 speaking to the about to free exiles, declaring the glorious good news of release. But he did not forget the Israelites who had been left behind in Jerusalem and Judah, living among the ruins, a people whose suffering was nearly unimaginable—for forty years they lived in those ruins—nothing rebuilt, nothing redone since the war ended. Their safest assumption was that God had left them. An even safer assumption was to forget hope—it was a vain and empty thing to keep. Isaiah speaks to them, telling them to look once more to the horizon—God is up to something—something BIG! The signs are beginning to manifest.

So how do we find ourselves within this text? Where is the door to our experience?

Practicing the faith in this time and place can often feel like living in the ruins. A lot of us are old enough to remember full churches, when Sunday morning was an agreed upon time to gather in worship, when nothing else was planned or scheduled. We remember when moving to a new town meant finding a new church fairly soon after getting there—getting the kids in youth group, Mom in a Circle Meeting, and Dad on the Board of Deacons or serving as an Elder. But then things fell apart for a whole lot of reasons. Sunday is now the second day of the weekend, often the quietest morning of the weekend, with no one doing much of anything. But the city athletic fields are full of youth leagues, coffee shops are stuffed with folks enjoying the leisure of no schedule, and the churches are emptier than they ever have been. Being here can seem like an ordeal instead of a joy.

Liturgically, today is Transfiguration Sunday, the celebration of Jesus going up the mountain to pray with Peter, James, and John, when all of a sudden the full glory of God radiated through Jesus, causing him to glow like a 1000 watt bulb. Joining him were Moses and Elijah, revealing the full meaning of Christ—the fulfillment of all the Law and Prophets—the sure and certain sign that God was keeping God’s promises to be the redeemer of all life. Then as quickly as it began, it ended. The terrified disciples looked up from the ground between their arms wrapped around their heads to see just Jesus, their beloved wandering rabbi, all by himself. But they knew—they knew—that God was with them.

In the wonder and miracle of the story, do not miss the real and true miracle—God was working in and through Jesus of Nazareth, an ordinary man from an ordinary town raised by ordinary parents. Yes, he was the messiah, but he was and always will be a human being like everyone else.

Which brings this sermon back to us scanning the horizon for the signs of God, wondering if our time in the ruins is ending—if there is any hope of that time ending.

Maybe we need to draw that horizon in a little closer. Maybe it needs to be so close it is within us—the horizon of our own hearts, minds, and spirits. In other words, maybe the strongest sign of God’s presence is our own presence here and now.

We exist in interesting times. We live in a time of intense questioning and skepticism. That can be a curse when those of us still holding fast to treasured institutions and values feel the bite of the critical doubter. But it can also be a blessing when we see the questions as an opportunity to begin sharing the answers that we know from our own lives and experience.

There was a fascinating essay in The Washington Post recently by a self-avowed atheist (“I’m an Atheist, so Why Can’t I Shake God?,” Elizabeth King, 2/4/16). She can’t seem to rid herself of the sense, if not certainty, that God is. How do you respond to that thought? Do you see the invitation?

By responding, I do not mean hitting her over the head with a Bible or smacking her with a hymnal—that would really hurt! Rather, I mean engage her in a conversation. Hear where the doubts of her own doubting arise. Listen to her experience—she was raised a Pentecostal, so why did she leave? Why did she abandon her spiritual upbringing? Then, do not shy away when the answer may come as hurtful—she may have been deeply hurt by someone in the name of God; she may have seen dear ones tossed aside by a community of faith lost in moralism that had no room for them; or she may have seen Christians loudly, vehemently, and violently tossing each other aside, declaring themselves the ONLY true believers. Hear her pain. Then offer a more excellent way—the way Isaiah sees God at work—rebuilding, restoring, and reclaiming human lives from the wreckage and ruin of human action. We have seen that action up close—Jesus did nothing if not embody that redeeming grace as he welcomed anyone and everyone who came to him. He did so to ease their troubled minds. He did so to silence the painful memories and words of others. He did so because he was the total, perfect embodiment of God’s compassion.

But where do we find this affirmation and the strength—and perhaps courage—to do so as well?

The signs are right here—you and me—children of redemption—human beings who know the power of grace to lift us up, set us right, and show us the way to be.

So see the signs. Claim them. We have glad tidings to sing from the rooftops. God is here! God is active! And God wants nothing more than for all of his children to be with him.

We have a story to tell.