“See, darkness covers the earth, and thick darkness over the peoples, but the Lord rises upon you, and his glory appears over you. Nations will come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.”
Isaiah 60:1-3
*this is an excerpt from a sermon that gave on Epiphany Sunday two years ago. The text was Isaiah 60:1-11 *
Happy New Year! Although according to the liturgical calendar, which outlines the church year for us, the new year actually began all the way back in November, with Advent, which was then followed by the celebration of Christmastide and then to Epiphany which is where we are this week. And after all of that, we move into a stretch of what is simply called “ordinary time.”
In her book on the Liturgical year Joan Chittister explained that ordinary time is the whitespace on the church calendar – meant to leave margin in the rhythm of the church year as a contemplate season of sorts – so that we have an appropriate amount of time to really steep ourselves in the magnitude of what just happened on Christmas.
Which I find helpful to remember because the popular tendency is to resort all the pieces of the church year, front loading a flurry of Christmas celebration into Advent and to then box it all up on December 26th, exhausted, as we attempt to catch our breath before whatever comes next in the hyper-programmed lives of both world and church.
Running alongside this, as a counter-narrative of sorts, we have the Church calendar which prepares and encourages us to pause and reflect on this Epiphany we just had - The pivotal moment, when light broke through in the world. And to then ask of it - What just happened, exactly? What did this baby in the manger do on behalf of us and the world? What child is this, really? Who is this Messiah who has been born unto us? This Savior and Prince of Peace? Perhaps even joining John the Baptist in his own similar line of questioning – when he asked from a prison cell, is this Jesus, really the one we have been waiting for? Or should we continue looking for someone else?
Which might sound like an inappropriate post-Christmas question – of course this Jesus is the one. We’ve just spent a month preparing and two weeks celebrating and harking the herald while the angels sang. And yet, an honest look at my life reveals so many ways in which I live from a place similar to Johns indecision. Where I glance at the One laid before me in a manger only to turn in the days and weeks that follow to seek out some source of salvation in something else.
Which is why I love the hymn, What Child is This? so much. Because it sings almost like a tug of war between confusion and divine revelation. Between an almost incredulous ask of “What Child is this?” To a reverent response of – “oh yes, of course, this this is Christ the King.”
Which in my experience feels like a perfect reflection of the contours of this journey we are all on. This pilgrimage of following the light of Jesus deeper and deeper into the Kingdom of God. Where we find ourselves at times prone to ping pong between trust and doubt. Between clarity and bewilderment. Between our own hopes for what we want help to look like, and then the unexpected ways that help actually arrives. Drawing near to the manger in expectation, only to ask again and again - What child is this? Why is he here like this? In this mean estate? Among ox and ass? Why isn’t he in a castle? Or Upon a throne? Or in some position of worldly power? Why isn’t he stronger or bigger? Less vulnerable and exposed? And Why didn’t he come with a more immediate solution to my problems and the worlds woes?
But then we get a little closer and lean into him just a bit more, begin to see him a little more clearly and something clicks all over again, as if its new somehow, and yet, at the same time so familiar, and we realize. “Oh…I see it now. This this is Christ the King.” How did I ever miss it?
And back and forth we go, again and again, for a lifetime I think, to varying degrees.
And that is exactly what we see in John the Baptist – who goes from those confident declarations made from the banks of the Jordan, as he watches the Spirit of God descend upon Jesus with such stunning clarity –saying, “surely this is the son of God.” Of course he is. It’s so obvious in the light of day when things were kind of on an upswing for both of their ministries. But then even John plummets into this state of confusion in that jail cell. And he can’t help but wonder about the ways that his present reality fails to align with who he expected the Messiah to be. If Jesus was the one who came to save, then why is John shackled and facing death? So he wonders out loud and directs his question straight to Jesus – Asking, Are you really Christ the King? Or should I be searching for him somewhere else?
And really this tendency to expect something, or someone different is evident throughout Scripture. Over and over again people are found conjuring up ideas about what it will look like when God shows up to deliver aid, only to find how misguided those assumptions were.
Jesus is born to a people who are deep in the weeds on this. Because they had been suspended in darkness and isolation for a really long time. Most scholars agree that there was about a four-hundred-year gap between the last of the prophets and the birth of Jesus. Some refer to this time as the “silent years” an era when the voice of God was hushed, and prophets ceased to speak, and the people of God suffered under the horrendous oppression of the Roman Empire. They were in a prison of their own. And just like John they had to sit in the shackles of that reality and cast their own vision of what God would do on their behalf when he finally arrived to set them free from their captors, and brought forth justice on their behalf.
And out of that time we see various sects of Judaism take root. Each with their own thoughts on what deliverance would look like and who they thought their deliverer would be.
The Zealots were fired up and eager for a revolution. They wanted to see the Roman Empire subdued and expelled through violence and force and they expected the Messiah to do that. Meanwhile the Sadducees were the religious elite who were buddied up with Rome and used their political power to oppress others in order to maintain their own status. The Pharisees were legalists who were hyper-focused on right action. They poured all of their energy into drawing clear lines between who was in and who was out. Who was clean and who was unclean. Who was worthy of salvation and who was damned. And then there were the Essenes who retreated. They abandoned the world and headed out to the desert where they formed separate monkish societies away from the city waiting until God restored peace and justice to earth.
And if we look, we find threads of similar expressions throughout Christianity, and perhaps even within us, today. We still have the Zealots, those who imagine Jesus as a violent revolutionary who is operating on behalf of their political cause. We have the religious elite who use their position to maintain their power at the expense of the poor. We have the Pharisees. The religious gate keepers of our day whose whole mark on the world on account of the gospel is exclusion. And we also have a variety of brands of what I like to call Christian escapism. Where salvation is more or less understood as a ticket out of here when you die. A gift that asks nothing of its recipients beyond some vague notion of “trust.” And obedience.
And in a world suspended in darkness it makes sense why we long for these things. Because darkness forces us to confront our vulnerability and provokes us to reach for the nearest source of salvation that can be found within our limited view.
But what broke through before us on Christmas morning was a light in the midst of all of this darkness. A way for us to see beyond the world in its present condition. Beyond ourselves in our present state. And as we follow that light to Bethlehem, we discover our incarnate Lord coming into focus, and as the light radiates off of the flesh of his face, we begin to see how in Him heaven has touched down in the very heart of human existence, recasting our vision of reality in light of the inbreaking Kingdom of God. Where the option to pursue an eternal sort of living is available to us today. And with that comes an invitation to reframe our understanding and expectations of power, comfort, and provision.
What we catch a glimpse of in this passage from Isaiah 60 is an illustration of what that will look like, what that comfort will be like, how that power will be exercised, and what the fruit of such provision will be.
And just as we are right at this moment, somewhere in-between the Kingdom Coming and The Kingdom Come. Those listening to Isaiah were in a state of in-betweenness themselves. The temple has been destroyed; the people of God have been carried off by their opponents to exile in Babylon. And they are somewhere on this long path towards restoration, but it hasn’t happened yet.
So they stand as a people on the threshold of a new age, being called to put their hope in this optimistic vision of the future despite the bleak reality of their current state. Where things are in shambles, they have lived through some terrible atrocities, as a people they are scattered, and then in comes this prophecy from Isaiah which stands in such sharp contrast to the reality before them. In the face of tremendous loss, he invites them to rise amidst the rubble of it all.
And look at the nature of this vision, and how subversive and unexpected it is.
Their enemies and opponents aren’t annihilated by military force, they are bringing goods to be used towards their restoration. Those who were once a threat are now a source of sustenance and protection. And the lost sons and daughters are returning. The children from far away. And their return is facilitated by the unclean and despised Gentiles. The most precious cargo of all – the lost Judeans – carried back in the hands of the same people the religious elite were so determined to keep away.
And it’s all so earthy. Its wood, milk, livestock, gold and silver, all brought and received by human hands. Throughout Scripture Gods mission for redemption is revealed through the goods of this created place. Its rooted right here, in things that we have already been given. Just as God coming to the world in the body of a baby was and is so earthbound. Revealing to us that our faith does not outline some kind of ghostly escape out of this bad broken world and our bad and broken selves. It’s a vision where all that has been lost, destroyed, damaged, dispersed, and ruined on earth is restored, redeemed, renewed, and reconciled.
And look at the people. This wandering tribe which has been so wayward and disobedient. They have ping-ponged just like all of us between trust and fear. Between obedience and pride - for as long as they have existed on this planet. Any yet still. The glory of God is rising above them. Not because of anything they have done, earned or deserved. But simply because God has chosen to do it. Because God loves them.
And the response expected of them in this outline provided by Isaiah is to use what comes to them, all of these good things and provisions, towards rebuilding. Which echoes the pattern we see established in Eden where Adam and Eve receive the gift of this perfect garden, full of animals and good things to eat and use, and their job is to maintain order among them. And again, as the Israelites enter Canaan. A land full of homes they didn’t build, gardens they didn’t plant, wells they didn’t dig. And they are called to harvest the grain and press the grapes and extract the oil, and to put these gifts toward useful and sustaining ends in response to receiving them. This is the interchange between humankind and God’s grace. And it embodies the call towards agape love which is a verb. Its movement, response, work even, where love is embodied and animated in actionable ways that yield good things on behalf of all creation.
And as anyone who has ever done a renovation project knows, this is never accomplished by denying this present state of ruin. Or refusing to acknowledge all that is wrong before you – To bring order you have to understand and acknowledge disorder. To repair you have to see what is broken for what it is. And then you have to choose to move beyond the vulnerability that comes from going out anyways – into the wreckage of a town devastated by a hurricane, a flooded home, a fragmented relationship, a broken dream, a decaying world – and stand with the rubble of all that has been lost at our feet - our gates open wide – our defenses down – our minds open to the unexpected - Ourselves exposed – trusting that help will come through means that we might not recognize at first and by power that is not our own.
And with that set out into season of white space, to contemplate the complexity of that, humbled by the reality which is that it will take a lifetime of epiphanies for this to begin to take root and set in.