“Our Grassy, Flowery Lives”
Isaiah 40:1-11; Mark 1:1-8
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
December 7, 2014
“It’ll get better,” I assure them. “I promise.” I’m not sure they believe me. When the Wednesday night and Thursday morning Bible Study classes decided to focus on Isaiah this year, we were thinking about the inspiring words we hear in Advent— like the passage Scott just read. Since Bible Study is about understanding scripture in its context, we knew we needed to read the whole book, not just the pretty parts.
I did know what we were getting ourselves into, but I wasn’t prepared for the emotional impact of reading chapter after chapter of harsh warnings. The poetry is stunning– vivid depictions of utter desolation.
We started at the beginning, with what scholars call 1st Isaiah, written in Judea—the region around Jerusalem—in a time of great uncertainty. The tiny nation is surrounded by larger, aggressive nations that threaten to invade. Political leaders are debating alliances with one superpower to protect themselves from another superpower. At the same time, social injustice rears its ugly head. The rich throw wild parties with excessive drinking and debauchery while the poor struggle to survive. Some families accumulate huge estates while others end up homeless. Widows and orphans are neglected.
In the midst of all this trouble and turmoil, Isaiah hears a call from God. The calling is ominous, accompanied by a prediction that no one is going to listen to him. Isaiah accepts the challenge, and begins delivering his own series of warnings.
He warns the king not to ally with another nation. Do not put your trust in another ruler, he urges. Instead, put your trust in God. In the next breath, he rails against wanton materialism and flagrant disregard for human life. And then he predicts destruction, using imagery that evokes civil war, strip mining, and forest fires. Interspersed with the images of ruin are a few short but glorious passages promising restoration—a shoot of a new tree emerging from a dead stump, hope for renewal after devastation.
Even more disturbing than the imagery is that Isaiah describes the destruction as punishment from God. As a church, we have worked hard to counter that deep-rooted belief that when something bad happens, it means God is punishing us. What do we do with Isaiah?
What we discovered is that the desolation Isaiah predicts could just as easily be understood as the natural consequence of the people’s actions. Extremes of wealth and poverty lay the groundwork for social unrest and even civil war. Excessive greed leads to abuse of the natural world.
Once we began to read the predictions not as punishment but as consequence, Isaiah actually became more troubling, because we had to take him seriously. Reading First Isaiah is kind of like watching the evening news on a particularly depressing night—bad news and warnings of more bad news to come, followed by a feel-good story in the last five minutes, too little too late. The evening news on steroids, delivered in vivid poetry.
The Bible Study groups haven’t yet made it to Isaiah 40. Most scholars believe this chapter begins a new section, written by a different person more than a century later. First Isaiah’s predictions have long before come to pass. The king chose to ally with Babylon against Assyria, and ultimately Babylon came back to conquer Judea, destroying the temple, devastating Jerusalem and the countryside, forcing many of the people into exile.
By the time second Isaiah writes, the people are no longer in denial about the destruction that is to come; they are in despair about the destruction that has come. The prophet himself reflects that despair, when he hears the voice of God calling him. “Cry out,” a voice commands. “What shall I cry?” He replies. “All people are grass, their constancy like the flower of the field…” “We will wither and fade” he says. “Our lives are short and meaningless.”
The voice agrees. “Yes, grass and flowers, human beings and human institutions will wither and fade.” [Then it goes on] “But the Word of God will stand forever.” In the face of human mortality, in the face of despair and loss, destruction and sorrow, Isaiah is called to climb to the top of a mountain and declare, “Here is your God.” God comes, the voice tells Isaiah to declare, with might, and also gently, like a shepherd carrying a lamb in her arms.
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We live somewhere between first and second Isaiah. The harsh words of the first prophet ring all too true for comfort. We recognize his description of the growing divide between rich and poor, the growing suspicion between races and cultures, the ever-growing demand for more–more energy, more things, more luxury. We long, with the Judean kings and people, for a quick fix to our problems–a new alliance to keep us safe, just enough calm so we can pretend things are normal, a new fuel source so we can keep consuming. Deep down, though, we know there is no easy way out. We are challenged–to the core–by the prophet who calls for such dramatic change no one wants to listen.
If first Isaiah touches our deep knowledge of how much we need to change, his alter-ego, second Isaiah, touches our deep yearning for home and comfort. We identify as well with the Judeans in exile in Babylon, for we share their sense of alienation, that sense that somehow we are not at home. We know the truth about our human living; all the beauty treatments and insurance policies in the world can’t fool us. We are grass, withering and fading like the flower of the field. People we love die; we face our own health challenges; the world feels out of control. Things around us change so fast we can’t grasp hold of anything solid. We yearn for the comfort 2nd Isaiah offers.
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The gospel writers, as they tell the story of Jesus, draw heavily on the book of Isaiah. Something in the mix of the deep challenge of the first prophet and the deep comfort of 2nd Isaiah resonates with their experience of Jesus. In today’s gospel passage, Mark depicts John the Baptist through the lens of Isaiah 40–preparing the way, making the paths straight for the coming of God. John’s job is to set stage for the grand declaration: “Here is your God.”
That’s where the story takes an unexpected twist. In both first and second Isaiah, God’s permanence and power are contrasted with our earthly impermanence and the fleeting nature of our human power. Both Isaiah’s warn: Don’t put your faith in the things of this world–kingdoms and alliances, human beings and human institutions, grass and flowers–, for they wither and fade. Instead put your faith in God.
In the gospels, though, it is no longer a contrast but a coming together: God come to share in the impermanence of human living. Whether we understand Jesus to be God in human form, or whether we believe that Jesus reveals the truth that God has always dwelt among us, through Jesus we awaken to the holiness of grass and flower and human life. Hope doesn’t swoop down to save us from despair; instead hope emerges in the midst of our despair, transforming it through love. Here is your God: a child born in a stable, a teacher vulnerable to exhaustion and anger and fear, a savior who shares our human struggles and temptations.
The story of Jesus’ birth and life calls us to hear anew the line from Isaiah 40: “all people are grass, like the flower of the field.” Yes, the grass withers. But first it absorbs energy from the sun to create nourishment. It comes together with other blades of grass to form a carpet of green. It produces seed to enable new life. Yes, the flower fades. But first it feeds an insect with its nectar and releases pollen to enable fruit to grow. It blossoms its gift of beauty for the world. Yes, our lives are short and our power is limited. But we matter. We absorb the gift of light—light from the sun, the light of truth and hope—to nourish our world. We come together in a carpet of welcome. We offer the nectar of compassion and creativity. We are gifts of beauty for our world.
“Prepare the way.” John the Baptist proclaims. Make yourselves ready to receive the Holy One who comes to share in our lives. With these words, John calls us back to the challenge of the first prophet. “Repent,” he says. The word means “turn around.” He doesn’t let us get away with pretending everything is fine. Neither does he let us get away with thinking there’s nothing we can do about it. Turn around, he says. Change your ways. You are grass and flower—and the beauty and nourishment and hope you have to offer the world really does matter. You are grass and flower–and you can make a difference, fighting racism, seeking peace, working to end homelessness, bringing healing and joy to our world.
You don’t have to do it alone. Isaiah climbs a high mountain to proclaim the promise: “Here is your God.” God comes to join us in our grassy, flowery struggle, urging us on, giving us strength, drawing us together, assuring us that grass and flowers, human creativity and human living are holy, precious, beloved by God. Amen.