As a Nursing Mother

Isaiah 49:14-23
January 29, 2023
William G. Carter

But Zion said, “The Lord has forsaken me, my Lord has forgotten me.” Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands; your walls are continually before me. Your builders outdo your destroyers, and those who laid you waste go away from you.

Lift up your eyes all around and see; they all gather, they come to you. As I live, says the Lord, you shall put all of them on like an ornament, and like a bride you shall bind them on. Surely your waste and your desolate places and your devastated land— surely now you will be too crowded for your inhabitants, and those who swallowed you up will be far away. The children born in the time of your bereavement will yet say in your hearing: “The place is too crowded for me; make room for me to settle.” Then you will say in your heart, “Who has borne me these? I was bereaved and barren, exiled and put away— so who has reared these? I was left all alone— where then have these come from?” Thus says the Lord God: I will soon lift up my hand to the nations, and raise my signal to the peoples; and they shall bring your sons in their bosom, and your daughters shall be carried on their shoulders. Kings shall be your foster fathers, and their queens your nursing mothers. With their faces to the ground they shall bow down to you, and lick the dust of your feet. Then you will know that I am the Lord; those who wait for me shall not be put to shame.


We continue to make our way through the long poem in chapter 49. This winter we are reminded how the poems of the Bible are drenched in images. This is especially true of poems uttered by the prophets. A prophet like Isaiah uses picture-language to touch our hearts and ignite our hopes.

In the poem before us, we’ve heard of the Servant who speaks like a sword. The mountains are lowered, and the valleys lifted up. God comes as light that chases away darkness. Springs of water break forth in the wilderness. And as we heard last week, all the prisoners are called out. We spent some time reflecting on how we might be prisoners and how our freedom is announced.

The third section of the poem continues to draw imaginative pictures for us, as it did for Israel in its exile. As Isaiah quotes the complaints of the people, specifically how they feel abandoned by God, he hears God say, “How could I ever forget you? Can a woman forget her nursing child? Can a mother show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.” It presses the question: can you imagine God as a mother?

One Sunday morning when my daughters were small, I overheard a conversation in the back of the minivan. Don’t know prompted it. Perhaps a prayer, or a hymn, or a Bible story. But one of them declared, “God is a very old man.” I pulled off the road and asked, “Where did you ever hear that?” They looked at me as if to say, “Well, don’t you know?”

I didn’t want to confuse them by declaring that the Creator is beyond our human categories of gender. But I was curious how they picked this up. Did they hear it from me? They didn’t know. Did you hear this from a teacher? They refused to rat anybody out. Have you ever seen a picture of God? No, not really. Was it something that somebody said? It was quiet for a minute. Then the theologian of the two said, “Well, you taught us to pray to ‘Our Father,’ and fathers are very old men.” Fair enough.

I don’t remember how the conversation went on from there. But I know myself well enough that I’m pretty sure I made a little speech. Old men are prone to make speeches, especially if they’re preachers. And I began to remind them of some Bible texts that imagine God as a Mother. Not as a Father, but a Mother. This section of Isaiah was the keynote.

Israel has been in exile. They have heard their sins have been forgiven (that’s in chapter 40). They know they are coming home by way of the flattened mountains and the raised-up valleys. But when is this going to be? Good question. You may have noticed that the Eternal God is rarely in a hurry. And as they wait, they grumble outwardly – “Maybe God has forgotten us.” As if they were left behind on the Island of Misfit Toys.

God says, “How could I forget you? You are my children, my nursing children, the offspring that have come out of my very own womb.” And if that language strikes you as unusual, let me say it is – because it’s right out of the Bible.

In the Jewish scriptures, the Creator – the Holy One, blessed is God’s name – is often depicted with motherly tendencies. Sometimes God is described as a mother bird sheltering her little birds beneath her wings. Like in the book of Ruth, “May you have a full reward, under whose wings you have come for refuge!” (Ruth 2:12) Or Psalm 17: “Guard me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings.” (Psalm 17:8)

It’s not only a gloss in the Jewish scriptures. Jesus said it too. One day, he laments, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem … How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings.” (Luke 13:34)

And it’s not always a warm, cuddly image. There’s a line in Deuteronomy, comparing God to a mother eagle who pushes the young eaglets out of the nest, as if to say, “Come on, it’s time to spread your wings and fly.” You can’t always live in the basement. And if the baby eagles aren’t quite ready to fly, God the Mother Eagle “spreads her wings to catch them and carry them aloft.” (Deuteronomy 32:10)

Or I recall how the prophet Hosea compared God, not to a bird, but to a large Mama Grizzly Bear. To translate the line loosely, “If you mess with my cubs, I’m coming after you.” (Hosea 13:8)

So Isaiah is in good company here. “Can a woman forget her nursing child? Can a mother show no compassion for the child of her womb?” The obvious answer is “no.” Not at all. The picture-language enlarges our view of divine care and compassion. The God who has given us life is the One who loves us, holds us, cares for us, protects us. Of course, these characteristics are not tied to only one human gender. But if you were fortunate to have a good mother or aunt or grandmother,

you know what it’s like to be remembered, not forgotten,
embraced, not pushed away,
comforted, not ignored,
cherished, not rejected.

Such is the love of God for all of us. This is really important for the prophet Isaiah. Terence Fretheim, a great Old Testament scholar of the last generation, pointed out this section of the prophet’s writings “uses female images for God more frequently than any other Old Testament body of literature.”[1] In chapter 42, God is perceived as pregnant and giving birth (42:14). In chapter 66, God is nursing the child and providing comfort (66:12-13).

As we heard in chapter 49 today, God stays close to the people, even if they are impatient, even if they are confused, even if they are worried, even if they feel God has stepped away. Even more than a compassionate mother, God holds on and never lets go. The child is never forgotten. You and I are never forgotten.

And here’s the remarkable thing: this is how God governs the world. In compassion, God comes alongside the worries and sufferings of her children. This is not trickle-down power from an authority high above us. This is a holy companionship that joins us in our pain. What an extraordinary way to rule the world!

Somebody saw a bumper sticker before a recent election. The bumper sticker said, “Elect a Woman. She will know how to run Nebraska!” There were also campaign buttons with the pithy statement, “The Future is Female.” Alas, many voters in that state have not yet agreed. But it raises the relationship between gender and governance. Contrary to the strong-arm tendencies of many who aspire to run the world, there is no future in brute force – but there is a future in compassion. This is a window for understanding what Isaiah is saying about God.

Ten days ago, the country of New Zealand was rocked by the resignation of Jacinda Ardern, their first female prime minister. Elected at thirty-seven, she was only the second world leader to give birth while holding office. Her two terms were marked by empathy and compassion, and she knew how to get things done. Few expected her resignation. But she decided she had done what she could. It was time to step aside.

As I’ve learned about her tenure, I’ve admired the way she has negotiated the expectations that many people have of women. In an article titled, “Jacinda Ardern Says No to Burnout,” here’s how the New York Times described it:

Women are often expected to be unfailingly kind and patient and to nurture those around them. If women demonstrate the type of leadership typically praised in men — ambitious, swaggering, domineering — they are seen as unfeminine, unlikable and even illegitimate leaders…

Ardern built a public image that tied her leadership to traits that women are usually praised for. For instance, when Ardern addressed the nation after the country began its strict COVID lockdown in March 2020, she conducted an informal Facebook Live session on her phone while wearing a cozy sweatshirt and made sure to let people know that she had just finished putting her toddler to bed. By portraying herself as maternal, friendly and cooperative, she remained extremely popular even as she locked down the country.

Ardern’s tenure, and particularly her handling of the pandemic, showed how those stereotypically feminine traits could be valuable in leaders. “What we learned with COVID is that, actually, a different kind of leader can be very beneficial,” said Alice Evans, a lecturer at King’s College London who studies how women gain power in public life. “Perhaps people will learn to recognize and value risk-averse, caring and thoughtful leaders.”[2]

I tell Prime Minister Ardern’s story to simply raise the question, “What kind of God do we have?” Do we have a God who manages things by arrogance and brute force? Or do we have a God who remembers us and cares for us? A God who knows our pain – and draws near to hold and heal? A God like the God of Israel, who says, “I will never forget you. You are my beloved children.”

I suppose everybody has a picture of God in their heads. We cannot see the Lord, but we can draw upon our memory and imagination of what it is like to be comforted, nourished, and help forever. And I am comforted to know our lives are held in a Mother’s love. She never forgets us.


(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1]  Terence Fretheim, “Commentary on Isaiah 49:8-16a,” 25 May 2008.  https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/eighth-sunday-after-epiphany/commentary-on-isaiah-498-16a-2

[2] Amanda Taub, “Jacinda Ardern Says No to Burnout,” The New York Times, 20 January 2023.

Calling Out All Prisoners

Isaiah 49:8-13
January 22, 2022

William G. Carter

Thus says the Lord: In a time of favor I have answered you, on a day of salvation I have helped you; I have kept you and given you as a covenant to the people, to establish the land, to apportion the desolate heritages; saying to the prisoners, “Come out,” to those who are in darkness, “Show yourselves.” They shall feed along the ways, on all the bare heights shall be their pasture; they shall not hunger or thirst, neither scorching wind nor sun shall strike them down, for he who has pity on them will lead them, and by springs of water will guide them. And I will turn all my mountains into a road, and my highways shall be raised up. Lo, these shall come from far away, and lo, these from the north and from the west, and these from the land of Syene. Sing for joy, O heavens, and exult, O earth; break forth, O mountains, into singing! For the Lord has comforted his people, and will have compassion on his suffering ones. 

 

This is the second of three Sundays on the same poem. Last week, we heard the hand of God was on the shoulder of his Servant. The Lord doesn’t tell us who this Servant is. It could be the prophet Isaiah, or it could be the whole Jewish nation, or it could be somebody else. We don’t know.

But what we know are two things: God has called the Servant by name, just as we are called by name in a baptism. There is a claim on our lives by the One who gave us life. It precedes every other allegiance, dispels every other distraction, and seals our soul in the grace of heaven. Whether we know or not, we belong to God. That identity comes before everything else.

And second, the Servant works with words. They are the tools of service. Remember the image of a sharp-edged sword. I asked somebody what they remember about last week’s sermon, and he said, “A sharp sword coming out of somebody’s mouth.” And who, I said, was that somebody? Umm… well, according to the scripture, it’s Jesus – the Risen Christ speaks and divides truth and error, light and darkness.

Today we hear the prophet say even more. Some of it offers the same promises we’ve heard before: the flock shall be fed, the mountains shall be lowered and the valleys lifted up (That’s a reprise of chapter forty). There will be springs of water (That’s chapter forty-one and chapter forty-three). They shall not thirst (That’s chapter forty-one and chapter forty-four).

It reminds me of the complaint somebody offered to her preacher. She said, “Every time I come to worship, you preach the same sermon.” And the preacher said, “Have you understood it yet?” She wasn’t happy about it. She went home with her complaint, complained to her husband. He said, “I agree completely. Every time I go to church, the preacher says, ‘Happy Easter!’”

Repetition is a foundation of all learning. We believe something because we’ve heard it over and over. So the Bible repeats itself, if only to get the message into our souls. And that’s true of a poet like the prophet Isaiah. He sings the same lyrics, especially in this section of this very long book, where the recurring theme is “We’re going home.”

 Been in Babylon long enough. Been snatched away from our home and it’s time to return to the land we barely remember. God’s straightening that highway. God’s giving us a canteen of water for crossing the desert sands. Let hope provide strength for your weak knees. Let’s get moving. Let’s go home.

And today we hear something more. Isaiah declares, “Say to the prisoners: come out!” Now, this has been spoken before. Two weeks ago, we heard it in chapter forty-two. The Servant of God is called upon “to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness.” (42:7) We’ve heard this before.

For this is the condition of his audience: “This is a people robbed and plundered, all of them trapped in holes and hidden in prisons.” (42:22)

To them, the prophet says, “Come out!” Say to the prisoners: come out!

I don’t know if Isaiah wants us to take that literally or not. What would happen if we opened the doors of a prison? Sounds like the plot of a really bad movie. 

Have you ever been in a prison? It’s OK if you don’t raise your hand. I’ve been in the Lackawanna County Prison two times. The first was a visit, many years ago, long before an overdue renovation. A group of church leaders raised the money to send me to Chamber of Commerce program called Leadership Lackawanna. Every month, a group of us learned something more about the county. One month, it was crime month – so we had a tour of the prison. That was grim, like stepping back into a Charles Dickens novel.

The second time was to visit one of our church members. He had gotten into some trouble with the law and earned himself an extended stay behind bars. I went to see him, got patted down by an unfriendly guard, walked through a metal detector, was buzzed through some heavy doors. I took my seat on a folding chair and waited for the prisoner to appear. I asked, “How are you doing?” He said one thing, “I can’t wait to get out of here.” I said, “Is it rough?” And he said, “I can’t wait to get out of here.” So I said, “Is there anything I can do for you?” He replied, “Can you get me out of here?” And no, that wasn’t something that I could do.

So I wonder which prisoners the prophet Isaiah was addressing when he said, “Come out!”

No doubt, he spoke to fellow Jews, to those like himself were beloved by God. After a series of international calamities, Jerusalem was invaded by the Babylonians in 587 BC. It was one of the defining moments of Jewish identity. The Temple was torn down, prompting the question, “Isn’t that God’s house? Did God abandon his home on earth? Were we so dreadfully bad that God had to punish this way?” It was an emotional scar, a lingering trauma, reinforced by the relocation of all the smart, affluent, and respectable leaders of the nation. They were held as captives in Babylon. So that’s one answer – the prisoners in Babylon. To them, the prophet said, “Come out.”

And time went on, so another kind of captivity began. Ten years, twenty years, forty years, seventy years. The Jews in Babylon couldn’t remember Jerusalem. They remembered the stories, the songs, the tales of heroes and heroines – and some of them fell in love with Babylon. Or they fell literally in love with the women and men of Babylon. And they slipped away from their own culture, began to pick up the new dialects, began to compromise their old values – perhaps not even perceiving the long slide.

They hardly realize they had made one small decision after another to give in to ways of thinking and living that had always been foreign to them. They cashed in their heritage to blend in – so that’s another answer – they were prisoners, not just in Babylon, but to Babylon. To them, the prophet said, “Come out.”

But there’s a third group of prisoners, equally captive. For the times would change, and the Babylonian empire changed, and God decided it was time for change – time for Israel to go home to Israel. But they were immobilized. They couldn’t decide if they should stay or if they should go. Just frozen in place, perhaps imprisoned, not by walls, but imprisoned by their own fear. To them, the prophet said, “Come out.”

The other day, I was telling some of you about the cat that I brought to town when I moved here. She was a strange little kitty, all black except for white boots and a white mustache. For whatever reason, she lived beneath the living room couch. She hardly never came out, only to eat or drink or do her business. Then she’d climb back under the couch. Weird cat!

One day, she got out. The back door was ajar, I think, so she decided to escape and explore. Her whole life had been lived indoors. This was a new experience for her. And it shocked her. She stepped off the porch onto the lawn and froze in terror. She had nothing about her head but open sky. There were no ways to keep her comfortably hemmed in. There was complete freedom – and she was afraid. It was too new, too open, too frightening – so she refused to move.

That made it easy to pick her up, easy to take her back inside – where she scurried immediately beneath the couch. And once in a while, I meet a human like that – afraid of the open sky, fearful of the freedom, terrified by all the possibilities. That’s when I hear Isaiah speak up for God to say, “Come out, come out, wherever you are. It’s OK. Come out.”  

Life is full of confinements. Don’t we know it? There are walls that hem us in. Doesn’t matter if are constructed of steel bars, sheet rock, or open air. Every wall is real, especially if we are cautious or afraid.  

·         Some are confined to a zip code because it’s the only town they know.

·         Others feel they are held captive to jobs that they hate – jobs that pay them well; it’s what one of you called “the golden handcuffs of corporate life.”

·         Some are kept in painful marriages. Some have lost wonderful marriages.

·         Others are teenagers, just bucking to be free, but maybe without the skills yet to make it on your own.

·         Some are victims of a cruel, heartless religion, but it’s the only religion they know.

·         Others are held in place by economic dependence on somebody who holds them there.

·         Some are afraid to be who they really are, so they confine themselves to a closet to keep from getting hurt once again.

·         Others are prisoners of a disease; they’ve been robbed of memory or muscle or emotion.

And a lot of us, maybe all of us, have experienced a trauma, some soul-shaking disruption that can freeze us in place. Maybe it was an unexpected death. Or a betrayal. Or an act of brutality. Or the child who never came home. Or the parent who was hard to take. Or maybe, just maybe, the trauma was a worldwide virus that snatched away loved ones, tore apart our families, and scared the bejeezus out of those with otherwise strong hearts.    

Yes, the life we share has its share of confinements. The big question, the life question, is whether we are going to live by fear and captivity. Do we want to remain in the shadows or move into the light? To which God speaks through the poet/prophet to say, “Come out. You’re going to get through this. In fact, you’re already moving ahead.” This is a gracious, gentle invitation. And it is the invitation God offers to anyone who is afraid, anyone who feels imprisoned or immobilized.

One of the ways that we need one another is to tell stories of those we know who have found the courage to claim their freedom. I have a story like that. 

It’s the story of a young man I know, someone I’ve loved as much as I love anybody. He got married ten years ago this summer. The marriage was full of promise. He worked for a college, which opened the way to earning a master’s degree. She had a federal job that paid very well. By all appearance, they looked happy. Sadly, that wasn’t the case. Out of sight, the relationship got bumpy.

Then he started having strange physical symptoms. Loss of feeling in a leg, foggy thinking, uneven balance. He went for tests, they said, “Nothing wrong.” The symptoms continued, more tests. Still nothing. After a year, he tried a different kind of practitioner, who determined that he had been bitten by a tick that he didn’t realize. His deteriorating state came from Lyme disease and two other tick-born diseases.

His wife hung in there for a while, then she left him for somebody else. That affected his emotional state. Then one day on crutches, he fell and broke three bones in his spine. That sent him to months of physical rehabilitation. During that time, the alternative treatments for the tick diseases stopped any further neurological impairment. He called one day to announce, with some excitement, that he could drink beer again. But we worried about him. We worried a lot.

And then, one day, he announced he was beginning a second master’s degree. He thought it could help him with his job. And two nights a week, after work, he’s been driving fifty miles each way to take classes and work on his degree. His legs didn’t work, so he had his car refitted with hand controls. He pulls into the university parking lot, puts the disabled sticker on the rearview mirror, twirls around, pulls the wheelchair out of the back seat, and rolls off to his night classes.

And people started to hear about this guy. They invited him to high schools and said, “Could you talk to the kids? Tell them your story?” He’s still doing this, as he works his job and continues the night classes.

Do you know what he tells the kids? He says, “Life took a terrible turn for me. It got very dark. But it got better when I decided that I was done with being afraid. I can’t move my legs, but I said that isn’t going to stop me. I may be in a wheelchair, but I’m not going to be a prisoner.” He was going to be free.

It’s a story that inspires me, which is why I give it to you. Life is hard. At some point, it’s hard for all of us. But God offers a recurring invitation to freedom, to move from shadows into light, from exile to homecoming, from suffering to consolation. This is the invitation that always remains before us – until we claim it for ourselves.

And when we do, we join the poet in saying, “Sing for joy, O heavens, and exult, O earth; break forth, O mountains, into singing! For the Lord has comforted his people, and will have compassion on his suffering ones.”  May it be so. 

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

Given as a Light

Isaiah 49:1-7
Second Sunday after Epiphany
January 15, 2023
William G. Carter

Listen to me, O coastlands, pay attention, you peoples from far away! The Lord called me before I was born, while I was in my mother’s womb he named me. He made my mouth like a sharp sword, in the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me a polished arrow, in his quiver he hid me away. And he said to me, “You are my servant, Israel, in whom I will be glorified.” But I said, “I have labored in vain, I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity; yet surely my cause is with the Lord, and my reward with my God.” And now the Lord says, who formed me in the womb to be his servant, to bring Jacob back to him, and that Israel might be gathered to him, for I am honored in the sight of the Lord, and my God has become my strength— he says, “It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” Thus says the Lord, the Redeemer of Israel and his Holy One, to one deeply despised, abhorred by the nations, the slave of rulers, “Kings shall see and stand up, princes, and they shall prostrate themselves, because of the Lord, who is faithful, the Holy One of Israel, who has chosen you.”


The last time we were together, we heard God introduce his servant. It was an open-ended introduction. The servant could be an individual or a group. It might be Israel, the Messiah, the church, or somebody else. The identity is slippery, yet the characteristics are clear. God’s Servant will be known by compassion, persistence, and the working of justice, all the time refusing to call attention to himself or herself.

Today we hear another poem about the Servant of God. The Servant is claimed and called - and works with words. Surely there are good deeds, further acts of compassion. But they are joined by syllables of truth that announce, describe, and enunciate. It’s one thing to act in love for others. It’s another to say why. The Servant said, “He made my mouth like a sharp sword.”

This is a description picked up by the Christians. The sword divides truth from error, separates honesty from spin. An early Christian sermon declared, “The word of God is living and active, sharped than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow; it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart.”[1]

And in one graphic description, the prophet of the Book of Revelation hears a Voice on a rocky island in the Aegean Sea. He turns to see a figure with a sharp sword coming out of his mouth. That’s how he knows he is hearing Jesus Christ, risen from the dead. And the Voice says, “Do not be afraid; I am the first and the last and the Living One.”[2]

God works through words. Naturally, the Servant of God will work with words. Sharp words, healing words, fearless words. And this still happens.

I am a well-conditioned church goer. When I have a Sunday off, I find somewhere to worship. One summer Sunday, I took my seat in an assembly. The music began, the prayers were offered, and the preacher stood to speak. She had a pleasant face with tresses of silver bouncing off her shoulders. I settled in for an enjoyable eighteen minutes. By three minutes in, she had blown all the hair off my head. Through careful words and apt metaphors, she began to remove the tumors from my soul. I did not expect that – I mean, it’s church, right? Yet the truth she imparted came right at me and did its work with surgical precision. And here’s the thing: she never once raised her voice. She simply told the truth – about me, about the world, and about God. That Servant of God spoke with a sword.

This is how the prophetic voice sounds. God raises up these Servants to say what most of us have resisted hearing. They speak what everybody needs to hear but nobody wants to hear. The Message might not be new, yet it is the message God wants to have spoken.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. stood at the Lincoln Memorial when I was three and a half years old. Looking out upon a sea of souls, he reminded the crowd of words composed one-hundred-eighty-seven years before, that our nation was conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the promise that all people would be “guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” He reminded the American people of what they already knew.

And just a few minutes later, he said these words:

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight,
and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.[3]

Sound familiar? Right out of the prophet Isaiah! Old words brought to a new day. Ancient poetry recited with the clarity of a verbal sword. And the trajectory of those words was to lift up all the people, to welcome them back to what they have lost, to restore them to the fullest possible expression of the grace of God.

The poem that we heard today comes from the same body of speech. In this section of the prophet’s writings, the people are promised a return from years of exile. God has cancelled all that separates them from his embrace. The term has been served. Any penalty has been paid. They have received more than enough for all their sins (40:1-2). It’s time to come home. It’s time to step into a new day – which is the same day they’ve been promised all along. Now it’s time to step into God’s future for them.

And today, the prophet expands his vision to align with the greater vision of God. The promise of a new day of healing is given to Israel – and it’s also to those beyond Israel. It’s a “light to the nations,” that is, to those who are not Jews. It is an initiative taken “to the ends of the earth.”

What exactly is this “light” given through the Jewish people to the ends of the earth? The Hebrew word is “yeshua” – which means “salvation.” Yeshua is also the Hebrew name of Jesus, but let’s not get six hundred years ahead of ourselves. “Yeshua” refers to many interlocking gifts of God. It signifies rescue from the hand of evil. Victory over potential destruction. Well-being, rather than diminishment. And perhaps my favorite, a salvage operation from the scrap yard of history – salvation is a salvage operation. All this stands under the canopy of that tremendous word “yeshua” or salvation.

The point of it all is that God is not giving up on anybody or anything. God is coming to rescue, restore, rehabilitate, and redeem as many of us as possible. The promise comes to the Jews – and through the Jews. This is God’s mission for them, for us, for all. It comes as light into a world accustomed to way too much darkness.

My friend Tom tells about a night when he was a teenager. He was hanging around with his friends, traipsing around the neighborhood. It was a warm night and very dark. Suddenly one of them saw a police car and shouted. They hadn’t done anything wrong, although that might have been on the evening’s agenda, but they didn’t want to be seen, either. So they began to run, which is exactly what caught the officers’ eye.

The boys ran down the street and turned down an alley. One of them tripped, causing two others to trip, and another smashed into a series of garbage cans. This really got the police officers’ attention. One turned on a search light. Tom turned to look for his friends but all of them had disappeared. All he could see was that burning, searing searchlight looking for him.

Frantic, Tom jumped behind the trashcans, only to discover his friends huddled there. With nervous energy, they all tried to hide, pulling trash over their heads, and hoping to blend in. They’re teenagers, not thinking clearly. The spotlight fell on Tom. “Come out where we can see you,” said the voice behind the light. Tom stood up where he was, smudge on his cheek, banana peel on his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” said the voice. Tom stammered, “Nothing.”

The voice said, “I can’t hear you. What are you doing?” Tom said, “Officer, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I saw the light, I ran, I knocked over the garbage cans, I’m sorry about the disturbance.” That searchlight was burning his eyes, blinding him. He stood in the light with nowhere to hide.

The voice said, “I think I know your parents. Don’t they live around the corner?” He stammered, “Yes,” his heart racing. He said to himself, “My life is ruined. He’s going to tell my parents.”

Then the voice behind the light said, “Son, I’m not here to punish you. I’m here to protect you.” It was a moment of sheer grace. He caught a glimpse of what it means to stand before the Light of the World. He stood fully exposed yet completely protected. He was revealed yet free. He stood hip-deep in garbage, yet felt cleaner than ever, somehow cleansed by a light so bright that it did not cast a shadow. Rather than descend into punishment, deserved or undeserved, he was illumined and ultimately saved. Yeshua. Salvation.

It's a small glimpse of God’s mission to the world. Light breaks into the darkness. Shadows are chased away. Valleys lifted up, roads straightened, and a Voice speaking words that ultimately set us free. All of us. Every last one of us. And everybody else too.

This is the work of the Servant of God: to announce the saving, restoring work of God, and then to do what they can to make the work available for all. God says, “It is too little a thing to keep the light for yourselves; I give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.”


(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Hebrews 4:12, NRSV

[2] Revelation 1:12-18, NRSV

[3] Martin Luther King, Jr. “I Have a Dream,” Transcript at https://www.npr.org/2010/01/18/122701268/i-have-a-dream-speech-in-its-entirety

The Calling

The Calling
Isaiah 42:1-7
Baptism of the Lord
January 8, 2023

Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights;

I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations. 

He will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; 

a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench;

he will faithfully bring forth justice. 

He will not grow faint or be crushed until he has established justice in the earth;

and the coastlands wait for his teaching.

Thus says God, the Lord,

who created the heavens and stretched them out,

who spread out the earth and what comes from it,

who gives breath to the people upon it and spirit to those who walk in it: 

I am the Lord, I have called you in righteousness,

I have taken you by the hand and kept you;

I have given you as a covenant to the people,

a light to the nations, 

to open the eyes that are blind,

to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon,

from the prison those who sit in darkness.

 

Blair Moffett is a tall man with a beard, and a really good friend. He grew up in the hills north of here, is retired now, and lives on a lake in New Hampshire. A Presbyterian minister, from a long line of Presbyterian ministers, he’s done a lot of things, gone to a lot of places, taught at Yale Divinity School, and served congregations large and small. We’ve spent a lot of time together, but not so much in recent years.

Yet he’s the kind of friend that we can pick up right where we left off. A year, two, or three may go by. But we connect on a phone call or see one another a meeting. After a firm handshake and a quick, we jump into the next paragraph after the last conversation broke off.

We catch up on family updates, or projects that we’ve have been working on. We compare the books we’ve been reading and talk about our activities in our communities. He asks about my musical exploits. I will inquire if he’s still playing the electric bass at his Congregational church in Wolfeboro. Then there’s a pause; and he asks the question at the bottom of it all: How are you living out your baptism?

I don’t know what you talk about with your friends, but I can guarantee that’s the question he will always ask me. And it’s the kind of question that I have to stop and consider before I answer. How are you living out your baptism? Your baptism.

For a lot of us, maybe most of us, baptism is a distant memory – if we remember it at all. If we did a quick survey, we might discover that, whether we were baptized as children, as teenagers, or as adults, baptism is an event way back in the past. Most of will access the memory only through the rear-view mirror. It was back then, sometime ago, and life has moved on a good piece since then. 

I was baptized on March 19, 1961, in the North Springfield Presbyterian Church of Akron, Ohio. I was just over a year old. Dad had taken his first job out of college, moving us to the edge of Akron from eastern Indiana. It was near the end of the national baby boom, so there were a handful of babies baptized that day. It was not an individualized event. According to the accounts, a pastor named Duffy lined us up in our parents’ arms. He went down the line and repeated the ancient words, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

The sacrament was stiff and perfunctory. Strictly by the 1946 worship book. I keep the certificate in my safety deposit box. No one has ever asked to see it. I didn’t have to show it to another minister to wiggle my way into confirmation class. I never had to flash it at the admissions office to get admitted into the seminary. And for a lengthy period of my life, I never gave a thought about when I was baptized.

Except I have this friend Blair, 81 years old, and whenever we catch up on the phone, he pauses, then asks, How are you living out your baptism? And if he were to ask you - or if I were to ask you - what would you say?

Our model for constructing an answer is best drawn from Jesus. He was baptized, not as a child, but as an adult. Not in a church, but hip-deep in a river. The baptism was administered by a wild preacher named John, who dressed like a character out of the Old Testament. John was baptizing as a way to prepare for the Messiah. “He’s almost here,” John said, “so give up your sins and let me wash you clean. We do this to get ready for what is to come.” And that worked well. People came from all over.

And then Jesus showed up. John said, “No, no, no. This is all wrong. It’s backwards. You should be dunking me, not me washing you.” To which Jesus said, “Let’s fulfill (or complete) the righteousness.” Which suggests he came to put John out of business. Nobody will have to prepare for the Messiah anymore when he’s standing right in front of you!

Jesus is baptized. It’s curious, so curious that nobody could have made it up. But one thing we know is that, in that moment, something changed. The New Testament writers pointed to something inexplicable. The sky ripped open from the other side. God’s Spirit came down on Jesus, looking like a dove. Then a Voice from Beyond Time said three things: “This is my Son. He is Beloved. My favor rests on him.”

Those are the same three things God announces when we are baptized. This is my Child; that is, you’re part of God’s Family. You are Beloved. The favor of God – the grace of God – rests on you. And after that moment, just like Jesus, there is a Calling on us to live out those words.

So my friend Blair wants to know: what does it mean for you to belong to God’s family, beloved and full of grace? How does your life reflect that? This is God’s Calling – for Jesus and for us.

When Matthew tells this story about the baptism of Jesus, he does something sly. He sneaks in the words of the prophet Isaiah from the poem we heard today in chapter 42. This is my Beloved, my Chosen One, in whom my Delights. Without dropping one of his typical quotation footnotes, Matthew is telling us about the baptismal calling for Jesus.

Jesus is identified: this is my Servant, the Servant of God

Jesus is embraced: I uphold him, I choose him, I delight in him.

Jesus is called to his life’s mission: he will bring justice (that is, righteousness) to all the nations.

Identified, embraced, and called. Matthew’s language is very subtle, especially for such a dazzling event – the sky torn open, the dove descending, the Enormous Voice out of sight. If we miss the connection, nine chapters later, in chapter twelve, old Matthew will spell it out for us and for all. He puts it right there in the text:

This was to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet Isaiah:
  ‘Here is my servant, whom I have chosen, my beloved, with whom my soul is well pleased.
    I will put my Spirit upon him, and he will proclaim justice to the Gentiles.
    He will not wrangle or cry aloud, nor will anyone hear his voice in the streets.
   He will not break a bruised reed or quench a smoldering wick until he brings justice to victory.
     And in his name the Gentiles will hope.’ (Matthew 12:15-21. Cf. Isaiah 42:1-4)

 At that point in Matthew’s story, Jesus has been teaching and healing. The families bring their sick folks, and he heals every single one. He awakens their souls to the presence of God. He reveals the dominion of God has come close. All their preparations of repentance have prepared the way for God to come. People know Jesus is doing the work of God.

 And the greatest miracle of all is that he doesn’t call attention to himself. Ever notice that? Every time Jesus heals somebody in the Gospels, he says, “Don’t tell anybody.” Every time he casts out a harmful spirit or a troublesome demon, he says, “Keep it quiet. Get on with your life.” As the scholar Dale Bruner observes, Jesus is the Modest Messiah. He does his work quietly and inconspicuously.[1]

Jesus doesn’t bark like a carnival promoter, nor does he grandstand like a politician. He is not selling a product nor inciting a revolution. And why? Because his work is not about him – it’s about the people in need, and it’s about the God whose justice is revealed in their healing. He kneels beside the bruised and lifts them up. He sits beside the injured and dresses their wounds. He is the “savior of failures,” the companion for the cast-offs, the One who brings oxygen to those whose flames are flickering. And he never, ever, honks his horn to say, “Hey, look at me.” That’s how we can tell he is the Real Messiah, and not one more fake.

In the lyrics of Isaiah’s old poem, “He will not break a bruised reed or snuff out a smoldering wick until he brings justice to victory.” He does not wear out. He will not stop, until the justice of God fills the earth.

To echo the word of my old friend Blair, it all goes back to his baptism. Jesus heard he belonged to God, that he is God’s beloved, that he is the vessel of God’s grace for all people. And that’s when his life’s work began. That’s when heaven ripped open to spill onto the earth. That’s how the work of salvation began – quietly, steadily, largely out of sight, never calling attention to itself, yet oozing with the compassion of God.

So - - - how are you living out your baptism? It’s a present-tense question, for here and now, for me, for you. God loves us, claims us, and commissions us to show that infinite love to a broken-down, worn-out world. That’s what it means to live a baptism and not merely keep the yellowed certificate in a safety deposit box.

When we were baptized, there was water – maybe a lot, maybe a little; doesn’t matter. There were words – you are mine, and you have a home with a huge, inclusive family. And somehow, very quietly, there was the beginning of a calling for you from our God in heaven. It’s a calling to join Jesus in his work: to speak truth, to show care, to embody compassion, to kneel with those who can’t stand up, to hold those whom nobody else is holding, and above all, to point to the God who wishes to heal all that is broken.

So baptism is a sacrament, and maybe it’s more than a sacrament. Just maybe, it’s a way of life. A compassionate life. A quiet life. A generous life. A holy life. A Christ-shaped life. A life where the very Spirit of God has been breathed into us.

That means it’s a life of purpose and joy.

 

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] F. Dale Bruner, The Christbook: Matthew 1-12 (Waco: Word Publishing, 1988) p. 453.