Sunday, October 4, 2015

People not Puzzles: Recapturing a Teaching of Jesus for a New Day

Genesis 2:18-24
Mark 10:2-16

World Communion Sunday
October 4, 2015

If you are wondering where in the world I am going with these two texts, you are not alone!
          He said to them, “Whoever divorces his wife and marries another commits adultery against her; and if a wife divorces her husband and marries another, she commits adultery.”
          How can I, a man who has walked the difficult road of divorce not once but twice, hope to preach this text to a congregation, some of whom have walked that same road?  How can I, with a straight face and any measure of self-respect, preach these words?
          If we take the traditional reading of this text and leave it there, the answer is I can’t preach it.  Not without being shrouded head to toe in hypocrisy.  The traditional reading of this text, like the traditional reading of so many texts, takes the words, rips them out of their context, thrusts them before the church and says, “Here.  Don’t ask questions, just take the words at face value.”
          While that is a tempting way to read this complicated book in which we put so much stock, it is not a very respectful way.  To take the words of Jesus and act as though the moment did not matter; to take the answers Jesus gives to life’s questions and act as though the one who asked the question was inconsequential to Jesus in that moment is to give precious little respect to the way God reaches out to and for us in Christ.  The words absolutely matter, but the context in which they were spoken matters as well. 
          So what was that moment?  What was going on that day when Jesus gave this difficult answer to a question on divorce?
          As it happens, divorce was a pretty hot topic among first century Jews.  And Jesus’ audience that day was a group of Pharisees.  The debate he found himself dragged into was likely one between followers of two influential Rabbis; Rabbi Hillel and Rabbi Shammai. 
The two groups disagreed on several issues, but divorce was one of the most divisive.  The Hillelites argued that Deuteronomy 24, the law on divorce, gave a man the right to divorce his wife for any reason.  The Shammaites argued that it reserved divorce for only cases of unfaithfulness. 
          Back and forth they went arguing and debating and finally drawing Jesus into the debate to see on which side of the fence he would fall.
          Jesus, doing what he does so often especially in Mark’s gospel, gives a short, concise, and thoroughly infuriating answer.  He tells them that they are both wrong.  A pox on both of their houses, he seems to say.  His frustration with their questions is evident even when he talks to the disciples.
           He said to them, “Whoever divorces his wife and marries another commits adultery against her; and if a wife divorces her husband and marries another, she commits adultery.”
          Throughout the gospels, Jesus challenges these debates about the law by not taking sides but questioning the debate itself. 
          Is this the way to get a divorce or is that the way?
          “You are asking the wrong question!”, Jesus replies.
          Divorce in the first century was predominantly a one sided affair.  While there were ways for women to divorce their husbands, they were few and extremely rare.  According to the Hillelites, a man could divorce his wife on a whim; for whatever reason strikes his fancy.  The Shammites were a little less cavalier, but even they focused on how a husband could be rid of his wife under the law.
          It does not take much time spent with this text in light of the rest of Jesus’ ministry to see that by answering the way he does, Jesus is trying to point the Pharisees to a new place in their debate.  The point, he tells them, is not figuring out how to get out of a marriage without breaking the Mosaic Law, the point is realizing that a broken relationship of any kind is more than an equation of legal reasoning.  It is more than a puzzle to be solved.  Whenever the children of God are involved, there is more at stake than coloring inside the lines.  The problem with the Pharisee’s argument is that they are focused on how to most efficiently and effectively be rid of people they saw as disposable.  Women were, in far too many ways, viewed as throw away people in first century culture and Jesus presses back on that underlying assumption.
          Now, it would be a wild stretch to say that in this text Jesus is trying to somehow rewrite the cultural norms of gender and marriage.  To be sure, Jesus pushes the boundaries on gender at many times in his ministry.  Here, however, there is no evidence that he is doing anything so radical as to upend the traditions on gender in ancient Jewish communities in the Roman Empire.
          Even without that radical turn, what Jesus does here is important.  He reminds the Pharisees and he reminds us that the breakdown of any relationship between two of God’s children is a thing worthy of more than a Pharisee’s debate and something with more at stake than being inside or outside the lines of the law.  And when the breakdown of that relationship happens, no one is disposable; there are no throw away people despite what the culture might like to teach. 
          In the case they present to him, divorce involves two of God’s children- two people brought together by God- not merely a puzzle of the law. 
          Not an entirely comfortable reading of the text, but at least one that feels slightly less hypocritical for this plank of the crooked timber of humanity to preach. 
          All of that is well and good and the preacher may have been rescued from quite so great a measure of hypocrisy, but there is still another question lingering today.  What in the world is this text doing on World Communion Sunday?
World Communion Sunday is one of the particular contributions of the Presbyterian Church to the worldwide Christian community.  Started in the 1930’s in the midst of growing American isolationism in the world, the first World Communion Sunday was celebrated at Shadyside Presbyterian Church in Pittsburgh.  It was less than 20 years later that the World Federation of Churches endorsed the now common Presbyterian celebration on the first Sunday of October and a worldwide celebration of the unity of the body of Christ was born.  Today Christians around the world in traditions as varied as the Anglican Communion and the Congregationalist Churches are celebrating that despite what makes us different in the way we live our faith, it is a shared faith Christ Jesus that binds us together despite it all. 
So we on this day celebrating our unity in Christ, we get a text on divorce as the gospel reading. 
I suppose there could be a more awkward day for this text to appear.  It could be assigned to Christmas Eve!
Greeting this text about the breakdown of human relationships on this day celebrating Christian community really does require all of our interpretive skills.
I’m not sure, though, that even looking at Jesus’ words in their own context can soften the edges of this text enough to make them work today. 
Thankfully, the word Jesus spoke then- the word we encounter today- is not a word stuck in the past in that moment with the Pharisees.  What Jesus said then, that there are in truth no throw-away people- no people whose value is less than in the eyes of God-, is as true today as it was then. 
For the most part, we have gotten past the Hillelite/ Shammaite debate over Mosaic divorce law.  We have even made some, though not nearly enough, progress on issues of gender both inside the church and in some parts of the world.  So what is the equivalent in our world?  What today is the forum of the Pharisee’s demanding these words of Jesus?
The answer, I think, is in both the text and in the day.  We read this text today precisely because it needs to be read in a global context. 
If women in the first century were too often treated as throw-away people- as beneath consideration of anything other than the details of legal niceties- that role today is played by migrants and refugees.  As we celebrate this World Communion Sunday, our world is plagued by a rapidly growing crisis of displaced people viewed by much of the world as either disposable or a mere nuisance.
As we sit here today in the relative comfort of our church community, worshiping under the umbrella of, despite what some politicians would have us believe, is the least restrictive and least oppressive nation on the planet, there are 60 million people forcibly displaced from their homes due to conflicts of politics, religion, and wealth.  60 million people whose only crime was being alive in this moment in a particular place in this world. 
Josef Stalin was reported to have said once, “A single death is a tragedy.  A million deaths is a statistic.”
Too often we view migrants and refugees around the world as statistics or abstractions to be plugged into an equation.  Germany will take this many and Britain will take this many and the Swedes will take this many.  We see people as a nameless faceless whole as easily kept at arm’s length as a math problem on a classroom board.
It is the sort of logic that allowed the Pharisees to coldly and unsympathetically spend their time debating the finer points of divorce without being burdened by the human realities. 
It is the sort of cold logic that allows too many people today to say things with such Pharisaic callousness as Donald Trump’s atrocious claim that Mexican immigrants are rapists or Mike Huckabee’s staggering claim that Syrian refugees are Jihadists sent by ISIS.  It allows the Obama administration to act with shocking indifference to the refugees of the world and the governments of Europe debate the fate of men, women, and children as though they were cargo on a ship looking for a port.
In our moment, the debate of the Pharisees might be different but the response from Jesus is the same.
          He said to them, “Whoever divorces his wife and marries another commits adultery against her; and if a wife divorces her husband and marries another, she commits adultery.”
          He said to them, “If you take a hundred and see them as a statistic, you are missing the point.  And if you take a thousand and treat them as anything but your brothers and sisters, you are missing the point!”
          Two weeks ago I found myself increasingly bothered by the rhetoric of our politicians on this issue.  As I sat and stewed in my own juices, it began to dawn on me that I was actually approaching the issue the same way they were.  Hopefully I was being less heartless than many of them have been, but I found myself talking about the 60 million displaced people in the world in much the same way.  The outcome of my cold calculations were different and the expectations I am willing to put on individual nation states are different, but I found myself thinking in the same cold impersonal terms. 
          Perhaps Stalin was right and what might look like a tragedy for one family is only comprehensible as a statistic when it grows to this level.  Perhaps the only way to get our minds to wrap around this global issue is with the kind of cold calculations that define the geo-politics of displaced peoples.  
          Then one afternoon, listening to the radio, I heard a news story that helped turn the key in the lock.  Pope Francis, addressing the issue of immigrants coming to Europe and fleeing the war in Syria, called on each parish in Europe to take in one family. 
          One family.
          Not a portion of a whole population with larger parishes taking in more and smaller taking in less. Take in one family, he asked, and show them the love and hospitality of Jesus.  Take in one family and get to know them not as statistics but as mothers and fathers, children and grandchildren.  Get to know them as people who worry about many of the same things you do; making the world a better place for their children, ensuring that their children are safe and their loved ones cared for.  Get to know them as people rather than statistics.
          You have heard me mention my friend Lucy who is an elder in Batesville. Lucy is the one who, when I would get too wound up in my head worried about church things and trying to find the answer to a difficult problem in a book rather than in the community, would look at me and say, “Robert, put down the book and pick up the baby.”
          Jesus said the same thing to the Pharisees.
          Jesus says the same thing to us.
          Life is not an equation to be solved and the people in God’s world are not pawns in an intellectual legal or political quandary. 
          Put down the book and pick up the baby.
          Stop treating people like puzzles and start living the way God intended us to live from the beginning; face to face, side by side, workers together tending the vineyards, and brothers and sisters together worshiping God. 
          This World Communion Sunday through the words of this text most of us would like to leave to its own devises, Jesus reminds us that while our human relationships may break down from time to time, one thing never changes; we are all beloved children of God; all deemed worthy despite our unworthiness for the love of God; all deserving of the respect and dignity of a child of God.
          And none of us- NONE of us- is disposable in God’s eyes. 

          Amen. 

Saturday, June 20, 2015

In the Boat

Mark 4:35-41

June 21, 2015
Year B

First and Harmony Presbyterian Churches

The Rev. Dr. Robert Wm Lowry

*Preached the Sunday after a mass shooting at Mother Emmanuel AME Church in Charleston, SC.
               
The weekend after the Iraq war began, I stepped into the pulpit at First Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor and began my sermon with these words, “Since we last gathered in this place, our world has changed dramatically.”
Today I can only stand here and say that since we last gathered in this place, our world is tragically the same.
In a turn of events that is becoming all too familiar, a disaffected young man took out the rage of his inner struggles on innocent lives.
In a turn of events that is becoming all too familiar, the targets of his rage were chosen because of the color of their skin.
In a turn of events that is becoming all too familiar, our political, cultural, and media voices have spent more time trying to explain away the actions of this disturbed young man than they have spent talking about the spiritual and societal cancer that is at the root of this and all too many events like these; racism.
Racism is but one manifestation of our culture’s persistent devaluation of human life and dignity, but it is perhaps the one that has grown deepest into our bones.  Racism is, as one commentator said many years ago, America’s original sin. 
It is the sin that stains our culture and colors our lives.  Our cultural history of segmenting off one portion of the children of God as inherently less than has made it tragically easy to segment off others based on the cultural fears, prejudices, and whims of the moment.
On Wednesday night as the news broke about the shootings at Mother Emmanuel AME church in Charleston, I found myself cycling through a laundry list of reactions.
I was horrified that this could happen in a church.
I was heartbroken that so many innocent lives were lost.
I was angry that this young man had taken his ignorance to a lethal level.
I was livid that commentators on the left took this as a chance to preach about gun violence as though a law can dictate what happens in a callous heart and commentators on the right twisted themselves in knots to ignore that this was an act of domestic racial terror and instead tried to paint this as an attack on Christians rather than what it was; cowardly racial hate. 
I was disappointed that my President and each and every man and woman of both parties who wants to be President parsed their words and hedged their statements until what they said made sense only to the narrow band of like-minded people to whom they were momentarily pandering. 
I cycled through a laundry list of reactions until finally I got around to what was, and is, really bothering me.
Our world is being thrown about on a stormy sea and as often as not it feels like our savior is asleep in the boat. 
The context for this narrative from Mark is the parable of the sower.  The farmer throws seed on the ground.  Some lands on fertile soil, some on rocky ground.  The parable is rather clearly about whether we, in heart, soul, and living, will be hospitable soil for the gospel of Jesus Christ to take root in the world and grow.
Punctuated by Mark’s rapid fire narrative, while the words of the parable hang in the air the disciples find themselves on a boat confronted by a fearful moment and a fateful choice; in their moment of need will they put their faith in God in Christ or will they allow themselves to be held captive by their fears.
Readings of this text which have endured the test of time and the changing winds of interpretive whims, cast this story in just such a light.  The disciples are faced with a moment of decision; will they choose faith or fear?  Will their lives be fertile ground in which the Gospel can find purchase and grow or will they be overcome by the weight of their fears?
Despite the abbreviated length of this narrative, Mark does what Mark so often does, he throws a wrinkle into the question.
The implication that the disciples are faced with a choice between faith and fear is compounded by the fact that at their urging, and probably because of the volume of their pleading, Jesus wakes up from his sleeping and calms the storm. 
Now, remember here that the men in the boat with Jesus were not inexperienced land lubbers. Most are experienced fishermen who had probably seen it all and lived to tell the tale of rough seas before.  This storm was so fierce that even the saltiest dog of the crowd was begging Jesus to do something to calm things down.
Jesus wakes from his sleep and at his word the storm stopped, the waves calmed, the winds abated, and the peril disappeared.
It is then, and only then, that Jesus poses the question to them, “Why are you afraid?  Have you no faith?”
When they are confronted by this defining question of faith and fear it comes not when the danger is still underfoot, but when the waters are calm and all is well again.
The text tells us that it is at this moment, when the seas are calm and when Jesus poses this question of faith or fear, that the disciples ask one another, “Who is this that even the wind and the sea obey him?”
I remember learning this story in Sunday school growing up and the lesson that attended it then; like the disciples, we are called to stand in awe and wonder at the power of God.  What voice do the wind and sea obey? 
Jesus.
Just Jesus.
Not Jesus plus.
Not Jesus and a little luck.
Not Jesus and some help from us.
Just Jesus.
At the word of Jesus, the wind and the sea obey.
Any traditional reading of this text affirms that conclusion and calls us to the faith of the disciples.  And, friends, I hope and pray that when that day comes you and I will have that faith.
I truly do.
I hope we have that faith.
I hope we have that courage.
I hope we have the spiritual capacity to stand in the wake of our fear and see with eyes of wonder the peace that God has made in the world.
I pray that when that time comes, we will have the faith of those disciples and we might be fertile ground for faith to grow.
When that time comes.
When that time comes.
For my part, I just wish that time would get here.  Because at this moment, in this time, our boat is still taking on water and the perilous winds of the world are raging.
I hope we have the courage of the disciples when that day comes, but what do we do now?
How do we stand in our boat with the storms of the present raging around us? 
This story gives us insight into what I hope we will all do when the time comes that the storms of the day are calmed, but what about now?  Because as much as I like to think that faith will find its way into my heart when that day comes, right here right now in the midst of the storms of this world…
I am afraid.
I would like to say that I have the steely faith of the Breton fishermen of legend who calmly pray, “O God, be good to me, for thy sea is so vast and my boat is so small.”
The truth is that I am afraid of the waves, I am afraid of the winds, I am afraid that my little boat is going to capsize before Jesus wakes up and makes it all stop.
I am afraid of the storm on the sea and I wager to say that I am not the only one.
How then, with this story hanging in the air, can we possibly be fearful and yet hope to be faithful?
The answer comes from Jesus’ question.
Hear it again in this story. 
They woke him up and said, “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re drowning?” He got up and gave orders to the wind, and he said to the lake, “Silence! Be still!” The wind settled down and there was a great calm. 40 Jesus asked them, “Why are you afraid?”
Why are you afraid?
Not, do not be afraid, but why are you afraid?
Fear is not the enemy in this story. 
Fear isn’t even the point of this story.
Jesus never tells the disciples that there is nothing to be afraid of.  A massive storm on the Sea of Galilee is absolutely something to be afraid of!  The fear in this story is very real and Jesus recognizes it.
For too many years I read Jesus’ words as a rebuke as though he was sternly scolding the disciples who woke him from his slumber like Mr. Wilson chasing Dennis the Menace across the yard!  In truth, I think this scene is more like a parent sitting in the dark holding a child just awake from a nightmare.  This is a moment of Jesus’ genuine concern for the disciples, not exasperated impatience for being awakened with no reason.
The issue is not that the fear is unreal or unimportant.  The issue is that the fear is not all that there is. 
When Jesus says, “Why are you afraid?” his voice must be one of compassionate concern.  For it to be anything else would be to deny the promise of the gospel.  It is the voice befitting the one who came into the world to say and to show for once and for all that brokenness, sinfulness, hate, and, yes, fear are fleeting and have no more staying power than the steam from  a kettle.  The only thing that endures is the hope that is born into the world in Christ Jesus. 
It is that hope that carries us through when the very real fears and trials of this world take hold of us while the storm is still raging and we cannot escape the feeling that Jesus is asleep in the boat.
And it is that hope that reminds us that even when we cannot escape the feeling that Jesus is asleep in the boat, he is IN THE BOAT!
He isn’t waiting on the distant shore for us to get ourselves across the sea or out of this mess. 
He is in the boat!  If there is any place for us to put our faith in the midst of the very real fears of our day, it is in that truth and that hope.
He knows the waves that crash over us, because he is in the boat!
He knows the winds that howl around us, because he is in the boat!
He knows the churning seas that threaten to pull us down to the deepest darkest depths, because he is in the boat!
He knows the pain of a broken world, because he is in the boat!
He knows the fear that grips our lives, because he is in the boat!
He knows the pain of a community reeling from loss, because he is in the boat!
Yes, in Charleston,
or Baltimore,
or Cleveland,
or Ferguson,
or Clarksville,
or Nepal,
or Syria,
or Israel,
or the quiet of our  own homes,
or the silence of our own hearts…
wherever the human spirit grieves,
wherever fear seeks to take hold,
wherever the waters come crashing over the side and the tumult threatens to overwhelm us, he is in the boat!
If you hear nothing else I say on this or any other day, please, please hear this…
by God, through the Spirit, in this moment, in this place, in our lives, through this storm, without fail, the proof of God’s amazing love is and will always be this…
he is in this boat!

Alleluia!  Alleluia!  Amen.

Saturday, May 30, 2015

Call: The Holy Inevitability of Hope

Isaiah 6:1-8 (9-13)
Trinity Sunday Year B
May 31, 2015
First and Harmony Presbyterian Churches

The Rev. Dr. Robert Wm Lowry

            Of all the theological concepts and constructs the church has managed to devise over the last two thousand years, none is as confusing, confounding, or down right difficult to understand than the doctrine of the Trinity.
            Since the early 18th century work of German theologian Johan August Urlsburger, Trinitarian theology has focused on the distinction between an immanent trinity and the economic trinity.  The immanent trinity seeks to understand the relationship of the triune God and the world; how does God encounter creation as Father, Son, and Spirit; how does God relate in the here and now?
            The economic trinity seeks to understand how the persons of the trinity, Father, Son, and Spirit, relate to one another.
            As if the concept of a God who is three in one, three persons of one being, Urlsburger and those who followed him did what theologians often do; they unnecessarily complicated something that was not exactly easy in the first place. 
            The problems with the immanent and economic trinity are too numerous and, frankly, too boring to name this morning. 
            Almost twenty-five years ago, a book was published that sought to address what is arguably the most troublesome of those pesky theological problems.  By speaking about the trinity in either immanent or economic terms, in other words by speaking about how God relates to the world OR to Godself, our theology begins to separate the nature of God into halves. 
            Catholic theologian Catherine Mowry Lacugna argued that far from two technical ways of speaking about God, the immanent and the economic, the language of the trinity is in fact the language of the radical holiness of our present and active God.  Trinitarian language is the cornerstone, she argued, of any systematic theology.
             Trinity Sunday invites us to attend to this mystical reality of the God who is present and active in our lives and in our world. 
Part of that mystic reality is God’s radical holiness.
That is the focus of Isaiah’s vision we head this morning.
In his vision, Isaiah encounters the great I AM, the Lord of Hosts, the Divine Other, the Lord of all.  In that moment, the distant otherness of God was right there.  This was no still small voice like Elijah encountered, this was the Triune God in full glory complete with seraphs covering their faces as they sing, “Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts…the whole earth is full of God’s glory.”
With the possible exception of those parts we hear around Christmastime, the first eight verses of chapter six are probably the best known of all of Isaiah’s writing. 
Summoned to the throne of God, Isaiah is struck by his own unworthiness.  He does not belong there and he knows it. 
Yet there he is.
Standing before the throne of God hearing the divine voice calling him to this prophetic ministry.
At its heart, this IS a call story.
            Then I heard the voice of the LORD saying, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?”  And I said, “Here am I; send me.”
            If the movement of Isaiah’s vision sounds familiar, it may be because there is a roadmap of it in your hand this morning.  Our order of worship is similar to Isaiah’s vision.  We come into God’s presence to give praise and, like the Seraphs, we sing our “Holy, holy, holies” to God. 
            We acknowledge our sinfulness.
            We seek God’s forgiveness.
            We ask that God would give us ears to hear and hearts to understand God’s word so that we too can respond in faith. 
            All of the elements of our worship- gathering, praising, confessing, praying, hearing, and responding- are appropriate responses to the holy Triune God who claims us.[i]  It was precisely this sort of encounter that Catherine Lacugna had in mind when she said that the doctrine of the Trinity is the cornerstone of any theology of our calling God. 
            Call is what happens every time God breaks down the walls that divide the creator and the creation; every time God speaks in the life of one of God’s children; every time God flips a light switch and reveals something new and unexpected.
            I have to admit that my own sense of call was less of a light switch being flipped the way it was for Isaiah and more like a dimmer switch being turned up very, very slowly. 
Whether it happens with the clarion call of Isaiah’s vision or sneaks up on you when you least expect it, at its heart there is a deep mystery at work whenever God calls and whether it is loud as a siren or silent as a lamb, God’s call always brings with it a profound upsetting of our equilibrium.  We tend to read this text like Isaiah is recalling a placid encounter with the holy, but I imagine that hearing it first hand from the prophet there would have been a dose of trembling wonder in his voice…
            “In the year King Uzziah died, I saw the LORD…sitting on a throne…high and lofty and the hem of his robe FILLED the temple!...”
            Divine call is a bit frightening.
            Or at least it should be.
            Far too often we leave the power of divine call the same way we leave worship on Sunday mornings…we cut it off at the comfortable points.
            This text we have today from Isaiah is a case in point.  Churches around the world who use the pattern of the Revised Common Lectionary are reading this passage from Isaiah 6; these familiar and appealing and sentimental words of the prophet ending with that familiar phrase of holy surrender… ”Here am I; send me.”
            On the one hand it is a beautiful place to end the reading.  But on another it is actually quite dangerous.  It is dangerous because leaving it there leaves the impression that the heat of divine calling is this romantic notion of sweet surrender.
            Now, don’t get me wrong.  I would be fine with it if the end of the matter was a moment of sweet surrender to God; if the whole of the Christian life was dewy garden paths and sweet chariots coming to take us home.  I would be fine if ministry was what so many pastors start out thinking it is- just a life of loving people and being their friend just like a lot of us are lulled into thinking that the Christian life happens between 11am and noon once a week. 
            Here am I, Lord.  Let’s leave it at that. 
            That would be nice.  I wouldn’t mind it if the whole of Christian call ended with our reading today.
            The problem, of course, is that life does not end at verse 8 and neither does God.
            There is more to this whole call thing than a moment of holy surrender, there is also the matter of the rest of the text; the part that comes after the moment of sweet surrender; the part that comes after the benediction in church on Sunday morning. 
            After the moment of sweet surrender, comes the hard part; the part when God says…
 “Go and say to this people:
Listen intently, but don’t understand;
    look carefully, but don’t comprehend.
10 Make the minds of this people dull.
    Make their ears deaf and their eyes blind,
    so they can’t see with their eyes
    or hear with their ears,
    or understand with their minds,
    and turn, and be healed.”
11 I said, “How long, Lord?”
And God said, “Until cities lie ruined with no one living in them, until there are houses without people and the land is left devastated.” 12 The Lord will send the people far away, and the land will be completely abandoned. 13 Even if one-tenth remain there, they will be burned again, like a terebinth or an oak, which when it is cut down leaves a stump. Its stump is a holy seed.
            While the lectionary text ends with verse 8, it is what follows that gets Isaiah, and us, into trouble.  Rather than a call to a settled ministry- a call to a settled life nestled comfortably in the familiar surroundings of your usual pew on Sunday mornings- God calls Isaiah and us to prophetic engagement in a world that is profoundly deaf to our words. 
            To be sure there is a hint of hyperbole in these latter verses of Isaiah 6.  The picture of Israel that is painted sounds like a desolate landscape devoid of life or hope like the scenery of Cormac McCarthy’s novel the Road.  Things were bad in Israel but they weren’t nearly THAT bad. 
Still, it isn’t any surprise that the compilers of the lectionary and the preachers who follow it would rather leave things with “Here am I; send me.”  That sun kissed dewy garden path is a lot more appealing than the grey skied post-apocalyptic wasteland of “until cities lie ruined with no one living in them.”
Just watch the news or read the paper or pay the slightest attention to the world around us and it won’t take long before you start crying with Isaiah’s other words, “How long, LORD?”
How long until we get beyond the petty jealousies of political rivalry?
How long until we get past the cancer of racial and ethnic hatred?
How long until we put sexism, racism, ageism, xenophobia, homophobia, religious intolerance, and economic disparity behind us?
How long will the world remain deaf to the word proclaimed and blind to the word revealed?
How long, LORD, how long?!
If verses 1-8 recounts the awe inspiring wonder of being called by this holy Triune God, 9-13 reveals the perils of saying yes to God.  Because whether it is destructiveness of a culture of consumption that threatens to consume us or idolatries that threaten to drive the church to distraction or destruction, there is plenty in the world to persuade even the most faithful of prophets to move quickly from “Here am I” to “How long, LORD?” in less time than a TV preacher can ask for a donation.
The inevitability of the reality of the world make prophetic calling seem anything but appealing.  
The opening words of T. S. Eliot’s epic poem the Waste Land have an eerie echo of this harsh truth.  He writes,
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with the spring rain.
Like the prophetic call that begins with sentimental surrender and ends with a desolate landscape, year after year spring offers up new life only to remind us that it is merely temporary- fleeting. 
The call to proclaim the gospel in a world that is deaf to our words is like admiring the beauty of lilacs that will only be swallowed up by the earth again.  The church speaks, the world does not hear, the church speaks, the world does not hear.  It is an endless cycle of inevitability.
Even the heartiest, the prophet says, will die- they will be cut down to the stump.  By the end nothing remains.
Nothing, that is, except a holy remnant; the stump, Isaiah says, is a holy seed. 
That is the true inevitability; hope.
The hope that remains even in the most desolate of places.
The hope that dwells even in the most barren of lands.
The hope that cannot be defeated, denied, or destroyed.
The holy disruption that is the call of our triune God in the life of each and every one of us is the holy disruption of hope.
“Whom shall I send?”
“Here am I; send me.”
“How long, LORD, how long?”
“Soon and very soon.”
Alleluia.  Alleluia.  Amen. 



[i] Kristine Emery Saldine, Feasting on the Word Year B.