Today’s first reading from Isaiah brings words of comfort and hope that are sorely needed in these challenging times. As we continue to experience division, disappointment, and despair brought on by a pandemic and political uncertainty, what a message of grace it is to hear the promises of a God who will swallow up death, wipe away tears, and gather all people for a rich feast.
The text begins, however, with a word of judgment. The powerful have been unseated. The city and walls and palace are destroyed, never to be rebuilt. The systems and structures and edifices of this world do not get the final say. Instead, their destruction is an example, a reminder that God’s reign of love, care, and justice will not be thwarted. In the face of such destruction, those who have been oppressed and mistreated by the rulers are rejoicing. They give thanks for a God who has provided refuge and care, shade and quiet for them, the needy and poor.
Isaiah’s words then draw our gaze away from judgment and destruction to the mountain of God where a sumptuous feast has been spread for all peoples. This is not business as usual, where only the elites have access and everyone else is left sniffing the air from outside the gates. No, the ones who have waited for so long have a seat at this table. The wine and rich food is spread for them.
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| Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash |
The scene the prophet Isaiah describes – a feast for all people, tears wiped away, death destroyed – is the hope that we cling to. These images seem jarring when set alongside the crumbling facades of our current reality. So many of the things that seemed immovable – perhaps our trust in the stability of our government, or the permanence of our daily routines of work, school, and activities in close proximity to others – have been revealed to be much more fragile than we ever thought possible. In these times, we identify much more closely with the tears, the disgrace, and the rainstorms, but we cling to the promise that the feast is coming.
It is God, and not any earthly ruler, who will ultimately and radically reshape our reality. Trusting in God’s promises, we join with those throughout time and space who have raised their voices in praise and thanksgiving for God’s mighty deeds and ever-present care. We join in the praise of God’s faithfulness and commitment to justice, life, and flourishing, because we know what it is to be broken down and in need of refuge.
As Christians, we proclaim that God’s saving love is witnessed in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. We look to the cross, to the God who suffers with us, and echo the prophet’s words: “Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, so that he might save us.”
What does salvation look like, now? We certainly wait for the fullness of the heavenly feast Isaiah describes, but to say that is the entirety of what we have waited for seems awfully inadequate in the meantime. Is there any way to rip holes, however tiny, in the shroud that is spread over us? Is salvation for today, too, or just for the future, after we die?
Yes. It’s both. It must be. We catch glimpses of the abundant life and transforming love that are characteristic of God in so many places. We look to the cross to say, “Lo, this is our God,” but we also proclaim it in moments of shared joy and quiet comfort, and in spaces of radical welcome. We experience God’s saving presence in the communion meal and in the waters of baptism, and see and hear God in the word, read and proclaimed, and in the face of our neighbors. We know that God is among us when true justice is served, when the vulnerable are cared for, and when the outcast and lowly are raised up.
We are waiting, yes, and also salvation is here. The hand of the Lord rests on all people, even now. Let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation!
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