A few weeks ago I attended the Festival of Homiletics, a conference for preachers. This year's festival was in Pittsburgh, with lectures and workshops at three locations - Pittsburgh Theological Seminary, Calvary Episcopal Church, and East Liberty Presbyterian Church. This was somehow my first time in that part of the city, and I was so surprised to realize that the towering edifice I'd been driving toward was, in fact, East Liberty Presbyterian. It is truly massive inside and out, with mazes of corridors, numerous staircases, and even a bowling alley! As I sat there in the sanctuary, dwarfed by the high stone walls of the Gothic architecture, I felt a renewed appreciation for the architects and builders and religious leaders who designed and constructed churches in this way. There’s just something about how small and insignificant you feel in comparison to the space that points to the beauty and glory and sheer vastness of God.
It was that towering ceiling, those stone arches that came to mind as I immersed myself in the rich imagery of Isaiah’s vision from our first reading. As the sights and sounds and smells of that story came together, they also called to mind a song, a version of the sanctus - the holy, holy, holy - from a liturgy I learned in seminary that sets the familiar words of our Lutheran worship to Appalachian folk music, called “Of the Land and Seasons.” Hear again Isaiah’s vision -
Long, long ago in Jerusalem… (Hear me sing it here, beginning at the 25:36 timestamp)
In his vision, Isaiah sees God the Father sitting enthroned high above the earth, and God’s robe is so enormous that it drapes down, filling the cavernous temple with just the hem. In the air, seraphs fly, worshiping God. Even these heavenly beings are awed and humbled by God’s greatness, for they use their six wings not only to fly, but also to cover their faces (for no one can look at God and live) and to cover their feet (or, really, their nakedness) in God’s presence. As they fly, they call to one another that familiar refrain - “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of the glory of the Lord.” Their voices, worshiping God, shook the very doorposts of the temple, and smoke filled the rooms.
Is it any wonder that Isaiah felt overwhelmed by such an encounter? Is it any wonder he should say, “Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips.” I am lost! I clearly do not belong in the presence of such holiness, such majesty, such power. I am not worthy. What is Isaiah to do? Or, perhaps more importantly, what will God do?
Through the clouds of smoke, past the rippling hem, a glowing coal emerges. The seraph touches it to Isaiah’s mouth, purifying his unclean lips and preparing him to respond. When God’s voice, God’s question comes, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” Isaiah is bold to proclaim, “Here am I; send me!”
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| Photo by ActionVance on Unsplash |
Especially on this festival of the Holy Trinity, we, too, may feel overwhelmed when confronted with the enormity and otherness of God’s holiness, power, and might. How do we make sense of who God is, one-in-three and three-in-one? We are lost! Our words are not enough, our metaphors fall short, the math does not add up.
Even beyond that, as we look around at the pain and disorder and brokenness of the world, and in our own lives, we are all too aware of our smallness in contrast to God’s majesty; all too aware of our sinfulness in contrast to God’s holiness; all too aware of our inability to shape and direct things in the way we want them to be in contrast to God’s power. We are lost, and hurting. We grieve, and suffer. We watch helplessly as our efforts at perfection fall short again and again. What will we do? What will God do?
In spite of God’s great majesty and power, or perhaps because of God’s great majesty and power, God sees our brokenness and pain and unworthiness and chooses to come near to us. God hears our confessions of unclean lips, unkind thoughts, disobedient hearts and sends us grace. God touches our lips with the very body and blood of Jesus, forgiving and strengthening us so that we, too, might be able to answer God’s call.
Who will go for us, God asks. Who will proclaim words of challenge, and mercy? Who will share their own experience of broken hearts made whole and guilt blotted out? Who will offer a vision of hope, who will tell the story of the endless, powerful, transformative love of God?
Created in God’s image; nourished at the table; filled with the Holy Spirit we are sent to join the heavenly hosts in proclaiming God’s power and might. We tell the world that this holiest God, whose glory fills all heaven and earth, sees us, loves us, and guides us, in times of joy and grief, certainty and upheaval.
Though our story Bible version didn't include it, Isaiah begins his description of his vision by locating it in time. “In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord sitting high and lofty.” In a year of political disruption and transition for earthly powers, Isaiah was reminded of God's majesty and might. In the year that the earthly king died, Isaiah was reminded of the eternal reign of the heavenly king. When leaders make poor choices, when edifices crumble, when systems fail, when people are exiled - even then, God still reigns.
For a God whose glory fills the whole earth and who yet, somehow, also calls us children, we give thanks and praise.
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