Sunday, December 3, 2017 Dr. Jan Rivero, preaching
“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, Lord! … When you did awesome deeds that we did not expect, you came down… You meet those who do right, but you were angry and we sinned when you hid yourself. But you, Lord, are our God. We are clay, you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand. Do not hold our sin against us forever, but remember we are your people!”
Those words, this lament of the prophet Isaiah, was written after the conquest of Babylon over the people of Israel was over, but it reflects the disorientation of people who were desperately eager for the temple to be rebuilt, for Mount Zion to be restored. It was a time of tense waiting, marked by the joy of remembering God’s presence in the past, and at once anticipating God’s presence being restored in the future.
This story I am about to tell you may or may not have happened last weekend. You decide.
The man walked into Macy’s department store in Manhattan, off the cold street where he had spent the night. He needed a bathroom and he wanted to get warm. The crowds inside were thick — men, women, children in warm winter coats, shedding hats, and mittens, as the warm air hit their faces. But the man, in his threadbare jacket, with gloves with holes in the fingers that rendered them essentially useless? He longed to stand under that vent that poured heat into the seemingly endless concourse of counters and racks. The only thing he wanted more than warm air on his face was a bathroom. But almost immediately he found himself being pushed along by the crowd. He could not find his feet underneath him and could only go with the flow of people pressing against him.
Suddenly the masses came to a halt and a line seemed to form. Though he did not know what was happening, he found himself in this line. “Maybe this is the way to the bathroom,” he thought. The line moved slowly but as he inched toward what he thought was the front of the line, he observed what appeared to be finely ordered Christmas decorations flanking the lane. The green garlands formed the boundaries, and there was no getting easy way to get out of the line. He considered it to be a lovely way to help people find the bathroom.
Looking down at his hands he noticed the pink color returning to his fingertips. When he looked up he realized it wasn’t the bathroom line at all. Up ahead of him were young men and women dressed as elves. And beyond them a large throne upon which sat, you guessed it, Santa Claus. In that moment it dawned on him that the people around him were mostly parents with young children. So he looked for a way out, but could find no option for a clean escape. And then he felt really embarrassed. He was a mess, what with his straggly beard and greasy hair, his black toboggan with moth holes, and tattered jeans.
But as quickly as he became conscious of both his physical and emotional realities, he was taken by the arm and escorted to the front of the line. “Come here, son,” beckoned the voice in the chair. Absolutely confident that he was going to be grabbed and dragged off by security, he thought “Well at least I can get to a bathroom.” But instead, the elf escorted him forward to the throne. The voice said, “What’s your name, son?” “Uh, sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be here. I thought this was the bathroom line,” he replied, his eyes cast to the ground. “What is your name, son?” the voice repeated. “Um, my name’s Isaiah, sir. Yours? Oh no, sorry, I know who you are.” “Do you? Do you know who I am, Isaiah?”
When Isaiah heard his name he looked up and realized that it wasn’t Santa at all. The face was obscure. He couldn’t make out the features, really. But he knew. He knew who it was — and it sure wasn’t Santa. Immediately he fell to his knees. He began to weep. With tears streaming down his face he said, “God Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth — would that you would open heaven and come down so the mountains would quake in your presence, as they did in days gone by. I remember as a young child when you would come to calm me when mama would drink until she passed out on the couch and there was no one but you to kiss my wound. I remember when I was a teenager and you came to take me home from school the day my grammy died. You held my hand and took me home where I found love with you and my cousins. I remember September 11th when there was nothing but chaos and you showed up with bandages and water and words of comfort. You told us everything would be OK.
“But things weren’t OK. Things turned dark, very very dark. It was like the sun stopped shining and the moon and stars fell out of the sky. There was no one to calm me, no one to comfort me, no one to heal my city. And I lost my way. I forgot about you. I forgot about you so bad — it was like you forgot about me. And every time I tried to call to you or find you or hold your hand — life just got darker and darker and darker.”
He sunk down to the floor as his years flashed before his eyes. Dropping out of school. Finding an unsavory crowd to hang out with. They weren’t good people, but at least they seemed to care about him. There were drugs. There was addiction. The was a vast abyss of nothing but loneliness.
Raising his head, he cried out to the one on the throne, “You are my God! You’re my protector, my deliverer, but you forgot about me! Get WOKE, God! You see me? You see these people around me? We are the work of your hands! You created us! Don’t you care for us the way a potter cares for and shapes a piece of clay? Does it matter to you at all that we — all of us here — are lost? We’re struggling. We can’t seem to get along. We can’t seem to care for one another. We can’t stop killing each other. We use each other for our own personal gratification. We exploit one another for personal gain. We can’t get our act together to choose compassion and love, to see one another as human beings, as brothers and sisters, all of us with needs. We don’t even understand ourselves as the work of your hands. We need you! Stop being angry at us for screwing things up! Get woke! Tear open the heavens and come down and save us! We are your people.”
Isaiah felt himself melting into the floor. And then he sensed what felt like a hand on his shoulder. That previously stern, judgmental voice spoke, not gentle words, but with a kind voice, saying, “Isaiah, look at the world around you. Something dies and another thing is born. One thing ends but another thing begins. Winter gives way to spring. Death gives way to life.
“Those transitions are always painful and terribly scary — so scary it sometimes feels as though life as as you know it will never be the same again. It is so painful, as the familiar is ripped away, with nothing seeming to come in its place. But it takes time for the new to emerge. Creating a new heaven and a new earth takes time. So you get woke! Isaiah. You pay attention! You ground yourself in me. Your job is to trust, to wait, to watch. And me? I will do a new thing. I will inspire my people with new visions and new dreams. I will plant within them hopes for a new heaven and new earth, and they will each do their part to build it. They will repair the broken places where loneliness and despair live. With them, you will repair the breach where there is injustice and inequity. Together you will stand in the gap between the haves and have nots. And one day, one day, Isaiah, we will all stand together on Mount Zion. You have my word. That is my promise.”
Amen.