Psalm 12
Isaiah 5. 8 – end
Acts 13. 13 – 41
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
One of the most poignant questions philosophy invites us to consider is ‘How shall we live?’ In theological terms, we might ask ‘Where is God in this situation?’ or even ‘What is God’s deepest desire for my life?’ If our desires are aligned with our Creator’s, the fabric of earth and heaven support what frail steps we can make as we walk through the strange territory of life’s circumstances and expectations.
The twentieth-century American monk and writer Thomas Merton offered this prayer, which is pertinent to these days of change and confusion following an election that has exposed new levels of deep division, suffering, and frustration in this nation. Merton wrote:
My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think I am following your will
does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road,
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though
I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
How might the world change, even fleetingly, if this prayer emerged from the lips of political leaders whose lives consist of making decisions that impact the most vulnerable: the poor, the abused, the hungry, the homeless. The world does change when people choose – and it always must be a choice – to place their lives humbly into the hands of God, rather than assuming that true power is generated by their own interests and how many people they can convince to rally around them. God’s will is not done when a particular party comes out on top. God’s will is done when the dynamic love surging through the whole of creation, including but not limited to humanity, fires the energy of truth and justice that liberates all and grants us ‘the peace which the world cannot give.’
As the Catholic priest Richard Rohr has said, ‘We do not think ourselves into a new way of living, but we live ourselves into a new way of thinking.’
In our reading from Isaiah, we’re given the vision of beautiful houses without inhabitants, complacency yoked tightly to famine, injustice and lying overtaking the need for truth, and a visceral unrest so deep that it’s apocalyptic. Darkness within, darkness without,
And if one looks to the land—
only darkness and distress;
and the light grows dark with clouds.’
The people are wealthy, joyful, and thoroughly festive. But they do not understand where the origin of wealth is, that it doesn’t truly belong to them but that all things come from God. The source of joy is hidden, obscure, and the assumption is that joy is generated by their activities and their power alone. In verse 13 the consequence is laid out:
Therefore my people go into exile without knowledge;
their nobles are dying of hunger,
and their multitude is parched with thirst.
This translation from Hebrew to English suggests that the people are simply ignorant of what God is doing or what God wants. They are in the dark, bewildered, and confused. A closer translation, however, is ‘for lack of knowledge’. This is a more nuanced reading, suggesting that they could have understood their relationship with God, God’s desire for a unique relationship with them, and the understanding that all they have is God’s gift, but they chose not to do so.
The holiness, justice, and righteousness that characterise God are also characteristics we expect to find in the hearts of God’s people. But here there is a rupture between the qualities of God and the behaviour of the community. When justice and righteousness are lacking, especially in leadership, then the whole of the community risks collapse. When action is no longer motivated by the love of God and the love of neighbour, the individualism and manipulation in the shadowy darkness of the human heart rises to the surface and begins to take the place of God. If there is a core malfunction in the hearts and minds of the group of people Isaiah exposes, it is pride. It is a disregard for the qualities that God places in every person – each of us made in God’s image – that bring society together by seeking a good which radiates outwards rather than hardening our hearts by gold-plating them within ourselves. The belief that our own selves must take top priority generates an insidious poison that is all too easily masked with the veneer of talk about fairness, prosperity, and a nation’s greatness. When we perceive ourselves as wise because of who we think we are, rather than who we think God is, we are at grave risk.
It is in this context that St Paul speaks to a group who know their identity and history, but may have fallen into the same trap described in Isaiah. Paul lays out the history of the Israelites in terms of revelation, and from the perspective of an insider. He knows the story of God’s work with and for his people in scripture because it is his story too. When Paul moves into the truth of Christ’s salvation, he connects it firmly with the continuity of the story of God’s love and God’s promise. But his conclusion is not a hopeful one. Like the apocalyptic images in Isaiah, he says, flatly, anti-climactically, that even if everything is laid out with crystal clarity, it will not be heard, will not be understood, cannot produce real change. This is a tragic form of rhetoric, to build such intensive energy in storytelling and then to claim that the story, though it’s been told, has not and cannot be heard. The story behind the story is for the readers, of course. If the audience in Acts could not receive Paul’s teaching, can we?
What are we prepared to hear? And more tellingly, what do we refuse to hear? It is difficult and painful to hear things about ourselves, our community, our world, that expose our ignorance, our flaws, and our need to change. It is costly to develop a new way of thinking, feeling, and being, and to commit to live differently. This is not a moment for anyone – least of all from a pulpit – to dictate how anyone else must live. However, to invite the standard by which we live to be the image of Christ and the truth of our baptism is crucial, because this is the core of our identity as Christians.
The sixteenth-century theologian, mystic and Church reformer St Teresa of Avila put it very clearly. It is not a matter of party politics, but a matter of incarnation, salvation, and each person’s daily decisions. It is a matter of love in action.
Christ has no body but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks with
Compassionately on this world,
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good,
Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world.
Yours are the hands, yours are the feet,
Yours are the eyes, you are his body.
Christ has no body now but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
compassionately on this world.
Amen.