Isaiah 64:1-12; Matthew 3:13-17
“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.” Isaiah–probably the prophet we call 3rd Isaiah–wrote these anguished words in a time of national crisis, about 530 years before Jesus. The leaders of Judea had suffered in exile in Babylon, what is now Iraq, for a half century. The ordinary people had remained behind in Judea, doing their best to survive while ruled by foreigners. When Cyrus the Great of Persia, today’s Iran, invaded Babylon, he allowed the exiles to go back to Judea. Finally, their 50-year longing to return home had come to fruition.
Going back home is never what we dream it will be. Surely the exiles remembered that the temple had been destroyed in the original Babylonian invasion; still they were stunned and horrified when they saw their beloved temple–the center of their faith and communal life– in ruins. So much for a glorious return.
Even more distressing than the physical destruction of the temple was the discord and distrust. Over the course of two generations, the exiles and those who remained had each developed their own ways of doing things–new ways to keep their faith alive in the absence of their temple, different leaders and leadership models.
The prospect of rebuilding the temple was a daunting one from a strictly architectural perspective; the labor required to remove the rubble and bring in new stone blocks surely seemed overwhelming. But before they could do that, they faced the even more daunting task of healing the deep divide in their community.
I hear so many emotions behind Isaiah’s anguished cry. I hear his grief at what has happened to his beloved temple and his beloved people. I hear his anger at the pettiness of the politics of rebuilding. I hear his despair that frail human beings could ever fix the mess that surrounds them. Isaiah cries out to God–begging God to tear apart the barrier he imagines between God and humanity, begging God to break in with power and might, to sweep away the rubble, to fix the mess.
I debated whether I should use this text this morning because of all the language about divine punishment. As Isaiah struggles to make sense what has happened to his people, he concludes that God must be punishing them for disobedience.
I want to say as clearly as I can that I believe Isaiah was mistaken in his conclusion. When bad things happen–to an individual or a people or our planet–God is NOT punishing us. This notion of divine punishment is deeply embedded in the history of the Christian faith, and perhaps deeply rooted in our human desire to pretend life is fair–and it is a dangerous notion. Remember Hurricane Katrina and the televangelists who said it was God’s punishment because of gay people in New Orleans? No. There are many reasons awful things happen in our world, and there are many awful things that happen that we can’t figure out a reason for, but it is not God punishing us.
I chose this reading from 3rd Isaiah in spite of its dangerous implications about divine punishment because the raw emotion of the poetry resonates with my experience of the past few weeks. Like the Judean people after the exile, we are in a national crisis–actually a global crisis.
On Wednesday, I spoke with many people who confessed they could not sleep the night before. They–we– were terrified World War III was about to begin. Our collective sigh of relief at signs of de-escalation is barely a catch-breath, for the situation is still precarious. We know we will be reckoning with the damage done for decades.
Our nation is deeply divided–our President impeached, our trust in our government leaders shaken if not shattered. Hate crimes are on the rise, leaving targeted communities feeling vulnerable.
Huge swaths of Australia are burning, threatening entire species, signaling a vivid warning of what is to come if we don’t address the escalating crisis of climate change. We don’t even hear any more about the burning of the Amazon, and the only reason there’s a reprieve in California is that it’s winter.
I find myself wanting to join in with Isaiah’s cry: “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.” Please God, I want to cry, come and fix this mess, because I can’t see how we can fix it ourselves. Come make the rains fall in Australia. Come reveal truth so clearly no one can obfuscate it. Come remove the tyrants and the war mongers seizing power all over our world.
I reject Isaiah’s conclusion that his people’s distress is caused by God punishing them. Still, I share with him our human struggle to make sense of the state we find ourselves in. How did we get here? How do we take responsibility for the ways we have neglected our planet and our civic life without becoming paralyzed? How do we temper the destructive impulse to point fingers at each other and instead work together to make real change? How do we keep trying to make a difference when the problems feel so overwhelming? O God, please, tear open the heavens and come fix it!
I bring the raw emotion expressed in Isaiah’s poetry to my reading of the story of Jesus’ baptism. This passage from Matthew, like our Isaiah text, reflects a context of national crisis. Yet another foreign power–this time Rome–is in control of Judea. The nation is divided about how to survive as an occupied people. Some plot armed resistance; some collaborate, gaining power and wealth; some withdraw from society. In the midst of the crisis, John the Baptist emerges from the wilderness, calling the people to a time of self-examination and renewal.
Look at yourself, he says. Be honest about who you are. How have you absorbed the values of Rome? When do you blame others instead of taking responsibility for yourself? Do you use your despair as an excuse to focus only on yourself? Dig deep, he cries. Turn around. Immerse yourself in this river as an expression of your commitment to be made new.
The people come. Jesus comes. And when Jesus emerges out of the water, lo and behold, Isaiah’s 500-year-old prayer is answered. The heavens open and the Spirit of God descends.
Only it doesn’t happen the way Isaiah envisioned. The mountains don’t quake; the nations don’t tremble. The Romans aren’t struck down. Instead, a dove-like spirit rests on a shoulder. A voice says, “This is my child, my beloved.” A young man awakens to his calling to proclaim the message of God’s transforming love.
It is possible to read the story of Jesus’ baptism in a way that highlights how different Jesus is from the rest of us humans. Thousands of people come to be baptized, we might say, but only one sees the heavens open up.
I choose instead to read this story in a way that points to our connection with Jesus. Jesus does not consider himself better than the crowds. Like them, he needs a time of self-reflection and renewal, and so he joins the throngs being baptized. Maybe the heaven actually open every time someone dares to enter into the water, only the people are so caught up in regret that they don’t look up. Maybe the spirit of God alights on every pilgrim who comes to the river–but they think it is just a pesky pigeon. I wonder if what sets Jesus apart is that something inspires him to look up, that somehow he sees God at work in a bird alighting on his shoulder.
I choose to hear the voice from heaven not as singling Jesus out but as calling him to proclaim what is true for each one of us. We are God’s children. We are God’s beloved. God is pleased every time one of us chooses to enter the waters of renewal, every time we seek God’s help to be transformed.
And so I find myself rethinking that powerful image from Isaiah’s poetry: “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.” The implication, which may reflect Isaiah’s felt experience in that moment, is that there is a barrier between God and humanity, a heavenly curtain behind which God sits and watches human beings struggle. Isaiah prays for that curtain to be ripped open.
Is that what Jesus sees at his baptism, the curtain being ripped open? I don’t think so. I think that in that moment Jesus sees clearly that the heavens have always been open. He realizes that God has never been hiding away in heaven. He awakens to the truth that God dwells in and among us.
How does this story of Jesus’ baptism speak to us today, as we struggle with our own national and global crisis? How does God respond to our anguished longing for a divine force to come with power and fix this mess?
God hears our cries, and God understands. God responds–not by making the mountains quake or by smiting the despots but with a challenge to examine our own lives, with the assurance that renewal is possible. God responds with an invitation to look up and see the open heavens. God responds with a spirit that moves among us–a dove that alights on our shoulders, a song that inspires us, a community that holds us. God responds with a message: You are my child. You are my beloved.
Behind that message is a promise: I will work through you to heal and transform this broken world. I will slog through the muck and the mess with you. I will give you courage to speak up and perseverance to keep trying. I will challenge you to be quiet and listen, for the wisest voices are usually not the loudest. I will walk beside you when you protest, and I will sit beside you in long boring meetings as you try to build consensus. I will not fix it for you; I will be with you in your lifelong, messy, complicated work of healing this broken, beloved world.
So let us cry out our anguish, trusting that God listens and understands. Let us examine our own lives and seek renewal. Let us dare to look up from our despair. Let us awaken to the spirit of God flying around us, to the voice of God reminding us that we are beloved. Let us act–speaking and listening, protesting and collaborating, working together and persevering–knowing that God is with us always. Amen.