Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Isaiah 40:21-31
February 8, 2009

Have You not Heard?

One of my grandmother’s favorite hymns was "I Love to Tell the Story." She would sing it while rolling out biscuits on the kitchen counter, her hands covered with flour, and as she hung my grandfather’s khakis on the clothesline. Granddaddy wore khakis because he was a farmer, not because he was stylish, and in the West Texas air, the clothes were dry by the time she got to this last verse:

You’d think that preachers, who spend so much time handling the "old, old story" – and the old, old stories of which it is comprised – would pay attention themselves. I admit that, in my case, that’s not always so.

I tell the stories to other people, of course. I read them at sickbeds and at funerals. I pour over them as the raw material for sermons. I pick the meat off their bones, but I do not always hear them – not the way they’re meant to be heard, not as the good news they are meant to be.

How many times have I stood in the pulpit, or at an open grave, and read these old, old words of poetry from Isaiah? Surely a hundred times, maybe more. They appear in the lectionary every three years like clockwork, but the truth is, I don’t always hear them.

Have you not seen?
Have you not heard?
Has it not been told to you from the beginning? . . .
The Lord is an everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He does not faint or grow weary;
his understanding is unsearchable.

He gives power to the faint,
and strengthens the powerless.
Even youths will faint and be weary,and the young will fall exhausted;
but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength,
they shall mount up with wings like eagles,
they shall run and not be weary,
they shall walk and not faint.

Context makes quite a difference. I have encountered these words while taking part in ten-K races. Emblazoned on T-shirts, I’ve read them off the backs of people passing me (that is, people zooming past me). In that context, these words of Isaiah are far from encouraging. They scream:

Naa! Naa! I’m passing you.
My God’s better than your God.
My faith’s stronger than your faith.

I don’t think that is the message Isaiah meant to convey.

No, these poetic lines come from Second Isaiah, the prophet of the Exile. They speak to a people far from home, burdened with guilt, oppressed by the taunts of strangers, unable to sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land. Far off in Babylon, the people of Israel have almost forgotten the old, old story, and what bits of it they do remember only bring them pain.

Like beer-gutted old men at the Legion Hall, they reminisce in Babylon about the good old days. Or else they ring their hands in regret: "If only we hadn’t lost faith; if only we had tried harder, everything would be alright."

God’s people are stuck, paralyzed, impotent. They can’t crawl, much less can they walk. And running? That’s out of the question. Isaiah’s poem is not for the victorious, streaking past on their way to the finish line. It’s for those too weary, or guilty, or anxious to stay the course.

Context, as I say, makes all the difference. A couple of weeks ago, in the wake of the presidential inauguration, nobody had time for these old words. Obamamania dominated the headlines, and nobody was in the mood to listen to some old-fashioned prophet.

            Get out the way, old man Isaiah.
            You’re too late to have anything to say to us.

Just lately, however, the headlines have been less euphoric. Each day brings new reports of layoffs and business closures. Mr. Obama is having a hard time assembling his cabinet. It appears he can find people smart enough to do the job, but not smart enough to pay their taxes. To govern with a team of rivals is Lincolnesque, but a team of tax cheats doesn’t cut the mustard.

In the wake of a world-wide recession, belt-tightening tightening has become the order of the day. We’re not running. We’re barely crawling.

Contributions to the United Way and other charities are down while the need for their services grows. The same goes for churches. Our own session had to cut $34,000 out of this year’s operating budget. Somehow the elders found a way to make the cuts without leaving our local mission partners dangling in the wind, but it wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t fun.

I came away from last month’s session meeting praising God for the Outreach Fund and for far-sighted saints like John Kerr and Tom Potter who, before joining the Church Triumphant, taught us how to be stewards for the long haul.

If it weren’t for saints like that, we wouldn’t be installing solar panels next door to reduce our carbon footprint in witness to the Light from Light.

If it weren’t for saints like that, we’d be telling the Shelter for homeless people down on Tennessee Street, "It’s too bad you’re full to overflowing on these frigid nights. First Church has no money for you this year."

We’d be saying to the Presbyterian University Center, "Yes, we know how vital college ministry is in these postmodern times, but you’ll just have to get along without First Church’s help."

As it is, the elders have found a way – this year – to keep those partnerships going. Meanwhile the phone in the church office keeps ringing with requests for help with utility bills and rent. Even as we refer those folks to social service agencies, we know the money won’t be there.

Last week a man came to see me. I’ve known him for years. I knew him when he worked on and off as a substitute janitor for the church, but I lost touch while he was serving a stretch in prison. He’s out of prison now, and trying to make it as an installer of dry-wall. As you can imagine, he hasn’t had much work lately, and he’s behind in his rent. He asked me for help.

There was a time when I could have said "Yes" without hesitation. These days, I have to think in terms of triage. A single man like him can go to the Shelter if he gets evicted, but suppose a family of five shows up with an eviction notice. I thought to myself, If I turn this man away, I might have enough in the Discretionary Fund to help that family.

So I told him "No."

I fully expect to be confronted with many such decisions this year. It’s a sign of the times. The Church of Jesus Christ seems to be stumbling along with everyone else. We’re not running with confidence. Far from it. We’re feeling a bit faint. Our pace is slowing. Our knees are buckling.

So, as it turns out, this word from Isaiah isn’t so dated after all. Have you forgotten already?   Isaiah is asking us:

Have you not known?
Have you not heard?
Has it not been told you from the beginning?

Did you not hear your grandmother singing at the kitchen counter, her reddened hands white with flour? Did you not hear her humming as she hung out the clothes? Have you not known? Have you not heard? Has no one told you the old, old story about this God you’re called to serve?

The Lord is an everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He does not faint or grow weary;
his understanding is unsearchable.

He gives power to the faint,
and strengthens the powerless.
Even youths will faint and be weary,and the young will fall exhausted;
but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength,
they shall mount up with wings like eagles,
they shall run and not be weary,
they shall walk and not faint.

The current crisis is not the whole story. The whole story is God’s love, sovereign over us and the whole creation. The whole story is the Old, Old Story, of Jesus and his love. That Story trumps the headlines. It puts our anxieties in an entirely different context. It frees us from the Babylon of our worst fears, and opens our ears to God’s call.

                As we tell the Old, Old Story, we begin to hear it,
                As we hear it, we begin to believe it.
                As we believe it, we begin to live it.
                And as we live it, the shackles of anxiety fall away,
                and we are set free to walk, to run, to soar.

The hymn my grandmother used to sing was right: God’s people are hungering and thirsting to hear the Old, Old Story.

                Have you not known?
                Have you not heard?
                Has it not been told you from the beginning?

The very worst thing that could happen to the Church is not some economic disaster. The worst thing would be for the Church to forget the Story.

　

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