Letting Go

Ashalim stream, Judean Wilderness, Israel, click the image to link, courtesy Yuvalr, commons.wikimedia.org, Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported

Sermon Series “Through the Bible,” № 40, Isaiah 43:1-7, 16-21

Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? —Isaiah 43:18-19

Last week, I introduced the Prophet Isaiah. The book that bears his name contains the writing of three or more people named Isaiah, working one after another.

First Isaiah, whose work is contained in chapters 1-39, seems like a rather harsh person. There are some beautiful passages, like chapter six’s vision and call. Mostly, you read oracles of judgment: judgment against Judah’s political leaders and religious leaders, judgment against surrounding nations, even judgment upon the earth itself.

But when we reach chapter 40, the tone begins to change. The threat of foreign invaders we read about in First Isaiah has led to national humiliation, enslavement, and exile. Second Isaiah still proclaims a fair amount of judgment. But now the reader notices more words of comfort.

The difference between the two Isaiahs reminds me of a parent talking to their sixteen-year-old child, before the car accident and after.  Before, the parent sees the adventuresome teenager testing limits, spinning tires and doing donuts with their friends in the snowy parking lot. Prophetic oracles are issued about the dangers of  loud music, not paying attention to surroundings, too many friends along for the ride. Then comes a fender bender, no injuries, but enough damage for the parent to enforce a forfeiture of car keys for a month, and the garnishment of allowance to contribute toward the insurance deductible. The sixteen-year-old doesn’t like those consequences, and is humiliated that their parent’s prophecy has proven correct. Then, a few weeks after, they begin to detect a milder tone. “Never back quickly out of a parking space, Johnny. Look both ways, and ease out slowly next time.” Now, the sixteen-year-old knows the punishment won’t last forever, because there will be a “next time.”

When Second Isaiah takes up ministry, the mistake has been made, the accident has happened. There is no going back to the way things were in Jerusalem before the Babylonians came to town. The people are listening for the slightest hint that the punishment they’re enduring won’t last forever.

Now, they hear that good news, like the oracle recorded in the 43rd chapter. The prophet directs the attention of the people backward before their recent defeats, backward even beyond Jerusalem during the glory days of David and Solomon.  He reminds the people that God is the One who led their ancestors out of Egypt, who went with them through deep waters, and held them up. At the same time, he brought down the Pharoah’s armies and quenched them like a wick.  Here, Isaiah is recalling the salvation history of God’s people, giving a respectful nod to the past, and the power of God displayed to their ancestors.

Then, Isaiah pivots again. “Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing ….” Isaiah challenges God’s people to move from preoccupation with the past to preparation for the future.  They can’t make their way through the streets of Jerusalem, but next time God will make a way in the wilderness.  The familiar wells of home no longer water their gardens and flocks, but next time God will make rivers in the desert.  What happened last time can’t be changed and must be let go. But for those who trust in God’s mercy, there will be a next time.

One of the more interesting characters who helped shape my ministry was Robert Palmer, who died a few years ago. Bob was trained at Princeton and Edinburgh. He entered pastoral ministry at Santa Monica, California, during the early 1950s, during what some people consider to be the golden age of American Protestantism. From the beginning of Bob’s career, his network of social relationships included federal legislators and prominent businessmen. He was on a first-name basis with seminary presidents and large church pastors across our denomination. In fact, he was the founder of the annual Presbyterian “large churches” conference, and led it for many years.

Near the end of his career in the early 1990s, Bob was my supervisor.  The congregation we served had been among the largest in the city, but had passed its peak, statistically speaking, in the year 1970.  One of Bob’s most memorable sermons challenged those who grieved the passing of the congregation’s “glory days.”  The title he chose seemed to sum up the grim refrain of many: “You Should Have Been Here Yesterday.”

If anyone had reason to grieve, Bob had more.  At the peak of his ministry, he had set the goal of receiving one new member into his congregation for each day of the year.  Amazingly, he had actually achieved the goal – nearly 400 new members in a church that numbered about 6,000.

Since that time, he said, the quality of his sermons had not diminished.  His ability to suggest a strategy and organize people for service had only improved.  But such a membership goal was no longer realistic, he said, because the world had changed.  The congregation we served, in his opinion, was spending too much energy cherishing memories of yesterday, and too little energy exploring what God wanted to do through them today and tomorrow. 

Bob helped me think about the freedom and power of letting go outdated and unrealistic expectations. Respect the past, and learn from it, he said. Keep in mind that the golden years weren’t always so golden as they may be remembered. Then let what happened last time be the past, and move on. Try to discern what God wants to do next time around.

In the third chapter of his letter to the Philippians, the Apostle Paul contrasts two distinct phases in his spiritual journey.  In the past, he pursued justice and righteousness before God like an exuberant young attorney.  He believed salvation could be earned through knowing the Law of Moses and the traditions of the Pharisees, and following them to the letter.

Paul’s pursuit was doomed from the start because of the attitude with which he approached it.  The Law, which should have been a life-giving tool, was twisted into a weapon of spiritual oppression.  Paul’s pride swelled so much that he participated in the stoning of Stephen, thinking that by killing Christians he was serving God.

After meeting Christ, Paul learned that a new approach was required. If he were to be healthy, then he would have to leave behind some things from his former life.  In order to gain the surpassing excellence of Christ, he would have to lose some things that were difficult to let go.

An old story is told about a minor tragedy observed on a cold winter day at Niagara Falls.[1]  Somewhere upstream a sheep had stumbled while watering at the riverbank and drowned as it was swept downstream. As the dead sheep approached the falls, a vulture was observed upon the carcass, glutting its appetite in a grand feast.  The observer assumed that when the body neared the falls, the bird would rise.  But to his amazement, the bird simply spread its wings, and was carried over the raging torrent.   Later, at the edge of the swirling eddy below, the carcass was found with the dead vulture still clinging to it.  The bird probably had intended to leave its prey before the danger zone was reached.  But in the bitter chill, its talons had become frozen in the flesh of the sheep. 

Sometimes we think we are holding on to something when, in fact, something is holding on to us.  What are the things we can’t let go?  Do those things threaten to make us a victim?  We are masters of the things we can easily drop, but slaves to the things we tenaciously hold.

For the people Isaiah addressed, grabbing hold of God’s future meant letting go of a golden age that wouldn’t be recreated. For teenager John, there was no going back to borrowing the keys to Dad’s car. But the rusty old station wagon still got him where he needed to go. For the Rev. Dr. Palmer, giving up the trappings of a tall-steeple church preaching pulpit meant there no longer would be access to special privilege and the halls of political power. But there was less stress and greater satisfaction, too. If the bird had just let go of the cold, dead sheep, how many more happy days of high flight might he have enjoyed?

In your worship bulletin today, you’ll find a hymn with a fine, fitting text:

Faith begins by letting go, giving up what had seemed sure,

taking risks and pressing on, though the way feels less secure:

Pilgrimage both right and odd, trusting all our life to God.

Faith involves a journey toward all that God calls us to be and do. God, through the oracle of Second Isaiah, reminds us that sometimes faith begins by simply letting go.

NOTES

[1] Franklin W. Boreham, “The Battery,” in Wisps of Wildfire, New York: Abingdon Press, 1924, p. 221.

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