My servant, my chosen
Commentary
Often in each church year preachers have to make decisions on topics over which other scholars have argued for centuries. To involve their congregations in retracings of 20 centuries of arcane if still urgent debate is to distract from any possibility of making a biblical point. A biblical point means that hearers are to conceive of living and thinking in different ways than otherwise they would have, and then realizing those ways and thoughts.
Here is a case in point: in the original setting, was "my servant" the servant of the Lord, the nation of Israel or a prophesied individual? All commentators on Isaiah have to decide. Christian preachers can take sides with them, but they will also be remembering that the early church saw in these verses depictions of the anointed servant of the Lord, "my chosen," Jesus Christ. In adult class down the hall is the time to talk about what this wresting out of Isaianic context or this wrestling with a new usage does to Israel, to Jewish life and comment. We will have to be busy during the pulpit minutes realizing what the church saw when it identified Jesus with that servant.
The point, he will "bring forth justice," we hear three times in five verses. The world and those in it, beginning with us, still thwart that justice and the victims still would see it realized through those called by the name of Jesus, "my servant," "my chosen."
Acts 10:34-43
The text from Isaiah, taken in isolation, is fairly heavy. That the world needs justice and that we, God's people, and all the other people, stand in its way is heavy. And, for that matter, justice, so basic and urgent as its arrival has to be, by itself can also be heavy. Alongside justice we need mercy and healing.
Mercy and healing are precisely the refinements added in the gloss on this text in a sermon that Acts relates to the work of Peter. Peter has just "caught on." (Winston Churchill once said that you can hear a truth a thousand times, and that the one thousand and first time it hits you.) Peter had heard the universal intent of Jesus' mission, but in the Acts story of his vision, he was hit by it.
There's a nice line in his sermon. Corrupt judges dispensed justice by looking at the face of the accused, letting friends and the influential off lightly. So we find: "God does not accept the face of anyone," which gets translated: "God shows no partiality." That is the first graceful theme in his words.
The second moves him and his hearers and us and ours beyond justice, for this Jesus, God's servant, God's chosen, "went about doing good and healing ... for God was with him." And with him came "the message God sent by the people of Israel ... preaching peace by Jesus Christ -- he is Lord of all." The effects of doing good, of healing, of preaching peace added up to more than justice alone, and still do.
Matthew 3:13-17
Two of the texts stress what we might call the horizontal dimension of first Israel's and then of Jesus' work, its universal intention for all nations, all peoples. The Gospel stresses what might then be called the vertical dimension. If we picture the transcendent order, the "place" from which he derives authority, in spatial terms, as biblical writers often do, then that place is "above."
So in the story of Jesus' baptism by John, from above, where dove-like presences, in this case identified as the Spirit of God, breathe and breeze and flutter, and "from heaven," whence divine utterances come, the servant, the chosen one gets certified.
The certifications appear frequently in the Gospel stories. From above come angel songs at the time of the nativity. From somewhere and nowhere come figures in white apparel for the resurrection. (No songs, no voice, no hand reaches him in the time of his abandonment on the cross.) But as Gospel writers remembered or heard or told it, this certification came most clearly with a voice, for in the scriptures is revealed the invisible deity who speaks, "This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased."
That line evokes the Isaianic "my servant, my chosen." From then on, whoever was indifferent to the message of Jesus, who was shut off from being attentive to his justice or evaded his doing good and healing, was rejecting the one who did the certifying. Was? Is.
A book once taught size and dimension in the universe by bringing an image ever closer, in powers of ten on the telescope. The early pages began "out there" with the view from the most remote telescope; then the camera moved close, 30,000 miles up in a satellite. Soon the images were intimate, as we viewed the earth from a jet, only 30,000 feet above. Closer and closer it came until it focused on the Midwest, on Chicago, on the lake shore, on a couple sunning on the beach.
The texts for today do that kind of zeroing, narrowing, focusing, and then enlarging what matters. At the beginning hearers are left "out there" with talk about the nations and something diffuse as "light to" them. The second text focuses on a cluster of people, but still a cluster, a congregation. Then the whole idea of "the whole world," of the universal, comes to a point in a singular image: the Lamb of God.
It would be good to think of all worship as making some such sort of move. People would not be gathering had the message not reached to Jews and Gentiles alike, from Jerusalem and Corinth to all places. They would pay little attention if they did not see the universal scope of Christian messages and work. But they would soon lose attention if they did not have an object at the end of the focusing. And this object must be animate, capable, and relevant to them. While several biblical options are available, this time, deliverance through "the Lamb of God" is where it all takes on a shape.
FIRST LESSON FOCUS
By James A. Nestingen
Isaiah 42:1-9
The way things generally work, bruised reeds and dimly burning wicks are virtually irresistible opportunities.
Fragile, already weakened, a bruised reed lists uselessly. Still, there is something in a passing notice that can't leave it alone. Unthinkingly, with no apparent reason, a hand reaches out to break it off. It is mindless violence, the kind that results in vandalism, humor about the disadvantaged, exploitation of the weak.
A dimly burning wick offers other kinds of possibilities. As the light flickers, flaring and diminishing, the darkness asserts itself, freeing hands and feet for undetected advance and retreat.
If a superficial honesty prevents such theft or illicit touch, there is still room to move. There are replacement wicks, bought wholesale to be sold at double their value. Or there are new and improved wicks, guaranteed never to dim, offering broadened markets that will undercut competitors and create monopolies.
Justice? In a world of bruised reeds and dimly burning wicks, cries for equality and fairness just as often end as they did in Paris centuries ago, more recently in Moscow or Beijing or Havana: with heads in baskets, backs against walls, genitals wired to electricity. Newly empowered, the champions of justice generally follow the same patterns as those they have deposed.
Amidst such cycles in a world tumbling over itself to grasp the power of life, there is one of whom God speaks: "Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen ...." This one is possessed of a different spirit, not the blind groping after life which leaves death in its wake, but the Spirit who brooded across the waters at creation, the Spirit of Life itself.
So the Servant's story is different than every other. He does not hawk himself as one more in a seemingly endless list of solutions to the world's problems only to peter out into futility. Neither does he leave us, like all the others, holding the bag: "I'm sorry, but I guess you'll have to see to it yourself."
Instead, in the power of the resurrection and the life, this one, whom the church has recognized in Christ Jesus, gives himself away, laying down his life. So the text continues without imperative or invective, as God's address to the chosen one. God claims every verb: "I am," "I have called," "I have taken," "I have given," piling up the action words to indicate who is at stake here, who is working in this one so different: the one who sees the significance of a bruised reed, for whom a dimly burning wick is a call to service, who can't resist the opportunity to open a blind eye, free a prisoner or shed light -- the gleaming, dancing sparkle of Epiphany -- into the darkness.
Here is a case in point: in the original setting, was "my servant" the servant of the Lord, the nation of Israel or a prophesied individual? All commentators on Isaiah have to decide. Christian preachers can take sides with them, but they will also be remembering that the early church saw in these verses depictions of the anointed servant of the Lord, "my chosen," Jesus Christ. In adult class down the hall is the time to talk about what this wresting out of Isaianic context or this wrestling with a new usage does to Israel, to Jewish life and comment. We will have to be busy during the pulpit minutes realizing what the church saw when it identified Jesus with that servant.
The point, he will "bring forth justice," we hear three times in five verses. The world and those in it, beginning with us, still thwart that justice and the victims still would see it realized through those called by the name of Jesus, "my servant," "my chosen."
Acts 10:34-43
The text from Isaiah, taken in isolation, is fairly heavy. That the world needs justice and that we, God's people, and all the other people, stand in its way is heavy. And, for that matter, justice, so basic and urgent as its arrival has to be, by itself can also be heavy. Alongside justice we need mercy and healing.
Mercy and healing are precisely the refinements added in the gloss on this text in a sermon that Acts relates to the work of Peter. Peter has just "caught on." (Winston Churchill once said that you can hear a truth a thousand times, and that the one thousand and first time it hits you.) Peter had heard the universal intent of Jesus' mission, but in the Acts story of his vision, he was hit by it.
There's a nice line in his sermon. Corrupt judges dispensed justice by looking at the face of the accused, letting friends and the influential off lightly. So we find: "God does not accept the face of anyone," which gets translated: "God shows no partiality." That is the first graceful theme in his words.
The second moves him and his hearers and us and ours beyond justice, for this Jesus, God's servant, God's chosen, "went about doing good and healing ... for God was with him." And with him came "the message God sent by the people of Israel ... preaching peace by Jesus Christ -- he is Lord of all." The effects of doing good, of healing, of preaching peace added up to more than justice alone, and still do.
Matthew 3:13-17
Two of the texts stress what we might call the horizontal dimension of first Israel's and then of Jesus' work, its universal intention for all nations, all peoples. The Gospel stresses what might then be called the vertical dimension. If we picture the transcendent order, the "place" from which he derives authority, in spatial terms, as biblical writers often do, then that place is "above."
So in the story of Jesus' baptism by John, from above, where dove-like presences, in this case identified as the Spirit of God, breathe and breeze and flutter, and "from heaven," whence divine utterances come, the servant, the chosen one gets certified.
The certifications appear frequently in the Gospel stories. From above come angel songs at the time of the nativity. From somewhere and nowhere come figures in white apparel for the resurrection. (No songs, no voice, no hand reaches him in the time of his abandonment on the cross.) But as Gospel writers remembered or heard or told it, this certification came most clearly with a voice, for in the scriptures is revealed the invisible deity who speaks, "This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased."
That line evokes the Isaianic "my servant, my chosen." From then on, whoever was indifferent to the message of Jesus, who was shut off from being attentive to his justice or evaded his doing good and healing, was rejecting the one who did the certifying. Was? Is.
A book once taught size and dimension in the universe by bringing an image ever closer, in powers of ten on the telescope. The early pages began "out there" with the view from the most remote telescope; then the camera moved close, 30,000 miles up in a satellite. Soon the images were intimate, as we viewed the earth from a jet, only 30,000 feet above. Closer and closer it came until it focused on the Midwest, on Chicago, on the lake shore, on a couple sunning on the beach.
The texts for today do that kind of zeroing, narrowing, focusing, and then enlarging what matters. At the beginning hearers are left "out there" with talk about the nations and something diffuse as "light to" them. The second text focuses on a cluster of people, but still a cluster, a congregation. Then the whole idea of "the whole world," of the universal, comes to a point in a singular image: the Lamb of God.
It would be good to think of all worship as making some such sort of move. People would not be gathering had the message not reached to Jews and Gentiles alike, from Jerusalem and Corinth to all places. They would pay little attention if they did not see the universal scope of Christian messages and work. But they would soon lose attention if they did not have an object at the end of the focusing. And this object must be animate, capable, and relevant to them. While several biblical options are available, this time, deliverance through "the Lamb of God" is where it all takes on a shape.
FIRST LESSON FOCUS
By James A. Nestingen
Isaiah 42:1-9
The way things generally work, bruised reeds and dimly burning wicks are virtually irresistible opportunities.
Fragile, already weakened, a bruised reed lists uselessly. Still, there is something in a passing notice that can't leave it alone. Unthinkingly, with no apparent reason, a hand reaches out to break it off. It is mindless violence, the kind that results in vandalism, humor about the disadvantaged, exploitation of the weak.
A dimly burning wick offers other kinds of possibilities. As the light flickers, flaring and diminishing, the darkness asserts itself, freeing hands and feet for undetected advance and retreat.
If a superficial honesty prevents such theft or illicit touch, there is still room to move. There are replacement wicks, bought wholesale to be sold at double their value. Or there are new and improved wicks, guaranteed never to dim, offering broadened markets that will undercut competitors and create monopolies.
Justice? In a world of bruised reeds and dimly burning wicks, cries for equality and fairness just as often end as they did in Paris centuries ago, more recently in Moscow or Beijing or Havana: with heads in baskets, backs against walls, genitals wired to electricity. Newly empowered, the champions of justice generally follow the same patterns as those they have deposed.
Amidst such cycles in a world tumbling over itself to grasp the power of life, there is one of whom God speaks: "Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen ...." This one is possessed of a different spirit, not the blind groping after life which leaves death in its wake, but the Spirit who brooded across the waters at creation, the Spirit of Life itself.
So the Servant's story is different than every other. He does not hawk himself as one more in a seemingly endless list of solutions to the world's problems only to peter out into futility. Neither does he leave us, like all the others, holding the bag: "I'm sorry, but I guess you'll have to see to it yourself."
Instead, in the power of the resurrection and the life, this one, whom the church has recognized in Christ Jesus, gives himself away, laying down his life. So the text continues without imperative or invective, as God's address to the chosen one. God claims every verb: "I am," "I have called," "I have taken," "I have given," piling up the action words to indicate who is at stake here, who is working in this one so different: the one who sees the significance of a bruised reed, for whom a dimly burning wick is a call to service, who can't resist the opportunity to open a blind eye, free a prisoner or shed light -- the gleaming, dancing sparkle of Epiphany -- into the darkness.
