Canter Bridge

Empires are so very vulnerable to hubris. It always gets them, eventually.

When YHWH whistles for the Assyrian bee to inflict his burning but redemptive sting upon Judah, which has earned for itself the title ‘a godless people’, Assyria fails to grasp the part about redemption.

Against a godless nation (Judah) I (YHWH) send him (Assyria), and against the people of my wrath I command him, to take spoil and seize plunder, and to tread them down like the mire of the streets. But he does not so intend, and his heart does not so think; but it is in his heart to destroy, and to cut off nations not a few. (Isaiah 10:6–7 ESV)

The distance between ‘to take spoil and plunder’ and ‘to tread (Judah) down like the mire of the streets’, on the one hand, and ‘to destroy and to cut off nations’ on the other may seem like a trifle leading only to a nuance. But for this text, it represents a world of difference between YHWH’s intention and  Assyria’s end-game. It manifests a distinction of purpose and of character that means everything. YHWH purposes (only…) to wound in order to heal. Assyria, the almost unchallengeable superpower of the moment, intends to exterminate.

If YHWH’s apparent surprise at Assyria’s severity raises ethical questions of its own about the divine comportment, that matter must await another day.

For now, it is Assyria’s imperial hubris that catches that eye.

For he says: ‘Are not my commanders all kings? Is not Calno like Carchemish? Is not Hamath like Arpad? Is not Samaria like Damascus? As my hand has reached to the kingdoms of the idols, whose carved images were greater than those of Jerusalem and Samaria, shall I not do to Jerusalem and her idols as I have done to Samaria and her images?’ (Isaiah 10:8–11 ESV)

Sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, success persuades the powerful that the past predicts the future. It does not. The system is not so closed.

There is always cause for humility, not least the stalking about of unseen personalities, one of whom dares to suggest that the nations are before him like dust on a scale.

Assyria, as the text quotes that great nation’s inner thoughts here, expects that a certain set of answers to its arrogant barrage of rhetorical questions is obvious.

Are not my commanders all kings? Indeed!

Is not Calno not like Carchemish? Of course, my liege.

Is not Hamath like Arpad? Not a stroke of difference between them, my king.

Is not Samaria like Damascus? Without doubt.

Shall my hand not then take Jerusalem and her idols? Go for it and be glorious!

What the biblical text knows is that empire becomes both blind and forgetful to the reality that it is not alone on the field of greatness. Others become restless, and fidget for the moment when this self-absorbed pretender shall be put down.

And for Isaiah, a most important word remains yet to be spoken:

One of them is no idol.

The sad descriptions of YHWH’s people in their darkest moments serve to illuminate what YHWH wants for and from those people when health is restored.

The text of the Bible’s Book of Isaiah probes at matters of knowing and understanding, sometimes from the dark side of its absence, at others from the side of health and blessing.

In the book’s programmatic first chapter, Judah/Israel is contrasted with farm animals when it comes to knowing and understanding.

The ox knows its owner, and the donkey its master’s crib, but Israel does not know, my people do not understand. (Isaiah 1:3 ESV)

Mere habit, the raw animal instinct for having physical needs met, is enough for ox and donkey to claim the advantage over what Isaiah describes as a willfully imperceptive people. The Hebrew words at play are ידע and בין. If the reader will tolerate a cheap pun, Isaiah will make hay with these words as the book presses his argument forward.

Isaiah underscores the extremity of Judah’s imperception by choosing not to attach the expected direct object to each of these verbs. It is not that they do not know this, not understand that. Tragically, they neither know nor understand at all.

In the book’s unique ordering of events, the infamous prophetic commissioning of the prophet does not occur until certain things have first been placed on record. In chapter six, finally, Isaiah meets ‘the King’ in a temple vision. He is, he says, undone by the sight. Soon the severe mercy of Isaiah’s prophetic calling takes shape. It must have seemed all severity and no mercy.

And I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’ Then I said, ‘Here I am! Send me.’ And he said, ‘Go, and say to this people: “Keep on hearing, but do not understand; keep on seeing, but do not perceive.”’ (Isaiah 6:8–9 ESV)

The book will soon make clear that this savage scraping of the barrel’s perceptive bottom has redemptive ends. Israel will re-learn to see, to hear, to know, to understand. First, though, she must be led to the awful extreme of her self-chosen logic. She must experience the blunt force of true blindness, of genuine deafness.

The words again are ידע and בין, their order reversed this time. Israel/Judah must stop knowing and seeing so that she can—in time and by way of the Lord’s mercy and justice—learn again how to know, how to understand.

One can imagine a people where such knowledge and understanding lie at character’s core. A community in which seeing and hearing produce their full perceptive fruit by leading their subjects to deeply accurate and empathetic engagement with each other and with their world.

How the heart longs to belong to such a people, to stand in its middle—surrounded by the wise, the just, the merry—with knowledge and understanding.

If a book like the biblical Isaiah can rightly be considered inexhaustible, the claim pivots in part upon the sheer poetic nuance of its language.

The book’s third chapter fiercely denounces a leaderless people. Those who have not abdicated entirely the burden of leadership govern like children. Indeed the line after line of severe dissection of Judah’s body politic is almost too much to bear in the wake of a cartoonish electoral season when childishness became a political virtue.

Yet in contrast the prophet himself sustains a very adult command of his language.

Two conventional verbs come into play in the twelfth verse. I have italicized and underlined them, and italicized the words immediately surrounding.

My people—infants are their oppressors, and women rule over them. O my people, your guides mislead you and they have swallowed up the course of your paths. (Isaiah 3:12 ESV)

English translators, when they note the lyrical play, are forced by their target language to drop it from their hands. But a brief foray into the Hebrew text is a tool for recovery.

The verb here rendered guides is given the form of a noun. It is the Hebrew אשר, a word that certainly does mean guide. But that meaning is only derivative. The action at its heart is a making straight, a keeping true, a straightening out. This is what guides are meant to do. They conduct those they lead along a course that leads them to a destination they’d be hard pressed to find on their own, efficiently and without detour. In the essence of things, they are path-straighteners. Isaiah notes their presence here, among a surrounding thicket of hapless leaders.

Yet these ‘guides’ do precisely that which one hires a guide in order to avoid. They make Judah wander. They put the people on a wrong course. They lead them astray.

Hebrew תעה is a conventional and therefore familiar word for this kind of action. You might expect it of a trickster, of a bandit well prepared in ambush, even of one’s wily enemy. But never of a guide.

Never of a path-straightener.

Isaiah returns to this very theme in the book’s ninth chapter.

… for those who guide this people have been leading them astray, and those who are guided by them are swallowed up. (Isaiah 9:16 ESV)

It is in these quiet juxtapositions of two conventional words that Isaiah’s rhetoric achieves its incomparable and enduring force. Presumably, it is here too that a remnant in Judah heard a persuasive voice and took measures to repent, to return, to come back onto a track that promised future instead of ashes. It is here in the small turn of a phrase, in the knowing juxtaposition of two common words to express an uncommon truth, that the book manifests some of the beauty that explains its survival, indeed its inexhaustible appeal.