Canter Bridge

The book of Isaiah works its way forward on a decidedly non-linear path to its ‘new heavens and new earth’, its recreated Zion. As it travels, its text provides us glimpses of doors thrown scandalously wide open.

Let not the foreigner who has joined himself to the Lord say, ‘The Lord will surely separate me from his people’; and let not the eunuch say, ‘Behold, I am a dry tree.’ For thus says the Lord: ‘To the eunuchs who keep my Sabbaths, who choose the things that please me and hold fast my covenant, I will give in my house and within my walls a monument and a name better than sons and daughters; I will give them an everlasting name that shall not be cut off.

‘And the foreigners who join themselves to the Lord, to minister to him, to love the name of the Lord, and to be his servants, everyone who keeps the Sabbath and does not profane it, and holds fast my covenant— these I will bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer; their burnt offerings and their sacrifices will be accepted on my altar; for my house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples.’ The Lord God, who gathers the outcasts of Israel, declares, ‘I will gather yet others to him besides those already gathered.’ (Isaiah 56:3–8 ESV)

Two groups often excluded from the Israelite ideal are now warmly welcomed. Their core fear is abated. They are invited to belong.

The foreigner who has hung out with YHWH’s people, who has aspired—though without much real hope of it working out—truly to belong to this peculiar race, sees his despondency dismissed.

His half-spoken fear is interestingly put:

The LORD will surely separate me (הבדיל יבדילני) from his people …

Students of biblical Hebrew will recognize the enchainment of the same verb, first as an infinitive absolute and then as a finite verb. The English Standard Version (ESV) joins itself to a tradition of translating this verse when it provides the word ‘surely’, as in ‘will surely separate me’. So does the normal emphasis that is implicit in the infinitive absolute find expression in the degree of sad certainty this foreigner feels: YHWH would never have one of my kind at the hearth of the Israelite home.

It is possible that we should read a plaintive note in the foreigner’s stress. The text identifies this foreigner not as any foreigner, but as one who has joined or bound himself to YHWH. The language of conversion, for lack of a better descriptor, already attaches itself to this man or to this woman. Loyalty has already been transferred. The big decisions have already been made. He is an insider-outsider, the part after the hyphen being the cause of his sleepless nights.

His sense of second-class status lingers. Surely, the foreigner muses in quiet moments, this will not end well. I am not genuinely one of them.

The text sees YHWH adding a few more evidences of the genuine, covenantal joining that mark this foreigner as a man or the woman on the path to becoming a true, adoptive Israelite. Then, astonishingly, the prophet turns his back both on centuries of definition of the Israelite ideal and on vast investment in ink and scroll to declare that the foreigner’s anxiety is no longer justified:

These I will bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer; their burnt offerings and their sacrifices will be accepted on my altar; for my house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples.

To his surprise, the foreigner is welcomed into the holiest of places and the most intimate of activities, those that place the son or daughter of Israel in that proximity to YHWH that is both dangerous and joyful. Indeed, the promise of levity in this ‘house of prayer’ is explicit, for the building’s intended clientele—the prophet argues—is not or shall no longer be ethnic but universal.

The eunuch, beside the foreigner, finds himself similarly brought in from the cold.

And let not the eunuch say, ‘Behold, I am a dry tree.’ For thus says the Lord: ‘To the eunuchs who keep my Sabbaths, who choose the things that please me and hold fast my covenant, I will give in my house and within my walls a monument and a name better than sons and daughters; I will give them an everlasting name that shall not be cut off.’

Here the emphasis falls not so much on the eunuch’s off-putting physical deformity, but rather on the children he will never have. The problem to be resolved by YHWH’s newly announced welcome is not so much a missing body part as the ache of an absent legacy.

Again the text insists that there are conditions to the welcome it is about to extend. It opens doors specifically to those eunuchs who keep my Sabbaths, who choose the things that please me and hold fast to my covenant. The text offers to foreigner and eunuch not some cheap shift in policy down at city hall, but rather a sober opportunity to belong and to endure as they never imagined possible.

Just as personified and barren Zion in chapter 54 is comforted by the news that ‘the children of the desolate one will be more than the children of her who is married’, so here the eunuch who shows himself determined acquires a legacy that is better than sons and daughters.

The poor man will not be forgotten after all! His name will be ever after glimpsed by worshippers in a most holy place. Children will ask, ‘Mommy, who was that man?’ The eunuch’s name shall be everlasting, never cut off from the memory-rich reflection of YHWH’s people.

It is instructive that neither the foreigner nor the eunuch in the prophet’s promise becomes something he is not. The former becomes not an ex-foreigner, but rather a foreigner who truly belongs. The latter becomes not a fully sexed vir, but a eunuch tenaciously remembered.

It would seem that Isaiah’s announcement that ‘YHWH makes all things new’ speaks more to the fresh and vigorous re-positioning of the hopeless than to the imposition of bland conformity.

Over by that wall, a foreigner prays to YHWH in his odd Egyptian accent. Here in this corridor, a man who never married is revered like one’s dearest grandpa.

The God of Jacob has been here.

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Arguably, Isaiah shows a deeper insight into a woman’s experience than does any other author’s voice in the Hebrew Bible. Not until Jesus’ uncanny empathy with women, especially marginalized women, do we find in the Bible an empathic touch that is similar to this prophet’s ability to speak from within feminine metaphor.

‘Sing, O barren one, who did not bear; break forth into singing and cry aloud, you who have not been in labor! For the children of the desolate one will be more than the children of her who is married,’ says the Lord. ‘Enlarge the place of your tent, and let the curtains of your habitations be stretched out; do not hold back; lengthen your cords and strengthen your stakes.’ (Isaiah 54:1–2 ESV)

In our time, to speak of a woman in terms of her function vis-à-vis men invites a scolding. For the moment, let’s read this ancient literature for what it is rather than imposing upon it the ‘obvious’ standards of post-modernity.

To be a childless woman was to find oneself in an unenviable state. If this seems inconceivable, we are likely viewing the world in the company of a privileged and tiny subsection of its people. Isaiah without apology plays on the tropes of childlessness/barrenness, abandonment/divorce, and widowhood/bereavement in order to press home the table-turning revolution that return from Babylonian exile will be.

The children that personified Jerusalem never had will now come pouring over the property line, ebullient and in need of somewhere to sleep.

Such will be the tumbling lot of them that this mother’s tent will not only have to be widened but also strengthened. Isaiah serves up a reversal of the deep ache of childlessness that quickly runs beyond imagining.

On the suddenness of redemption in the book of Isaiah we shall have more to say.

As the liquid metaphors flow from barrenness to widowhood to abandonment, the removal of shame comes to the fore. It is a phenomenon that must be read against the way in which the exile of an ancient nation served as a cosmic pulling out from under that people of a rug that had been presumed immoveable. Exile was the failure of human rulers and of a nation’s god or gods. It brought the utter loss of both national identity and national pride. All that is now put right.

For you will spread abroad to the right and to the left, and your offspring will possess the nations and will people the desolate cities. Fear not, for you will not be ashamed; be not confounded, for you will not be disgraced; for you will forget the shame of your youth, and the reproach of your widowhood you will remember no more. For your Maker is your husband, the Lord of hosts is his name; and the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer, the God of the whole earth he is called. For the Lord has called you like a wife deserted and grieved in spirit, like a wife of youth when she is cast off, says your God. (Isaiah 54:3–6 ESV)

The prophet’s rhetoric surges now, nearly bullying the language in order to derive from it its full repetitive potential:

You will not be ashamed!

You will not be disgraced!

You will forget the shame of your youth!

The reproach of your widowhood you will remember no more.

The features of this oracle that I have underscored reach to the heart of Jerusalem’s experience as personified woman. The passage also sketches YHWH’s experience as husband, father, maker, and redeemer, but that consideration must await another moment.

Exile is the loss of everything but breath and, eventually, even of that. Isaiah, from within the experience of a woman of his day, envisages  the captives’ redemption as the sudden recuperation of virtually everything that matters.

Zion’s disappointment, her grief, and her shame are gone in a moment. It becomes clear why the language of the terrible past becoming forgotten begins naturally to emerge as a stock image in the Isaian repertoire.

For you will forget the shame of your youth, and the reproach of your widowhood you will remember no more.

Everything is new, everything is now.

With all these children running about, who has time to think about yesterday?

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When the Old Testament prophets go satirical on us, it is no laughing matter.  That is, any mirth that their ironic verbal assaults elicit—and some of it is quite funny also to modern eyes—is meant to wake up their hearers to the fact that created reality has been transgressed. And will soon, or sometimes eventually, be set right.

In the passage that follows, it is the Babylonian oppressors’ gods who are heartily mocked.

Bel bows down; Nebo stoops; their idols are on beasts and livestock; these things you carry are borne as burdens on weary beasts. They stoop; they bow down together; they cannot save the burden, but themselves go into captivity.

Listen to me, O house of Jacob, all the remnant of the house of Israel, who have been borne by me from before your birth, carried from the womb; even to your old age I am he, and to gray hairs I will carry you. I have made, and I will bear; I will carry and will save. (Isaiah 46:1–4 ESV)

The sophisticated verbal play is almost too rich to be explained in translation. But let’s try.

These two short prophetic paragraphs (so the Hebrew ‘Massoretic Text’ considers them) play on themes that Isaiah sustains, turns inside out, and explores, much as Bach explores the capacity of given sound in a Baroque fugue.

Here are a few of those themes as they appear in the lines I’ve quoted.

First, the historical moment would seem to prove the powers of the Babylon gods, even to dismiss any discussion in the face of their self-evident power. The Babylonian nation, after all, reigns supreme. It imagines itself a kind of unipolar superpower, as we might say today. Its princes are kings, Babylon boasts, its great king the very definition of the invincible will to power. The Isaianic language of elevation comes into play here, where ‘high’ means glory and authority and ‘low’ means defeat and incapacity.

In this light, Isaiah’s claim that ‘Bel bows down’ and that ‘Nebo stoops’ turns circumstances on their head. The prophet’s counter-evidential thought is either knowing and provocative—perhaps the prophet discerns more than we …—or simply delusional.

Second, the twin Isaianic ideas of weight and weariness are here deployed artfully and, in my view, powerfully. Let me attempt to unpack this in as orderly a way I can without draining the imagery of its flowing potency.

Satirically, Isaiah suggests that the physical representation of the Babylonian gods are simply too heavy to be carried around without the people exhausting themselves in the process. That is, these gods do not help their people. Rather, their human worshippers are reduced to hauling around their idols with energy they themselves do not have in excess. This kind of religion, the prophet claims, is exhausting, a claim that Taylor Swift might make of a maddening on-again, off-again relationship.

The verbal components that make this satire possible are the most commonly used word for bearing (נשא), the related word for burden (משא), an exquisitely deployed word for loading and carrying (עמס), and—finally—the potent (in Isaiah’s hands) word for being weary (עיף).

Now let’s look again at the passage, this time with commentary interspersed in italics:

Bel bows down; Nebo stoops; their idols are on beasts and livestock; these things you carry are borne as burdens on weary beasts. (Here the great gods of Babylon are reduced to heavy material objects that the people wear out their valuable pack animals by forcing them to carry.)

They stoop; they bow down together; (Who does? The gods? The beasts of burden? Most likely it is the latter, struggling, straining, complaining under the burden.) they cannot save the burden (more on this in a moment), but themselves go into captivity.

Listen to me, O house of Jacob, all the remnant of the house of Israel, who have been borne by me from before your birth, carried from the womb; even to your old age I am he, and to gray hairs I will carry you. I have made, and I will bear; I will carry and will save.

Ah, and now we see that in Isaiah’s ears it is YHWH who bears, who carries his own people! He does not subject them to the weariness of hauling around inert gods, but bearing them on wings like eagles so that even the weary themselves will find new strength.

So does Isaian satire shine a light on what’s really going on at a time when Babylon and her gods reign triumphant and Judah skulks about as one of that nation’s many expiring victims.

Let’s look at just one more word-play in this stunning passage.

Those idol-laden beasts of burden, if this reading is correct, cannot ‘save the burden’. The word translated here as ‘save’ is profoundly familiar in the Isaianic context of exile and return, of subjugation and subsequent redemption. It is the Hebrew verb מלט. Here, it would seem, worn-out, stumbling beasts cannot save the burden of the idols under whose dead weight they are driven onward. But just a few verses later, we read of YHWH’s claim that ‘I will carry and save.’

This four-verse extract from the book of Isaiah is a gem of prophetic satire, which can be admired on literary grounds for its pervasively intelligent nuance. Yet it has been preserved, read, and treasured because it speaks of still deeper things: Dead, deluded religion wears a nation out. YHWH, by contrast, bears his own.

The Christian reader may find that the words of a subsequent prophet spring to mind:

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. (Matthew 11:28–30 ESV)

It would take nothing from these latter words, nor from their speaker, if one were to speculate that Isaianic satire—treasured, reflected upon, perhaps even memorized—lay at the core of Jesus’ summons to a certain merciful lightness.

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Sometimes a nickname goes deeper.

A second naming bears peculiar force upon the life of the one named, as on those who surround him and speak his name.

You may be ‘Doug’, but if your softball buddies call you Yer honor, the latter says more about your persona than the former.

If you’ve been tagged by some later-in-life shame, people may not speak the new name you’ve been given, but a scarlet letter may forever precede your entrance into any room, announcing your arrival. Fortunately, not all life-given names are misery-driven. Some are glorious.

But now hear, O Jacob my servant, Israel whom I have chosen! Thus says the Lord who made you, who formed you from the womb and will help you: Fear not, O Jacob my servant, Jeshurun whom I have chosen. For I will pour water on the thirsty land, and streams on the dry ground; I will pour my Spirit upon your offspring, and my blessing on your descendants. They shall spring up among the grass like willows by flowing streams. This one will say, ‘I am the Lord’s,’ another will call on the name of Jacob, and another will write on his hand, ‘The Lord’s,’ and name himself by the name of Israel. (Isaiah 44:1–5 ESV)

This ‘servant’ oracle bears with it continuities from early servant-speak. The thirsty desert path back to Zion becomes well-watered. YHWH’s Spirit, which an early servant oracle placed upon the servant, is here poured out upon the servant’s descendants.

There is also development of servant themes. The servant is now clearly identified as Jacob, and as chosen Israel, as beloved Jeshurun (an identification that is repeated in verse 21). Identity remains enigmatic, but we now have this anchor.

It is the extension of the restorative promise to coming generations that elicits from the prophet his most shimmering poetry. Speaking of the offspring to come, they shall spring up among the grass like willows by flowing streams.

And then, this second naming, this probing of deepest identity, this provision of a verbal handle for what is most new, most splendid, least imaginable in the dusk of captivity:

This one will say, ‘I am the Lord’s,’ another will call on the name of Jacob, and another will write on his hand, ‘The Lord’s,’ and name himself by the name of Israel.

It is not the last time that the book of Isaiah and New Testament promise that derives its energy from it will speak of second naming. It is merely the first whisper of awe-fused rebirth that follows in the wake of YHWH’s most unimaginable feat of goodness.

Whaz’yer name?

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We first meet the enigmatic ‘servant of the Lord’ as we step over the threshold of Isaiah 42. Yet for the reader of Isaiah he bears a family resemblance. This is because what is said of the servant here carries echoes of thoughts and language that have proven important to the book of Isaiah over the long run of forty-one chapters that have led to this first encounter of a direct kind.

‘There is something about him …’, one might muse. ‘Have I met this person somewhere before?  Who does he remind me of …?’

Behold my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my Spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations. He will not cry aloud or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; a bruised reed he will not break, and a faintly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice. He will not grow faint or be discouraged till he has established justice in the earth; and the coastlands wait for his law. (Isaiah 42:1–4 ESV)

If I speak of ‘my servant’ (Hebrew: עבדי) as an individual or as a person, I do so not in order to prejudge the question of his identity but rather to reflect the text’s own treatment. Of the many things disclosed about this puzzling persona, let me call out a few that stand out in this first ‘public presentation’.

First, the text insists on YHWH’s sustaining hold on the servant. The servant is not only empowered by YHWH; he is very much maintained in his mission by YHWH’s sustaining presence. We’ll see more of this at another moment, but it would be an oversight not to mention it here.

Second, the servant is an agent of justice (Hebrew: משפט), a theme with deep roots in Isaian soil. Three times in this four-verse oracle, the theme recurs. Perhaps as a result of YHWH’s placement of his Spirit upon the servant, the latter will bring forth justice to the nations. Then, in a strikingly accentuated re-emphasis, he will faithfully (or ‘really‘) bring forth justice. And, finally, the servant’s vigor will not be diminished until he has established justice in the earth.

Third, there appears in these verses an exquisitely Isaian double application of the terminology of the notions of bruising and quenching. The first statement concerns the servant’s consideration of those who are weak or compromised in some material way. Following the claim that the servant will not stalk noisily through the streets, the text turns to his treatment of the weak:

A bruised reed he will not break, and a faintly burning wick he will not quench.

Yet no sooner than this claim has been made than the text races on to clarify that this tenderness says nothing about the servant’s own weakness. Repeating the very same Hebrew vocabulary for bruising (רצץ) and fainting (כהה) in reverse order to their first appearance, the oracle asserts that:

He will not grow faint or be discouraged till he has established justice in the earth

The fact that the English Standard Version (ESV) varies its translation of כהה from ‘bruised’ in the first instance to ‘be discouraged’ in the second veils this subtle double deployment of identical language, but it is there to be seen by the Hebrew reader. Finally, this introduction of the servant may well feed into the case that can be made that Isaiah envisages a place of blessing rather than mere condemnation for ‘the nations’, even if that blessing is found by a path that weaves its way through YHWH’s heated-up justice. The coastlands, we are told, wait for or hope for the servant’s justice, which is in point of fact the justice of YHWH himself. Significantly, this places the nations’ redemptive journey alongside the route of Israel/Judah’s own hard and hopeful journey.

So does Isaiah’s ‘servant of the Lord’ establish his first impressions. This agent of divine justice, operating by YHWH’s own strength and provision, tirelessly extends justice far and near without rolling over the weak and needy in the process.

Isaiah’s development of servant’s persona  has scarcely begun. Already, it is rich, suggestive, unsettling, and puzzling.

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The Bible is not a book of syrupy pieties.

It would never have survived these many centuries if it were not for its idiosyncratic qualities, one of which is a persistent and stark realism.

When Judah’s King Hezekiah steps as unlikely protagonist into the bridging portion of the book of Isaiah, where the main linkage between Judah’s anticipation of exile and eventual restoration from exile is established, he would not be mistaken as a spokesman for orthodox biblical faith. He simply is what he is, in all his glory and all his tragedy. For some readers, he stands in as an icon of the nation itself.

Regardless of how such details are settled, Isaiah’s depiction of his coming to terms with death bears a dismal tone. The sudden ordinariness of the images is striking.

I must depart; I am consigned to the gates of Sheol for the rest of my years. I said, I shall not see the Lord, the Lord in the land of the living; I shall look on man no more among the inhabitants of the world. My dwelling is plucked up and removed from me like a shepherd’s tent; like a weaver I have rolled up my life; he cuts me off from the loom; from day to night you bring me to an end; I calmed myself until morning; like a lion he breaks all my bones; from day to night you bring me to an end.

Like a swallow or a crane I chirp; I moan like a dove. My eyes are weary with looking upward. O Lord, I am oppressed; be my pledge of safety! What shall I say? For he has spoken to me, and he himself has done it. I walk slowly all my years because of the bitterness of my soul. (Isaiah 38:10–15 ESV)

The sufferer of long illness or one who has borne up under prolonged delay before death will not struggle to find her own experience in Hezekiah’s words.

Hezekiah cannot speak, in this moment, of legacy, of faith, of expectation. Rather, ‘from day to night’—unremarkably and without fuss—he imagines himself departing life as he has known it.

There is no more drama to the king’s expected demise that there is to a shepherd breaking camp for the next pasture over or a weaver wrapping things up at the end of his day.

Contemporary readers may find a certain thin comfort in the ordinariness of death. It is ‘just a part of life’, as we attempt to persuade ourselves.

Hezekiah does not see things so cheerily.

Realism indeed.

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Chapter 35 of the book of Isaiah initiates a bridge of sorts between the large section of the book that precedes it and the section or sections that follow. This short chapter is intensely lyrical, profoundly hopeful, and unshrinkingly exuberant.

As any large bridging element must do, it features themes that are familiar to us from glimpses we’ve enjoyed in the darker first section, themes that are developed widely and at times wildly in the chapters that follow.

Consisting of only ten verses, chapter 35 demands quotation in full.

The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus; it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it, the majesty of Carmel and Sharon. They shall see the glory of the Lord, the majesty of our God.

Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who have an anxious heart, ‘Be strong; fear not! Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you.’

Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then shall the lame man leap like a deer, and the tongue of the mute sing for joy. For waters break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water; in the haunt of jackals, where they lie down, the grass shall become reeds and rushes.

And a highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Way of Holiness; the unclean shall not pass over it. It shall belong to those who walk on the way; even if they are fools, they shall not go astray. No lion shall be there, nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it; they shall not be found there, but the redeemed shall walk there. And the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. (Isaiah 35:1–10 ESV)

The chapter is a hymn to the return home of an exiled community that by all rights should have perished in captivity, as exiled peoples of the day were expected to cooperate in doing. It takes up and luxuriates in themes that have become the best-known tropes for readers of Isaiah. In so doing, it hints that those early glimpses of such promise are to become agenda-setting and panoramic in short order.

At the risk of singling out just one or two of these themes, the chapter transforms the death-dealing barrier between here and there that is a desert into a security-assured highway back home. All that is dead and dry blooms and waters. What once murdered the innocent with its savage heat now beautifies their path home and hydrates their dry tongues.

Yet it is a particularly tender turn of phrase that I wish to highlight here:

Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who have an anxious heart, ‘Be strong; fear not! Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you.’

This declaration shows that the news of return—brilliant and catalyzing as it looks from our distance—was not necessarily to be welcomed by those who had made their discouraged peace with exile. Such people, who deserve our sympathy, are possessed of ‘weak hands’ and ‘feeble knees’ that will require some strengthening if Return is to become more than a promising song. The devil ya’ knows, after all, looks better than the one ya’ don’t.

But hands and knees are not the only deficient body parts among captive Judah. The text reaches out to those who have an anxious heart (so ESV). A more literal reading might produce this:

Say to the hurried of heart (alternatively, ‘the racing of heart‘), ‘Be strong; fear not!  (Hebrew: נמהרי־לב)

To some readers, this rather poetic diagnosis will sound instantly familiar.

YHWH’s promise comes to anxiety-ridden, racing-hearted captives. It becomes good news to the adrenaline-rushed, panic-attacked little ones, the cowering and the self-sheltering. It dares them to reconsider the terms they have negotiated with their terrifying world and to accept a new and rather boisterous name, one with a slightly in-your-face confidence over against the jackals and bandits who used to patrol this road: the Redeemed.

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Because the first step toward a body’s healing is an accurate diagnosis, the physician is forgiven for laboring on with his details to the point of our fatigue. So do Isaiah’s prophetic oracles press again and again into the behaviors that are the very stuff of national illness. If Israel/Judah is to be healed, the prophet Isaiah insists, she must assent to understanding the mortal affliction that has brought her low.

She must see. She must hear.

For they are a rebellious people, lying children, children unwilling to hear the instruction of the Lord; who say to the seers, ‘Do not see,’ and to the prophets, ‘Do not prophesy to us what is right; speak to us smooth things, prophesy illusions, leave the way, turn aside from the path, let us hear no more about the Holy One of Israel.’ (Isaiah 30:9–11 ESV)

Isaiah’s rhetoric brings children to the fore on two accounts. First, in the dark diagnoses of the book’s earlier chapters, when adults who should know better are described as willful children.

Second, when the book’s redemptive promise comes to full bloom, a now adult Israel—having imagined herself a woman bereft of children—is stunned to see how many children return to her from afar.

In the passage just quoted, the ‘children’ are YHWH’s ‘rebellious people’, impatient with any word that might curtail their freedom to self-destroy, whether that word be instruction or correction.

Though here they make no effort to silence the seer and the prophet, they would coopt his message. They would turn the sharp and surgical edge of Yahwistic faith—an instrument whose blade is all about life and healing—into the soft coziness of religious self-absorption.

Whether silencing the prophet or buying out his message, the result is the same.

Rebellious children give the orders, in Isaiah’s survey, while those to whose word they ought to submit are ordered about like entry-level employees. The commands come in perfect chiasm (even here the prophet is an artisan), staccato-like:

Do not see!

Do not prophecy to us what is right!

Speak to us smooth things!

Prophecy illusions.

We prefer, too often, to have our piety in this way.

Absent some force, we would have the prophet be our comforter, our entertainer, our self-image coach.

Only because YHWH is willing to subject his own to pain in order that they might fall into redemption does our hope remain alive. And we with it.

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The Book of Isaiah is shot through with the dual theme of weariness and rest.

YHWH is seen as the one who offers rest to the weary, most typically in the context of return from exile and repose within one’s own natural space. The subtext is of a willfully agitated people who will not receive what is given—that which is kindly offered to them by YHWH—and instead will be shoe-horned out of their place and scattered to nations that have no regard for the weary homeless.

Even the eventual placement of returning captives in the land that had once been lost to them is regularly phrased via a verb that bears the resonance of ‘causing to rest’ (Hebrew: נוח).

Israel/Judah’s chosen idols are seen to be heavy to carry, thus weary-making. Yet YHWH bears his returning children, or causes them to be borne by others, back to their land in a way that renders weariness a fading memory. Indeed, such people shall rise up on wings like eagles, they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not faint.

How strange, then, to find in the midst of a harsh Isaianic judgement oracle that the terrible plight of YHWH’s people in exile is distilled down to a refusal to rest, a chosen deafness against the offer of repose. The prophet suggests that it is only Judah’s alien captors who will finally talk sense into YHWH’s rebellious children, even if in truth it is YHWH himself who borrows their strange babbling in order to do so.

For by people of strange lips and with a foreign tongue the Lord will speak to this people, to whom he has said, ‘This is rest; give rest to the weary; and this is repose’; yet they would not hear. (Isaiah 28:11–12 ESV)

Since the book of Isaiah and the canon in which it stands as a pillar allows one to extend this dynamic beyond its historic origins and into the borders of our own ongoing wrestling with God and the world in which he has placed us, one might ask:

How then have we become this nervous, this shattered, this far from home?

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