Isaiah 58:6-12 "Jesus Left the Building...."

         The Israelites remembered the good old days – back when religion was religion, no bones about it.  The temple in Jerusalem was standing room only. No one ever missed a service. The enormous congregation sang psalms with impassioned yet reverent gusto – old ones, new ones, all kinds of psalms. They spoke heartfelt prayers and gave generous offerings – not just leftover change tossed in the plate but tithe upon tithe.  The fires never went out, and the air was infused with the fragrance of roasting sacrificial lambs and doves.  Synagogues all over the nation were building educational wings to house their burgeoning children’s programs. Youth groups were bursting at the seams.

         But the religious heyday did not last forever. Nebuchadnezzar, flanked by his Babylonian empirical military complex, conquered the tiny but strategically significant nation of the Israelites.  And in an immense show of imperial authority, he flattened the Temple in Jerusalem and exiled the brightest and the best to one of his backwater provinces. 

         No wonder worship attendance declined precipitously.  For those left behind, with the temple now a pile of rubble, where were they to worship Yahweh/God?  

         And what about those struggling to make a life for themselves in exile?  They mostly sat by the rivers of Babylon and wept, remembering Zion and the way life used to be.  How, oh how, they wondered could they ever sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land, in a new place, under strange and fearful circumstances?

         However, as luck would have it – or perhaps as Yahweh/God had ordained - the Israelites were allowed to return to their homeland after 70 or so years.  That would have been around 538 BCE.  Unfortunately, it was not quite as they had pictured it in their mind’s eye. 

         You see, they had expected God to come and establish God’s kingdom over all the earth with the Israelites themselves, of course, at its epicenter.  But times continued to be hard, and the future was far from certain.  Why - it had been almost a century now, and there was still no new realm and no golden age.

         However, in spite of that disappointment, they were home.  They had been restored to their land and to their loved ones.  If they hoped hard enough and did all the right things, then surely they would live into the promises that prophets like Isaiah had spoken on behalf of their God – promises of light breaking into darkness, promises of wolves lying down with lambs, promises of deserts flowering and teeming with abundant life. 

         Now was the time to try extra hard to make all things right so that never again would they walk down that path that had led them to such harsh judgment and cruel punishment.  Now was the time to reconnect with their God and with one another.  True - the temple had not yet been rebuilt, but they were ready to worship. 

         And so they returned to their sacred places and did what they had always done – because, well, because they had always done it that way.  They sang the psalms they had always sung because the old psalms brought them such comfort.  They returned to their tried and true familiar worship practices because to change them did not seem right in such a time of uncertainty.  They fasted just like they had always fasted.  The ritual was exactly the same because, if had worked and gotten God’s attention 100 years ago, it ought to still work today, right?

         But something was terribly wrong.  The Israelites did not get God’s attention.  In spite of all their perfectly harmonized psalms and impeccably performed rituals, the priests and spiritual hotshots still found themselves scratching their heads and furrowing their brows, shrugging their shoulders and asking themselves: 

“‘Why have we fasted,’ they say, ‘and you (God) have not seen it? Why have we humbled ourselves, and you have not noticed?’”

 Even though their intentions seemed to be genuine, somewhere along the line they had missed the boat.  They had mistaken the point of worship and failed to understand what it was really all about. 

         It was in the midst of their aimless wondering and religious floundering that the old but circumspect prophet Isaiah spoke out in order to bring the Israelites back to God’s way of thinking.  As Presbyterian pastor Elizabeth Milford writes, “Isaiah critiques their worship practices, particularly their fasting, as self-serving and hollow, pretending to be righteous while allowing injustice to continue in their own backyards. He offers stern reminders that fasting, and other worship, is not about just going through the motions. It’s not about excessive piety and fancy shows. It’s about what happens after that. Namely, how they live in the world.”

         In that singsong poetic way of his, Isaiah reminded them that on their days of reverent fasting, they still exploited their workers.  When they left the synagogue, they still went back to quarrelling with their spouses and children. 

         Isaiah reminded them that the whole process of fasting was more than sackcloth and ashes just as worship for us is more than the choral anthem – no matter how beautifully done – the sermon – no matter how artfully worded – and the prayers – no matter how passionate.  The rituals of fasting and worship were more than opportunities to look humble and feel good about oneself.  Isaiah was pretty outspoken in that regard:

“Is not this the kind of fasting (and we today might substitute “worship”)… “Is not this the kind of worship I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?  Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?  Then your light will break forth like the dawn…

If you do away with the yoke of oppression, with the pointing finger and malicious talk,  and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness. Then your people will rebuild the ancient ruins and will raise up the age-old foundations; you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.

Then – and only then - will justice flow down like mighty waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.       

         So – Is Isaiah letting us off the hook when it comes to worship – telling us that choosing to be here on Sunday morning is not all that important?  I really do not think so.  As I have said many times before, there is a high value simply being in community with other like-minded people who are as concerned as we about the world’s injustice. There is high value in standing up and speaking out in community – as the Body of Christ - and not going it alone. 

         I believe our rituals are necessary and have the potential to be deeply meaningful.  They can imbue us with power, strength, and courage to bring forth justice. 

That being said, however, our worship rituals also have the potential to become selfish and self-serving, an end in themselves. 

         We run that risk when worship becomes, as Biblical scholar Edward Young wrote:

·      Impersonal and turned inward

·      A time ruled by habit and tradition – the way things have always been done

·      Self-serving (What can God do for me?)

·      Escapist and isolationist (God will save us from this terrible and fearful world, so I’ll just sit tight in the pew here)

·      Predictable, controlled, no surprises, runs on autopilot

·      Passive involvement even though God is a deeply personal being

         In the end, Isaiah is forthright in declaring that, if our worship is to be acceptable to God, then it must be reflected in our behaviors. It must motivate us to help someone in need, to make a difference in the world.  The question is not, “What does my worship do for me?’  It is rather “What does my worship make me do for others?’

          Lutheran pastor Robin Fish puts it so well when she writes that the most important part of our worship is not the liturgy we perform together each Sunday morning. “Our worship is in the life we live when we leave this place and return to the things and the people God has filled our lives with, to do the work (God) sets before us to do.  We serve God, and worship (God), when we serve our neighbor in his or her need.  Our neighbor includes our immediate family, and those who live around us, and everyone with whom we come in contact.  Our work is our job, or our chores at home, or taking an interest in those around us.” 

         Justice and making a difference in people’s lives is the foundation of worship.  If we are not changing lives, then no matter how well the choir sings, how lovely the sanctuary looks, how inspiring the preacher is, if we are not changing lives and making a difference in the world, then we are not the church – at least, not the church that Jesus called us to be. 

         A taxi driver once wrote about one of his fares.  He arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes he honked again.

         Since this was going to be my last fare of my shift (he said), I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked. 'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

         After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman, apparently in her 90's, stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase.

         The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

         'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist her. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing', I told her. 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.' 'Oh, you're such a fine boy’, she said.

         When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, 'Could you drive through downtown?' 'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly. 'Oh, I don't mind,' she said. 'I'm in no hurry. The address I gave you is a nursing facility.’

         I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued in a soft voice.' The doctor says I probably don't have very long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. 'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

         For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the former department store where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and she would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing at all.

         As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now.’ We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door.

         The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. 'How much do I owe you?' She asked, reaching into her purse. 'Nothing,' I said 'You have to make a living,' she answered. 'I have plenty of other passengers,' I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. 'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said. 'Thank you.'

         I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the light of morning. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. For a while, I drove aimlessly lost in thought. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

“Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free
    and break every yoke?  

Is it not to share your food with the hungry
    and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?

         There are many forms of oppression, hunger, nakedness, and injustice – old ladies with no family who hunger for a human touch, young men oppressed by addiction, children left psychologically naked by bullying peers. 

         Perhaps we are not called to save the world – though it behooves us to know about and respond as individuals and as the church to the unrest in the Middle East and to the fact that Nigeria, Somalia, and South Sudan are on the brink of famine.  

         But whether we choose to take on global causes or local or even personal ones, we are challenged to begin somewhere.  We are called to proclaim that there is still work for us to do. 

         Like the ancient Israelites, I wonder if the old ways of worship may not work any more.  I wonder if our rituals need to be ever more grounded in our pursuit of justice. 

I wonder if we are not called today as Jesus’ 21^st century disciples to openly and intentionally pay more attention to the least of these, the forgotten ones, to speak more openly and intentionally the language of love and not malice, and, most of all, to roll up our sleeves and do something. 

         The U.C.C. church I grew up in has a tradition that each month with a fifth Sunday, the congregation worships for a brief 10 minutes or so and then goes out into the community for a morning of service.  They hang a banner for all to see on the closed doors of the sanctuary.  It says:  “Jesus left the building – and we followed.”

         As we come to final days of our Lenten journey, may we reflect on how we – and this church - will do likewise.