Desolate, Forsaken, Hope and Claimed

 Isaiah 62:1-5; John 2:1-11

I wonder what might happen if I were to ask you all to write down the times in your life when you felt like your name might has well have been Desolate or Forsaken, as described in our Isaiah passage.  Would that task be difficult for you to do?  Have those moments of deep sorrow or emptiness been few and far between in your life thus far?  Or, would you be able to put pen to paper fairly quickly and fill up the page?  Has your name been Desolate or Forsaken far too often?

 I would imagine that for some of you, your name became Forsaken as you sat in the hospital room, watching the iv’s and tubes encircle your loved one and hold her in their grasp, while your own arms ached with emptiness and a palpable sense of powerlessness over her healing. 

And for others, perhaps your name morphed into Desolate as you decided it was time to bring in Hospice care, even though his years had only numbered a few decades.  But you knew that your unwelcomed houseguest named Death sat in the corner, watching and waiting for its turn.

 And I would be willing to bet that the names Desolate and Forsaken have fallen upon hundreds of thousands of people this week in Haiti after such a disastrous earthquake.  We have folks in this sanctuary with ties to the St Joseph’s School for Boys which is located in Port au Prince.  And because of them, I have learned about the ministry of that place—a place that takes boys from the streets and provides them with safety, warmth, and stability.  The school was devastated by the quake. All the boys and the staff are alive, though a visiting seminary student named Ben died in the rubble

  And don’t you just know that for some of those children, their names have become Desolate or Forsaken.  They have seen way too much for little eyes.  Their hearts have been broken far too many times and their world uprooted in chaos.  Yes, I would say that if anyone knows what it is like to feel that your name has been changed to Desolate or Forsaken, it would be our brothers and sisters in Haiti.

 Isaiah’s community knew what it felt like to feel defined by the names Desolate and Forsaken. By the time chapter 62 came into being, the Babylonian exile was over and the people Israel had returned home.  But they returned only to realize that nothing would ever be the same. The Babylonians may have been defeated, but the efforts to restore and rebuild Jerusalem ran into numerous obstacles and problems. 

 One obstacle was that the exilic people who regathered in Jerusalem quickly split into factions[i].  One faction was made up of those who had stayed in the land because they had been too sick or too poor to leave.  Another group was formed by the people who had returned after all those years of trying to sing their songs of faith in a foreign land where they found no welcome.  And the third group was comprised of the generations of people who had been born after the moment of crisis, for whom chaos was normal and living with their parents’ nostalgia was just a way of life. 

All of these groups found one another in Jerusalem, each holding on to his or her dream about what a new Jerusalem would look like, what a restored people would be like, and what a return to a holy land would feel like.  But as they tried to rebuild life together, the poison of power struggles contaminated their environment.  Frustration took hold over who got to define new life and make the decisions. And the next thing they knew, their names were again being changed from Flourish and Hope, to Desolate and Forsaken.  Nothing was working out the way it was supposed to be.  God needed to get God’s good in gear.

 And, I wonder if the servants at the wedding also knew the names Desolate and Forsaken.  There they were, considered to be a part of the household but not really a part of it at all.  Spending yet another night in the post-wedding week of celebration having to deal with drunken and occasionally disorderly wedding guests.  And then, as if they were not under enough pressure, someone realized they had run out of wine.  And an undercurrent of anxiety and fear rippled out amongst the servants.  They knew what that meant.  And it was not good. 

 In a culture that ran on a system of Honor and Shame[ii], not having enough wine for the week-long wedding celebration was a big problem.  Shame would descend upon the entire household once word got out about the scarcity that had befallen the feast.  And though we do not know how the head of the household might express his anger or frustration, I would bet the servants would bear some of the brunt of it. 

 The servants ranked last on the totem pole of status.  They were owned like property and probably treated as such.  We know from our own collective history how some masters interacted with their slaves.  The slaves were not seen as human beings worthy of respect, but rather as goods to be traded, used and sold.  So I would imagine that the servants at the wedding sometimes felt similarly to slaves on plantations—people whose names were far too often intermingled with Desolate and Forsaken.

 And so I wonder if Mary, Jesus’ mother, sensed their fear.  We have no way to know for sure.  The biblical text is silent.  But something must have made her sit up and take notice about what was happening.  From what John does tell us, the word about the scarcity of wine was not public knowledge.  Clearly, the family did not yet know.  From the way John tells the story, not even the wine steward knew about the shortage.  Only the servants knew.  And, Mary.  And she immediately went to her son, Jesus, the one whom she knew could change everything.  The one whom she already knew could turn scarcity into abundance, desolate into delight, forsaken into protected.  She knew that Jesus could do something about the situation and she went to tell him so. 

 “They have no wine,” she said with some urgency in her voice.  “Woman, why is that our concern?  My hour has not yet come,” her son responded, clearly resisting having to reveal more of who he is at that beginning point of his ministry.  But his mother was not going to let her son off the hook. 

 Maybe it was because she sensed the fear.  Maybe it was because she saw the shadows of Desolate and Forsaken in the servants’ eyes.  Maybe it was because she wanted to save the entire household from the shame.  We don’t know the why.  We just know that although she heard what Jesus said, she fully expected that he would change his mind and act on her request anyway. 

 So Mary turned to the servants, the only witnesses, other than the disciples, who were present for the whole thing, and told them to just do as he said.  And sure enough, his mother was right.  Jesus chose not to stand on the sidelines.  He found six stone jars standing empty, waiting to be filled with water so the guests could perform the ritual cleaning of their hands before and after the meal.  “Fill those up with water,” he told the servants.  And they did.  They filled the empty jars to the brim, almost to the point of overflowing. 

 Then Jesus told them to draw some of the water and take it to the steward.  So they did that too.  And the steward drank what had then become a fine, fine wine.  But, strangely enough, the steward, the one in charge of the wine, did not know its origin.  Strangely enough, amazingly enough, only the servants knew what had happened, or rather, who had happened. 

 Only those whose names sometimes intermingled with Desolate and Forsaken knew the origin of the miracle.  Only those considered property, those on the last rung on the societal totem pole, those who had not one shred of autonomy in their own lives, those were the ones who were honored enough to see the One who could turn scarcity into abundance right in front of them, taking empty jars and transforming them into vessels full of God’s overflowing generosity.

 Surely as the servants overheard the steward going on and on to the host about what an amazing thing it was to have held all that wine in reserve, they shared a smile.  Surely they looked at Jesus and tried to figure out what was going on.  Who was this rabbi who could turn that water into wine, transforming scarcity into abundance, desolate into delight, forsaken into protected?  Maybe as they stood there, trying to hide their shocked grins, Jesus came up and stood among them. 

 I even wonder if later on that night, as Jesus, his mother and his disciples prepared to leave, if a few of those servants decided that they, too, would go and follow.  They would go and follow this one whose call seemed to be to transform the world and to change lives so that Desolate and Forsaken became only distant memories.  And instead, in while following that One, they would find themselves with new names like, “My Delight is in You” and “Claimed.”

 That promise of transformation also filled Isaiah’s mouth.  He stood in the middle of a fractured people, a hurting people, a people who knew too much pain and who dreamt too many nightmares.  But instead of dropping his head and shutting his mouth, he lifted up his eyes.  And he decided to stand firm on the foundation of the One who had called them out of exile and promised homecoming. 

 “I will not rest from being a voice of Hope,” Isaiah proclaimed.  “I will not keep silent.  I will not stop speaking.  On your behalf, O Israel, I will keep tugging on the hem of God’s skirt until God gets God’s good in gear and your vindication O Zion is shining like the dawn.” 

 For Isaiah knew what we know:  That to Isaiah’s people, to the people at the wedding, to the people in Haiti, to you and to me, God has promised the coming of that day when Desolate and Forsaken are no more. 

 God has promised the coming of that day when children’s eyes no longer see chaos and they can sleep through the night without the fear of their world shaking underneath them. 

 God has promised the coming of that day when nations that have and nations that have not will all sit at the same table of God’s abundance and everyone will have enough. 

 God has promised the coming of that day when tears that fall in hospital rooms are dried and Death is banished from waiting in the corner ever again. 

 Indeed, like Isaiah and like mother Mary, we, too, are called to give voice to God’s sure and certain promise that we will all see the day when we shall all be called a new name that God’s own mouth will give.  The day when we shall all be called Delight and Claimed, Flourish and Hope.

 And like Isaiah and mother Mary, our call as part of the Church, is to not rest from reminding God of that promise until it comes to pass and all the world is rejoicing at the feast on the mountain of Isaiah 25, saying “Lo, this is our God and we have waited for him that God might save us.  This is the Lord for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in God’s salvation.” 

 And when that day comes, and it will, the names Desolate and Forsaken will fall away and be forgotten forever.  And when that day comes, and it will, the jars of abundance will overflow and the great feast will be all in all.  And when that day comes, and it will, all flesh shall see God’s salvation together.  For the mouth of the Lord has spoken it and our God is always faithful. 

 Therefore, we do not stand eye to eye with chaos as a people without help or hope.  We stand eye to eye with chaos as a people who know the promises of God and God’s goodness and who will not rest until God makes good on those promises and all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

 For the mouth of our God has spoken.  And God will make good on God’s promise of the coming of that day.