Isaiah 61 (The 3rd Sunday of Early Advent)
1.
And as familiar as this old text is to many of us, as pivotal as it is to the gospel itself, it’s the last stanza that sneaks up on us this morning. Isaiah’s bold witness to the joy in his heart and the vibration of his soul, and the newness that sprouts like fresh flowers in springtime. We are called not to the kind of justice that subdues the spirits of our adversaries or even the legions of our enemies—but to the kind of justice that inspires gladness, praise, sprouting like so many fresh flowers “before all the peoples, for all creation to see.”
You see, God’s justice is not dark and punishing. God’s justice is not a zero-sum game in which the winners gloat and the losers sulk. And Isaiah captures this so very compellingly. God’s justice is like the oil of gladness, running down the cheeks of the once lost and now found. God’s justice confers a mantle of praise on the traumatized, a song of thanksgiving on the ruined city, instead of a faint spirit, instead of hopelessness and despair. “It’s as though I’m dressed for my wedding day,” says the prophet, “in the very best: a bridegroom’s garland and a bride’s jewels.” You see what Isaiah’s doing. Justice is not simply a matter for the courts, tribunals, and law reviews. Justice is a feast, a collaborative celebration, and a cause for poetry and praise.
To seek peace, then, and to do justice, and to bind up the brokenhearted—is to revel in our humanity and rejoice in one another and discover all over again what it is to believe. “And that’s what it’s like with God’s great glory—” says the prophet, in this last stanza, “the Lord will cause justice and praise (justice and praise!) to sprout up before all the peoples, for all creation to see…” So when Jesus takes the scroll in Nazareth and says, “The Spirit of the Lord, the Eternal, is upon me,” he's not inviting us to barroom brawl; he’s saying it’s time to put gladness and praise at the heart of our movements. Because justice is human flourishing in a universe of wonders, and justice is human solidarity fleshed out and mutual liberation dared and delivered, and compassion made concrete in cities, villages and neighborhoods.
2.
It strikes me, my friends, in our own season of organized resistance and faithful witness, in 2025, that we can and we must take all this, take Isaiah to heart. A justice-loving people is a people made courageous in their gladness, a people made bold in praise and thanksgiving. And that’s got to be us.
As we work with painstaking care, for example, to protect a friend seeking asylum in our very presence, and to extend that same protection to others across the state, we will continue to give thanks for that one refugee and his enormous, resilient and devoted heart. And we will recognize in him not just heart, but faith—the kind of faith that trusts (often against the odds) the promises of scripture. That there is indeed good news for the poor; that there is indeed liberation and freedom for those detained and imprisoned; that there is indeed resurrection and new life for the traumatized families of the world. Along the way we discover dear friends keeping watch in windowless hallways and so many others working tirelessly behind the scenes on legal initiatives and legislative campaigns. And there is—in all of this—a church wrapped in robes of righteousness, a community committed to a refugee’s liberation, his family’s safety, as nothing less than our very own future. Do you see, do you see what happens when we put gladness and praise at the heart of our movements? “It’s as though we’re dressed for our wedding day, in the very best…a bridegroom’s garland and a bride’s jewels.” God’s justice is a promise to be tasted among us, a delight to be revealed in our time, a project that keeps us human. “Sprouting up before all the peoples.” And it’s hard; yes, it’s very, very hard. But it’s also good; it’s very, very good.
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| Mary Magdalene (By Ann of Everett) |
3.
Once in a while, you meet someone who seems to marry up in their very being, in their daily commitments, both righteousness and delight, both justice and joy. It was my great privilege to meet a couple of these bright lights during my trip to Palestine last spring. And they touched my heart with a kind of hopefulness that I dearly, dearly need to live a faithful life and a helpful life in the world I love. And I want to tell you about one of them this morning, Dalia Qumsieh; because Dalia’s commitment to justice and reconciliation challenged me to re-think my own, to imagine peacemaking and solidarity in new ways. Not as dire, solemn pursuits, but as joyful investments in what the world can be. What our world is meant to be. She challenged me to imagine justice not as an argument won, but as a road, a path, a journey taken together.
She’s an extraordinary Palestinian attorney, Dalia Qumsieh, and the founder of the Balasan Initiative in the West Bank. And she shared with me—and by extension our growing network of United Church activists—her organization’s commitment to universal human rights, Palestinian sovereignty and mutual liberation for all peoples, all races and all faiths. She carefully explained for me her community’s devotion to the strange, fertile and storied lands between the Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan River, and she described in her own words the catastrophic violence unfolding not only in Gaza but in West Bank villages not so far away. She returned again and again, Dalia did, to the urgency of global solidarity. And she pulled a tear from her eye as she showed me a picture of her 9 year-old son who, she said, might never hike the hills she hiked as a child, or harvest the olives in her family’s fields, or even glimpse the Mediterranean itself (let alone put his little toes in its ancient waters).
And then she added a word, “UNLESS,” just a single word at first, “UNLESS,” but a word that first caught my attention and then made me wonder if Dalia might be something like a prophet, a visionary given to the world for such a moment as this. “Unless we come to recognize in one another,” she said, “the fullness of our humanity and the urgency of coexistence.” Unless we come to recognize in one another the fullness of our humanity and the urgency of coexistence. In other words, she said, Palestinian Arabs cannot be fully and delightfully Palestinian without their Jewish neighbors and their wellbeing; and Palestinian Jews cannot be fully and delightfully Jewish without their Arab neighbors and their wellbeing. The two peoples are fully and forever dependent on one another—for the thriving of their families, for the rich expression of their spiritual traditions, for the flourishing of peace and justice in their land. Apartheid will never work, she said. The militarized separation of peoples based on religion or ethnicity will never work, she said. Peace simply doesn’t work that way. Justice doesn’t work that way. Gladness doesn’t arrive that way.
And then Dalia shared a story, a memory, a very personal but strangely universal one. She told me about her maternal grandmother, a woman she loved as much as life itself, an Arab woman, a Christian Palestinian who raised a large family in the West Bank not far from the office where we met. She told me that her grandmother talked often about a closeknit circle of mothers, matriarchs, who raised their families together in those early days of the 20th century, long before the war that established the State of Israel, long before apartheid walls and refugee camps and genocidal attacks in Gaza.
Dalia told me that her grandmother remembered many afternoons at the park, that closeknit circle of mothers sitting on benches sharing oranges and apricots, bouncing infants in their laps, while their older children played ball in the field. They were Jewish mothers and Arab mothers; Christian mothers and Muslim mothers—bound in friendship by their devotion to their village and their affection for one another’s families. Their diversity, a gift, a strength; not a threat, not a danger. Her grandmother recalled that, in those days, a Muslim mother might be summoned away for afternoon prayers or an appointment of another kind. And so loyal were these women to one another and to one another’s children, that inevitably that same mother (that Muslim woman) would leave behind an infant, safe in the arms of a Jewish friend. And more than once, the Jewish friend would breastfeed the Muslim child in her neighbor’s absence. Or a Jewish mother might dash off to take supper to ailing elder; and in her place, a Muslim or Christian friend would breastfeed her child, caring for the little one as if it was her very own. Because, in a way, in a very real and human way, it was.
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4.
There were so many inspiring moments in yesterday’s concert, right here in this space. And every one of them, in some way, sparked by David Ervin’s creativity and passion. But there was one, in particular, that reminded me of all that the church can be. And it was subtle, perhaps, but not so subtle.
During an ensemble performance of a piece David calls “Beacon Hill”—a jazz composition he wrote decades ago—my eye was drawn to his rhythm section. The rhythm section that at first seemed tucked away in what I think of as the ‘southwest corner’ of the room. There was Malachi over there, and Catherine on some kind of percussion, and our good friend Randy Armstrong, and I believe Gwyneth Crossman was over there too. And they were having an absolute ball. Totally immersed in the moment. Moving and grooving and smiling and shaking away to David’s tune. And they were, as we all were, fully invested in David’s vision, captivated by the celebration and a community on fire with love. The four of them: moving and grooving and shaking away. And loving it! And I don’t have to tell you, my friends: that kind of joy is catchy. Really, really catchy!
And I guess what I want to say this morning is that that too is justice: that that too is the kind of justice conceived in collaborative joy, awakened in glad partnership; that that too is the kind of justice that anoints us all with the oil of gladness and blesses an entire community with the mantle of praise. What David’s concert revealed here is an entire congregation plugged in—an entire congregation engaged—an entire congregation delighted by the gifts and graces of one man, that have over time become the gifts and graces of a whole community. Justice and praise, as Isaiah says, dance hand in hand. Justice and praise dance hand in hand. David called his concert, “Resonance.” I might have called it: “Justice and Praise!”
So, my friends, I hope you’ll watch for that kind of justice in the days and weeks again. For it is indeed our calling! Joyful justice. Exuberant hope. Collaborative conviction. Watch for it this afternoon as you deliver boxes and boxes of food, all this food, to Cornucopia down the street, knowing that it is holy communion for the children of God, a sign of heartfelt care and compassion, and our intention that all share in creation’s glory. And then watch for it again next week as we celebrate 20 years as an Open and Affirming Congregation. Watch for it as Margo and Tabitha are baptized in the midst of that celebration, bathed in love and prayer, and surrounded by a community that has made good on the promise it made two decades ago. You will see, I think, in all these things, and in our life together, that justice and praise dance hand in hand.
And so let the oil of gladness run free. And let the whole creation be glad!
Amen and Ashe.
