Is 1:1, 10-20
12 August 2007
“Avert Your Eyes”
The first time I went to New York City, I was met by a friend at Penn Station. I had taken the commuter trains from Philadelphia. That was when I found out that the train station is below Madison Square Garden. We covered a lot of ground that day. We were downtown, going to Wall Street, Greenwich Village, and Battery Park.
We were all over midtown, going to Macy’s to see Santa (this was just before Christmas), the ice skaters at Rockefeller Center, and we visited the UN building. Across the street, there was a group protesting Serb attacks in Bosnia (NATO hadn’t yet entered the war). We went to Times Square and to Grand Central Station.
It was when we cut through the southern end of Central Park that he said something that surprised me. He told me that if I saw some guys picking a fight with somebody, I should look away. I guess it surprised me because I considered him to be a strong guy—strong spiritually, as well as physically. Maybe it was good advice. As it turned out, I really didn’t see anyone starting any trouble, so I wasn’t put to the test.
I couldn’t help thinking, though, what if I were the poor guy getting attacked? What if I were relying on us to intervene? What if we had played the role of those who pretend that nothing is going on—people who avert their eyes, people who look the other way?
To be honest, it’s a role we play all the time. I know I play it far too often. There’s a lady I’ve noticed walking on Third Street and on Hallock Street. Even in warm weather, even hot weather, she’s dressed in a winter coat. She looks different; she’s the kind of person we’re “supposed” to avoid.
A few weeks ago, as I was walking Duncan, he noticed her and went right up to her. She was very kind to him (and to me), and I wondered why I hadn’t bothered to speak to her before. I’m ashamed to say that I had probably made some pre-judgments concerning her. Maybe I thought she would respond in some crazy fashion, or that she would ask me for money—as if that is such a horrible thing!
No, what our society tells us to do is to avert our eyes.
In our Old Testament reading, Isaiah is speaking about—and speaking to—people in his society who avert their eyes. They pretend not to notice certain things. Isaiah lives at the same time as Hosea and Amos: the eighth century B.C., but there is a key difference. He addresses the people of Judea and Jerusalem, not those up in Israel.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear that Judean justice is much better than Israelite justice—at least, not according to the prophet. Notice how he speaks to them: “Hear the word of the Lord, you rulers of Sodom! Listen to the teaching of our God, you people of Gomorrah!” (v. 10). Nice.
Of the neighboring cities destroyed in Genesis 19, Sodom is the more infamous of the two. Why does Isaiah address the rulers and the people of his own country this way? When we think about Sodom, what usually goes with it? Perhaps, sexual perversion? Is that the accusation Isaiah presents to his fellow Judeans?
That doesn’t appear to be a really strong theme in his writing. Although, in what might be deemed paying homage to the prophet Hosea, Isaiah comments about Jerusalem in verse 21. “How the faithful city has become a whore! [I did mention last week that that’s Hosea’s favorite word!] She that was full of justice, righteousness lodged in her—but now murderers!”
Maybe some light can be shed by the comments of another prophet, Ezekiel, who lives almost two centuries later. “This was the guilt of…Sodom: she and her daughters had pride, excess of food, and prosperous ease, but did not aid the poor and needy” (16:49). It appears that we’ve become fixated on the sexual crime of Sodom, while ignoring all the other bad stuff that was going on. That seems to be Isaiah’s point, as well.
Last Sunday, I said that Hosea tends to focus on corruption in religion, while Amos highlights social and political misconduct. Not that both aren’t fair game for those two prophets, but Isaiah really makes the case.
Right after saying, “Hear the word of the Lord,” we get this: “What to me is the multitude of your sacrifices?…I have had enough of burnt offerings of rams and the fat of fed beasts; I do not delight in the blood of bulls, or of lambs, or of goats” (v. 11). Remember, the bringing of sacrificial animals is the central part of worship in the temple. The Mosaic law has detailed descriptions of how the rituals should be performed.
But it gets even worse. Listen to verse 12: “When you come to appear before me, who asked this from your hand? Trample my courts no more.” One can only imagine the looks on his hearer’s faces as Isaiah is saying this stuff. How can he chew us out for worshipping in such fine style? What an outrage—to say don’t “trample” the temple courts! Is he insane?
Why would Isaiah make such apparently irrational statements? Is there something about the worship that God finds offensive? Or does the problem instead lie with the worshippers?
Well, what else does the Lord say on the matter? “When you stretch out your hands, I will hide my eyes from you; even though you make many prayers, I will not listen; your hands are full of blood” (v. 15). In my opinion, that verse alone sums up the entire passage.
“When you stretch out your hands, I will hide my eyes from you.” This time, it’s God who’s averting the eyes, the one who’s pretending not to notice. Does this mean that God literally cannot see or hear the people? Does God have a body—a face that can be turned away? This is the language of prayer; this is the language of worship.
What are the people doing to get this kind of response? “Your hands are full of blood.” What could that possibly mean? What is the remedy? The message continues, “Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your doings from before my eyes; cease to do evil” (v. 16).
And how, pray tell, is that accomplished? “[L]earn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow” (v. 17).
A moment ago, I asked if the problem is with the worship or with the worshippers. Actually, it’s both. It’s impossible to worship the God of all, the God of Jesus Christ, without it making a difference. I’m not talking about going to church or just going through the motions. Millions of people do that every week, with no real change in their lives. But if there’s a desire to meet God, things will happen.
The prophet delivers God’s promise: “though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be like snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool. If you are willing and obedient, you shall eat the good of the land” (vv. 18-19).
It’s not about choosing between prayer and social justice. It’s not about choosing between personal holiness and political holiness. It’s not about choosing between witnessing to your neighbor and witnessing to power. They all go together. What’s my basis for saying this? Look at Isaiah. Look at his life, and look at his words. And look at Jesus. Look at his life, and look at his words.
We avert our eyes from what God is doing in our midst. We don’t give God the glory. But maybe I should qualify my language. I should say that we tend to avert our eyes. We often don’t give God the glory. And in case you hadn’t noticed, I include myself in that category. Yet, there are some blessed ones who always seem to notice the action of God, who in fact give God the glory.
When I talk about not averting our eyes, I’m not thinking of the scenario I laid out at the beginning of my sermon. I’m not talking about jumping into a gang fight. However, on the other hand…maybe I am!
Do we avert our eyes from people who are being besieged? Do we turn away from those who are struggling with their demons? That could be a lot of things: addictions, dysfunctions, trials of faith, whatever. Do we pretend not to notice those who are losing their souls?
When I say “losing their souls,” I’m not thinking of eternal damnation, drowning forever in a lake of fire. I’m thinking of people who are floundering in life: right here, right now. This applies to people at all income levels. There’s not any one “look” to it. I imagine all of us can think of at least one person in that category, if not many. And if nobody comes to mind, that itself might be a problem. Maybe the face in the mirror would be a candidate—at least, part of the time.
When we avert our eyes from people, what is it we’re saying, if even unconsciously? Are we saying that God isn’t able to accomplish in them the change we experience—or would like to experience? Are we saying that we don’t want God to change them? Maybe we like having enemies; maybe we like being able to say, “those other people.” Maybe we don’t want enemies to become friends.
When we avert our eyes, are we saying that God only changes those who are good enough or smart enough? As Henri Nouwen puts it, “The question is not: How many people take you seriously? How much are you going to accomplish? Can you show some results? But: Are you in love with Jesus?”[1]
Are you in love with Jesus? Am I in love with Jesus? I am, but not nearly enough. I feel like the man in Mark 9, whose epileptic son is healed by Jesus. “Immediately the father of the child cried out, ‘I believe; help my unbelief!’” (v. 24).
God says, “If you are willing and obedient.” This means active participation on our part. It means making ourselves vulnerable before God and expecting God to make the difference. It means not averting our eyes—not pretending that nothing has happened, or is happening, or will happen. It means giving God the glory.