There’s a cartoon which has been on the air since 1989, The Simpsons. Maybe you’ve heard of it? If not (I guess it’s somehow possible), here’s a quick look at the Simpson family. The father is Homer, an overweight, bald, not-very-intelligent fellow who just happens to be a safety inspector at the nuclear power plant. He loves beer and donuts, and his signature expression of alarm is “D’oh!”
His wife is Marge, a stay-at-home mom noted for a beehive style of blue hair. Their son is Bart, a ten-year-old whose name, it’s been observed, is a fitting anagram for “brat.” Lisa, their older daughter, is a socially conscious eight-year-old dreamer, artist, and saxophone player. Then there’s little Maggie, who never speaks and usually has a pacifier stuck in her mouth.
There’s one episode in particular I want to mention, “Homer the Heretic.” In Mark Pinksy’s book, The Gospel According to the Simpsons, this is one of the episodes he focuses on.
On a bitterly cold Sunday morning, while the Simpsons are getting ready for church, Homer splits his pants and decides to stay at home. So while the rest of the family deals with ice and snow, Homer takes a long, hot shower. As it turns out, the church furnace is broken, so the congregation is shivering while the pastor, Rev. Lovejoy, preaches about the fires of hell, an image that brings a smile to Bart’s face.
By the time the service is over, the doors to the church have frozen shut. So while Marge and the kids are stuck in a frigid building, Homer’s in a warm house, dancing in his underwear, watching a football game, and using the waffle iron to cook his own fattening recipes.
Finally, when the family gets home, icy and irritated, Homer concludes that he’s possibly had the best day of his life, so it must be a sign that he should never go to church again. Homer defends his reasoning to Marge by saying, “What if we picked the wrong religion? Every week we’re just making God madder and madder.” In the end, Homer does return to church, assuming his usual posture on the front row, snoring during Rev. Lovejoy’s sermon.
I picked that episode because, aside from its being hilarious, was Homer’s conclusion regarding God’s mounting anger. There is the feeling that God can get really ticked off.
I want to include this theme as part of the sermon because the lectionary reading of Isaiah 12 omits verse 1. (I again trot out my usual complaint about, let’s say, uncomfortable verses being left out. We can see them—they’re right there—so why not deal with them?)
Here’s what is considered uncomfortable or troublesome: “You will say in that day: I will give thanks to you, O Lord, for though you were angry with me, your anger turned away, and you comforted me.” Though you were angry with me, your anger turned away.
Here’s what might be considered an uncomfortable or troublesome question. Has anyone ever felt like God was mad at you? Or maybe at least irritated? Or maybe at least disappointed? Perhaps anything we might think of as negative?
I will confess a bias in not believing that a God who is the definition of love itself could feel anger at us, even the desire to destroy us, the “very good” creation, as Genesis describes us (1:31). I can accept God feeling sadness, feeling urgency, relentlessly pursuing us as “the hound of heaven.” Still, I will admit it is a bit difficult to explain away terms like “the wrath of God,” which appears in both the Old and New Testaments.
I’m going to hurl some stuff out, which is a probably a combination of reasons and excuses. I know there will be some of that stuff you do not agree with, to a greater or lesser extent. (Frankly, I would be a bit disappointed—actually, more than a bit—if all of you agreed with everything I say. Still, I don’t think we’re in danger of that! And by the way, I find it quite distasteful when people tell you what to think.)
I want to say that belief in the anger, the wrath, of God is one point along a spectrum of a growing awareness in human development, in human consciousness.
I want to say we should be mindful of ages past when we felt like we needed to offer sacrifices to a deity that was mad at us—or at least one we had to appease to guarantee a fruitful harvest or peace from our enemies.
I want to say that we have projected parts of our internal makeup that we hate, fear, or are embarrassed about. Some people call it our “shadow side.” It’s almost like a God we create in our own image.
I want to say that, and more, but I also hear what Richard Nysse says about “the dark side of God.” And he’s hardly alone in warning about the danger in too easily dismissing or explaining away the qualities of God that give us trouble. To be honest, I would be lying if I said I don’t feel conflicted about the positions I just outlined. (Are we evolving or de-evolving?)
Nysse says Isaiah and the other prophets “were able to let the hard questions linger in the air until God answered. ‘Will you keep silent, and punish us so severely?’ Quickly shutting down that question is likely to provide little more than cheap grace.” He goes further, saying we must “tremble a bit when [we] speak the gospel.”
Maybe that’s the point. I want to say that God’s wrath is not like our wrath. When God withdraws, when God turns away, we experience that as pain almost too much to bear. As the psalmist says, “By your favor, O Lord, you had established me as a strong mountain; you hid your face; I was dismayed” (30:7).
So Isaiah trembles, but he is saved from his trembling: “though you were angry with me, your anger turned away, and you comforted me.” “You comforted me.” That serves as a bridge to the rest of the psalm. This actually is a psalm, even though it’s not in the book of Psalms. Another one is Habakkuk 3.
The word for “comfort” (נׇחַם, nacham) has the root meaning of “sigh” or “breathe strongly.” So it follows that “one allows a person who has a severe spiritual or external burden to breathe again, thus removing what has caused him [or her] distress.” The prophet has felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest, but now… …he can breathe. (I just called it a bridge, but it’s hard to move on from anything if you can’t catch your breath!)
Okay, we’re crossing the bridge, but what’s on the other side? Verse 2: “Surely God is my salvation; I will trust, and will not be afraid, for the Lord God is my strength and my might; he has become my salvation.” That seems fitting for a guy named Isaiah, whose name means “Yahweh is salvation,” or “Yahweh has saved.” That’s not a bad name to have!
From where does this salvation come? How can it be found? Verse 3 is the heart of the psalm. “With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation.” I’ll come back to this, but what are the people to do in response? Are they supposed to come together and say, “Let’s keep quiet about this. There’s not enough to go around!”? No, they’re called to shout it out, to go tell it on the mountain.
Verses 4 to 6 call them to “Give thanks to the Lord… make known his deeds… proclaim… Sing praises to the Lord… let this be known in all the earth… Shout aloud and sing for joy, O royal Zion, for great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel.” They can’t sit on this—and neither can we.
There was a festival among the Jews, the Water-Drawing Festival, which pointed to verse 3. Very briefly, here’s what would happen: “The priests would go down to the pool of Siloam in the City of David (just south of where the Western Wall is today) and they would fill a golden vessel with the water there. They would go up to the temple, through the Water Gate, accompanied by the sound of the shofar, and then they would pour the water so that it flowed over the altar, along with wine from another bowl. This would begin the prayers for rain in earnest, and there was much rejoicing at this ceremony.”
It was said, “Anyone who has not seen the rejoicing at the place of the water-drawing has never seen rejoicing.” You ain’t seen nothin’ yet! It must have been quite a party!
And it seems appropriate. “With joy you will draw water,” not because you have to in order to stay alive. You’re not drawing water because someone has commanded you to do so. You’re definitely not drawing water so that you can sell it and make money off it!
This is a rich image—drawing water from a life-giving well. Here are just a couple of examples elsewhere in the scriptures. In Jeremiah 2, the prophet says that “my people have committed two evils: they have forsaken me, the fountain of living water, and dug out cisterns for themselves, cracked cisterns that can hold no water” (v. 13).
In the New Testament, in the gospel of John, we see more about it. In chapter 4, Jesus encounters the Samaritan woman at the well. He says to her about the well, “‘Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life’” (vv. 13-14).
In John 7, something happens at the Water-Drawing Festival we just looked at: something unexpected, something offensive that has some people wanting to arrest Jesus. “On the last day of the festival, the great day, while Jesus was standing there, he cried out, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink. As the scripture has said, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water’” (vv. 37-38).
With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation.
I don’t think I’m reading too much into it to say drinking water from those wells can be seen as drinking in the Spirit—or as breathing in the Spirit, to go back to the words of the prophet.
I mentioned my reluctance, my unwillingness, to believe in a God of anger, in a God of hatred, even though we see it splashed like blood throughout much of the Bible. Again, you need not feel the way I do. But perhaps we can at least acknowledge times of torment, of suffering, of grief. “God, why are you punishing me? What did I do wrong?” I’ve actually heard the question uttered, “God, why do you hate me?”
At the intellectual level, we might say, “I really don’t believe that.” But it can be there deep within our psyche, rumbling around like a monster in the basement!
Yahweh is indeed salvation. In the eyes of his foes, he becomes the monster to be slain on the cross. His risen life fills us now and satisfies our thirst. As the priests poured the water on the altar, so we pour out ourselves, so that the river of the Spirit continues to flow.
Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.
 Mark Pinsky, The Gospel According to the Simpsons (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 18.
 Richard Nysse, “The Dark Side of God: Considerations for Preaching and Teaching,” Word and World 17:4 (Fall 1997)
 Nysse, 442.
 יְשַׁעְיׇה, yesha`yah