Who exactly was Isaiah?

As I get ready to read through Isaiah in 6 months, this question needs to be asked. Or perhaps our would be: Who exactlyactly were the Isaiahs? Because this book is more complicated than we might think.

One of the problems we face in answering questions like this is that the Bible isn't like a modern book that has publisher's blurb. You don't get a handy little paragraph on the back cover saying something like "Isaiah lives in Jerusalem with his wife, two sons and a daughter. When he is not busy working in the Temple or writing his prophecies, he enjoys stamp collecting, drinking real ale and paragliding. But not necessarily at the same time."

No, we get none of that. All we can do is guess, from the clues in the words themselves. Because there is nothing else to go on.

So it seems clear that Isaiah was a Temple insider. A priest maybe, or a Levite. Or someone associated with the royal court, perhaps a historian or official recorder. Maybe he wrote some of the official history that we have in the books of Samuel and Kings. There are sections of his book that are identical to the historical passages, either included as direct quotes or reportage, or because Isaiah was actually drafting the official accounts.

And then something really weird happens. Between chapter 39 and 40, there is a time slip. Decades seem to have gone by, and suddenly we are talking about a very different situation. No longer are the Israelites at home in Jerusalem, suddenly the battles are over, their enemies have won and they are in exile.

If this is the same prophet speaking, then either he is very very old, or else he wrote a whole load of prophecies that had absolutely nothing to do with the times he lived in, and wouldn't have made much sense to him, but were just right for the future.

Or perhaps he was a time traveller.

Or - perhaps there were two of him. Or even three. Because there is another time slip later in the book, less well defined.

We'll think about these questions more when we get to the passages in question.

Just don't expect it to be a simple journey. There will be more questions than answers. But that's OK. Questions are good. They open us out to new possibilities. Answers are less good - they close down possibilities, and make us live in a world of black and white, right and wrong.

Back to the Bible

Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Ashkelon...

I want to whisper it quietly because I'm not sure if it will last, but I'm going to try to return to a daily Bible reading and to blog about it.

 I've been meaning to read Isaiah day by day, and I think if I do it now then I'll be finishing at around Christmas time. Isaiah is a wonderful book to read at Christmas, with the rich and fulfilling promises of a Messiah and new hope in the midst of a people's suffering and shame.

So journey with me if you'd like to. We will be entering a confused and uncertain part of Israel's history, a time when their national identity was under threat like never before: when powerful forces conspired against them.

What sort of deal could they strike with the powerful Empires around them?Could they rely on any sort of special relationship to give them security? What did it mean to believe in a God who had lead them to victory in the past, when victories were no longer coming?

Topical? Of course. The links between the Bible and the present day are seldom hard to find.

Sat down at my computer this afternoon and this splurged out.

Palm Sunday

Donkeys, palm leaves, coats on the ground, crowds of supporters and detractors, big city, small people, peasant revolution, truth versus power, love against profit, immoveable object meets irresistible force, empires clash, and in the middle of it all a man ambles into a city on a humble beast of burden and looks at all he sees and has tears in his eyes because no one truly recognises who he is but he knows them all intimately and understands their deepest needs and in less than a week will carry every single one of their burdens individually on his back and drop them all into the deepest darkest pit and fall exhausted on top of them himself with sweat and bruises and blood only to be buried alive for three dark days.

And we will celebrate this by bleating “Hosanna” in embarrassed voices outside our church, because we’re Anglican and British and really don’t want to give offence.

The earth will shiver and convulse and finally crack and give up its dead in a blaze of morning glory and the Broken One will stride out with a smile like the sun and will scatter petals of surprised delight on his mourning friends whose eyes will be on stalks at the impossible things they are seeing and whose sobs will turn to gulps of laughter and his opponents who thought he was a danger and wanted to keep the peace by killing him will be shocked to the core and confounded by the tidal wave of new belief and hope in uneducated disciples telling this story to amazed ears everywhere.

And we will have an easter egg hunt for the children and try not to mention the embarrassing argument about the National Trust, because we really do want to be welcoming to people of all faiths and none. Yes we do – no irony intended.

And God will smile at the Anglicans doing their best, and turn his attention back to the Sarin fumes in Syria and the dust settling on the Columbian mudslides and the coughing outrage of the Panamanian parliamentarian rebels and the poker-faced machinations of Putin and Trump.

And in forty days, will he pour out again great waves of his transforming spirit, to give damp Anglicans courage and hopeless Syrians fresh air to breathe and victims of tragedy and injustice a chance to hope and will he distract powerful men (always men!) from their concentration on the games they play in secret against each other and put into their hearts the wild longing to do things a different way?

Will he?

Will anyone ask him to?

Will you pray with me, that Jesus will not come into Jerusalem this Palm Sunday without you and me in his wake, to march with him in his cause, to watch with him in his agony, to weep together at the price he paid, to laugh, impossibly, that this story was not ending but only beginning and then be part of the spreading wave that circles and re-circles the world?

This year, I want to be swept off my feet by the story of Easter, swirled along by a wave that transports me to somewhere new, taken beyond myself by a Power that I cannot comprehend but which comprehends and apprehends me.

Please?

Trying to preach on Mothering Sunday, after a terrorist attack

This week our country has been rocked by the actions of Khalid Masood, driving at speed down the pavement over Westminster bridge, killing and injuring dozens, running into the grounds of the Palace of Westminster, before being confronted by the unarmed PC Keith Palmer, whom he killed with a knife before being shot himself.

Two every day things, a car and a knife, have been used to make widows and orphans this week.

But for me and probably for many of us, the thing that has stood out has been the extraordinary reactions of ordinary people.

From the tube messages, that for years have gone beyond grim announcements of service delays and cancellations, to ironic commentaries on London life,

 to the expressions of solidarity poured out on Twitter, to an MP – a politician, that most mistrusted breed of people – trying desperately to save PC Palmer’s life.

People have been good this week. They have shown that within us all there is a reservoir of kindness and generosity that us buttoned up Brits seldom show.

And in the candles in Trafalgar Square, and in the embrace of Muslim and Christian leaders, I see something that I want to thank God for. Because I believe that every good and perfect gift comes down from above, from the Father of lights, in whom there is no shifting shadows. Whether it’s the kindness of a stranger or the love of a mother, those things that nourish our souls more than anything else, are God’s gift.

So we heard 1 Corinthians 13 this morning, very appropriate for Mothering Sunday. But if you read it in the light of Wednesday in Westminster, how does it sound?

Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous or boastful or proud or rude. It does not demand its own way. It is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged. It does not rejoice about injustice but rejoices whenever the truth wins out. Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.

Keeps no record of wrongs? Can we do this?

 Yes we can. We can rejoice, not at injustice, but whenever the truth wins out. We need never give up, never lose faith, we can endure through every circumstance, not because our love is enough – it isn’t – but because God’s love stands behind it.

God’s love ensures that we can go on presenting our credit card of love at every opportunity, and God will make good the debt. We can go on pouring out love and goodness, and the well will never run dry.

Can a mother forget her nursing child? Can she feel no love for the child she has borne? Maybe she can. But even if that were possible, I would not forget you, God says.

So today we say thank you, Lord God. Thank you Jesus for the blood you shed, for the battle you won. Standing in its victory we sing salvation’s song.

An enforced break

I'll be taking a break from daily posts for a little while. My father has fallen and broken his hip, so I will be occupied looking after him to a certain extent.

If you are the praying sort, prayers for Steve Sharp and his wife Marie would be greatly appreciated.

Luke 17:20-37:

In Old testament times, people used to talk a lot about "the Day of the Lord." They looked forward to it as the time when God would right all wrongs, when his people would no longer be threatened by foreign powers, and would get the recognition they deserved. After all, they were his chosen ones.

But the prophets began to say that the Day of the Lord wouldn't be a good day, it would be a terrible day. When God came, he wouldn't vindicate his people, he would condemn them for their wickedness.

After the terrible events of the exile, the remnant of God's people were chastened. They determined that never again would they fail to keep the law, and groups like the Pharisees came to the fore, who were meticulous in observing every detail of God's law. They began to hope again, for a coming Messiah who would sweep away the foreigners and give Israel back their birthright.

Perhaps this helps us see why the pharisees couldn't leave Jesus alone. He ticked many of their boxes as they waited for the Messiah. And his talk of the coming Kingdom of God sounded very similar to that old Day of the Lord stuff.

So they ask him. And get a dusty reply, like the prophets of old. Don't look forward to the coming of the kingdom. You won't enjoy it. It's not a day for the likes of you, who are hypocrites, who think you're so great, but are missing the point with your law keeping and your stuffy hypocritical righteousness.

And to the disciples he says, don't try and do a countdown. You can't predict when this day will land. It will come so suddenly that no one will be ready for it.

But it's coming. The vultures are gathering. The carrion birds smell a feast.

Luke 17:11-19:

Why does familiarity breed contempt? Why can't we keep love and gratitude going? Why do they just wither and turn sour as the years go by?

These gloomy reflections are prompted by reading the story of a bunch of lepers, living on the borders between Galilee and Samaria. 9 of them were Jews, one was a Samaritan. They were more united by their suffering than divided by their ethnicity.

But they weren't united in gratitude. When Jesus heals the whole bunch of them, the Jews all skip off without a care in the world. Only the Samaritan falls to his knees and pours out his thanks.

But it's the Jews who have got God. It's the Jews who look down their noses at the half-caste Samaritans, and despise them for their faint-hearted religion. It's the Jews who are the inheritors of all the wonderful promises of God, from Abraham onwards.

So why can't they say thank you? Why has familiarity bred contempt? Why is this sour, bitter-minded saying so depressingly true?

Has no one returned to give glory to God except this foreigner?