Sermon: Isaiah
43.16-21
Makasan Presbyterian
Church; March 17, 2013
*Pound pulpit*
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The sound of a hammer nailing the lid shut to the rough box, the simple plywood box lowered into the freshly dug grave, filled with the casket, which encases this person we love. The lid in place, one of the pallbearers jumps down into the grave, on top of that rough box, and pulls the hammer out to nail down the lid, sealing the box around the casket. He climbs out of that grave and the rest of the pallbearers begin to shovel dirt onto the rough box.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound of each shovelful of dirt thrown down onto the lid of the freshly nailed rough box. The rest of us stand and watch as the pallbearers shovel down the pile of dirt to fill up this tomb and cover the casket. The mound is eventually smoothed out and the flowers are placed on this new pile of dirt.
I am always entranced by the burial process here. We stand on the edge of a grave, dug hours before, and watch this whole process, knowing that at the end, we turn our backs on this mound and walk away. The person in the ground will not join us for frybread and potato salad at the funeral meal. Nor will he make new memories with us tomorrow, or the next day. Instead, we buried this person who we love. With each nail going into that rough box, the finality of this death strikes us to the core of who we are.
And as we turn our backs to return to our vehicles, I often find myself covered in the dirt and dust of this whole event. See out here, the dust comes up in clouds and seems to move through the prairies in waves, crashing against the side of buildings and covered our faces with the fine, gritty powder of the earth.
Each time I try to brush this dirt off my pants and wipe the dust out of my eyes, I’m reminded of the Ash Wednesday words: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You were once dust and to dust you shall return. Standing on the edge of a grave is a time when I truly understand these words. I started as dust, was formed by God and will return to dust, just as I was reminded at the beginning of Lent.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The sound of a hammer nailing the lid shut to the rough box, the simple plywood box lowered into the freshly dug grave, filled with the casket, which encases this person we love. The lid in place, one of the pallbearers jumps down into the grave, on top of that rough box, and pulls the hammer out to nail down the lid, sealing the box around the casket. He climbs out of that grave and the rest of the pallbearers begin to shovel dirt onto the rough box.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound of each shovelful of dirt thrown down onto the lid of the freshly nailed rough box. The rest of us stand and watch as the pallbearers shovel down the pile of dirt to fill up this tomb and cover the casket. The mound is eventually smoothed out and the flowers are placed on this new pile of dirt.
I am always entranced by the burial process here. We stand on the edge of a grave, dug hours before, and watch this whole process, knowing that at the end, we turn our backs on this mound and walk away. The person in the ground will not join us for frybread and potato salad at the funeral meal. Nor will he make new memories with us tomorrow, or the next day. Instead, we buried this person who we love. With each nail going into that rough box, the finality of this death strikes us to the core of who we are.
And as we turn our backs to return to our vehicles, I often find myself covered in the dirt and dust of this whole event. See out here, the dust comes up in clouds and seems to move through the prairies in waves, crashing against the side of buildings and covered our faces with the fine, gritty powder of the earth.
Each time I try to brush this dirt off my pants and wipe the dust out of my eyes, I’m reminded of the Ash Wednesday words: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You were once dust and to dust you shall return. Standing on the edge of a grave is a time when I truly understand these words. I started as dust, was formed by God and will return to dust, just as I was reminded at the beginning of Lent.
Thus says the Lord,
the prophet Isaiah announces that God is about to say something, and that
something is pretty awesome. The prophet
goes on to describe God’s accolades, God’s resume. This, the God who makes a way in the sea, a
path in the mighty waters, the one who destroyed the Egyptian army chasing
after you Israelites as you fled from slavery, this God, this all-powerful God
is about to say something, so listen up!
“I am about to do a new thing.” As if God’s great acts weren’t already enough, God’s got something else planned, so forget about the past. God says, “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”
Standing on the edge of the grave, we experience the dry, dustiness of theSouth Dakota
prairies. The ancient Palestine ,
much like modern Palestine
and the desert around us here, is incredibly dry. And God says that rivers are going to appear
out of nowhere.
In The Message translation of this passage, it describes that God will make rivers in theBadlands . Drive up the road a few feet and you’re in
the Badlands .
When you drive out to Georgine’s house, you see the rocky dirt on either
side of the road and the dried up riverbeds.
I haven’t lived here that long, but I don’t hold my breath waiting for
rivers to appear in this dry dust.
There is nothing growing out there no water, no life, other than Georgine and her dogs, and the vast miles of dust.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You were once dust and to dust you shall return.
We began Lent with these words, being marked with the dust of a cross on our foreheads. And just as we walked out of those Ash Wednesday services, feeling the gritty reminder of our mortality on our foreheads, so we walk away from the fresh mounds, with the dust clinging to our clothes and stinging our eyes.
When those nails go into the rough box, when we think about the finality of death, we may resign ourselves to hopelessness. Life has ended, as we know it, and here we stand, covered in the muck of life and death with nothing new.
“I am about to do a new thing.” As if God’s great acts weren’t already enough, God’s got something else planned, so forget about the past. God says, “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”
Standing on the edge of the grave, we experience the dry, dustiness of the
In The Message translation of this passage, it describes that God will make rivers in the
There is nothing growing out there no water, no life, other than Georgine and her dogs, and the vast miles of dust.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You were once dust and to dust you shall return.
We began Lent with these words, being marked with the dust of a cross on our foreheads. And just as we walked out of those Ash Wednesday services, feeling the gritty reminder of our mortality on our foreheads, so we walk away from the fresh mounds, with the dust clinging to our clothes and stinging our eyes.
When those nails go into the rough box, when we think about the finality of death, we may resign ourselves to hopelessness. Life has ended, as we know it, and here we stand, covered in the muck of life and death with nothing new.
But God, the God who carves a path through the mighty waters and tramples down the chariots and armies of oppressors, is about to do something new! Don’t remember just the old stuff that’s been done, but wait on the edge of your seat for the newness.
Sealed by the cross of dust on our foreheads, we live into the Easter promise of hope and new life. Jesus Christ was placed on a cross.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Nails were pounded into his wrists and his ankles to seal off any hope of leaving that cross. Christ wasn’t getting off the cross alive. He wasn’t going to join the disciples in the funeral meal, following this gruesome death. Instead, he was removed and placed in a tomb, separated and isolated from his family and friends, who thought that there was nothing left to look for. They turned their backs and walked away from their loved one, our loved one, dead and gone.
Be present and wait
for this new thing that I’m about to do, thus says the Lord. I can destroy armies and put rivers in the Badlands , and you know what else? I can rise from the dead, blasting open the
tomb, the rocks, the rough box, the casket, the hopelessness that clings to our
dusty clothes. God destroys this bad by
raising into new life and giving us the Easter joy, not just in two weeks, but
every day.
God tells us not to
cling to the past, to the death, to the desperation and sadness, but to brace
ourselves for the Easter morning celebration, when our faces are washed clean
and our clothes are like the new, clean linens, left in the tomb after Jesus
resurrected from the dead. God promises
us this new life after death because of Jesus’s own sacrifice for us, for being
on the cross under those nails, the same nails that seal off us from the bodies
of our loved ones.
And while we don’t know what this looks like for us after death, after our loved ones walk away, we know that life with God means that God can do the impossible—rivers in the badlands. We don’t cling to the past then, but Isaiah calls us to be present and to prepare for what God is about to do, this new thing. And this new thing will be even MORE glorious than the first time God led the people out of exile, out of the desert, out of the dry, parched land. God places rivers in the dust storms and hope in each one of us, through Christ’s death and resurrection. Thanks be to God.
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