Isaiah 43:14-28 · God’s Mercy and Israel’s Unfaithfulness
Heisman In The Hudson
Isaiah 43:16-21
Sermon
by David J. Kalas
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In December of every year, the Downtown Athletic Club in New York City awards the coveted Heisman Trophy. Voted on by over 800 media members, the Heisman is awarded to the most out­standing college football player during that season. Past recipients have included such notables as Roger Staubach, Marcus Allen, and Barry Sanders. It is a great honor, and it represents the broad and non-partisan recognition of a player's outstanding season.

In the case of this particular young man, let us say that he has just completed a record-breaking campaign. He is a quarterback, and he has led his team to an undefeated record. They are the odds-on favorites to win the national championship. He has passed for more yards, more completions, and more touchdowns than any other college quarterback. Indeed, many observers have credited him with the greatest single-season performance by any player in college football history.

Typically, several different eligible candidates are invited to New York City for the award ceremony, and there is more or less suspense about which one of them will be awarded the Heisman. This year, however, there is no suspense, at all. Even the other three players who have made the trip to New York for the occasion are under no delusions: It will be his trophy and probably by unani­mous vote.

Given all of that, now let us imagine this scene following the Heisman ceremony.

The honored young man is chauffeured in a limousine from the site of the ceremony to a television studio for the first of many interviews. On the way, he looks out the window of the limousine and notices that they are traveling alongside the Hudson River. "Stop the car," he calls out to the driver. When the car is stopped, the football player emerges from the backseat, Heisman in hand, and proceeds to walk over to the bank of the river. Then, with his famed throwing arm, he tosses the Heisman well into the river, where it promptly sinks out of sight.

"What in the world did you do that for?" asks the bewildered driver as the football player gets back into the car.

"Because I want everyone to forget what I've done," he says, with surprising serenity. "I don't want anyone to think about or talk about this past football season."

"Why?" exclaims the driver. "It was one of the most amazing individual performances by any football player ever!"

"Yes," concedes the young man, "but I'm going to do even more and even better next year."

It is an unimaginable scene. It is the job applicant, who tears up the resume that everyone fawns over, saying, "You ain't seen nothing yet." It is the much-recruited high school senior, who wants to disown his sterling GPA and board scores, confident that his achievements in college will eclipse them. And it is the God of Israel, who says, "Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing" (vv. 18-19).

The setting for this unimaginable word from the Lord is the era of one of the great empires of the late Old Testament period. Perhaps the generation of the Assyrian threat or of the Babylonian exile.

The Jews of that day were a victimized lot. Too weak to fend for themselves, they needed constantly to cast their lots with neigh­boring nations, hoping to stay afloat by holding onto someone else's driftwood. Perhaps the Arameans could stave off the Assyrian on­slaught. Perhaps the Egyptians could intercept the Babylonians. If only the Edomites had not been so duplicitous.

Long gone were the conquering days of Joshua, the heroism of Samson, the strong reign of David, and the golden age of Solomon. Now their kings were not collecting tribute from others put paying ransom to keep their thrones. Little by little the palace and the temple were stripped of their treasures, and little by little the people were stripped of their dignity. Finally, during the Babylonian pe­riod, the people saw their king blinded and hauled off in chains; they saw many of their fellow citizens and family members taken captive; and ultimately they saw their capital city and the house of their God destroyed by invading pagans.

What are people to do in the midst of such misery? Where do they turn in such a crisis?

Well, when the present is painful, we human beings typically look in two directions. We look to the past, when it's fond. And we look to the future, when it's hopeful.

For the tormented people of Judah, it was hard to imagine a very hopeful future. All the trend lines worked against them. But they did have a fond past. A wonderful past! The people of God enjoyed a celebrated history of the Lord's heroism in their deliver­ance from Egypt, for example. At that earlier time, when they were weak and oppressed, the Lord bared his holy arm, defeated their enemies, and established his people in freedom and peace. Much of their law, their ritual, their hymnody, and their national testi­mony dated back to that exodus.

Now, as the Lord speaks to this later generation of Jews, he recalls those former days — those miracles and that deliverance. He identifies himself with those events: The Lord "who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters, who brings out chariot and horse, army and warrior; they lie down, they cannot rise, they are extinguished, quenched like a wick" (vv. 16-17). These are all clearly references to the exodus experience in the generation of Moses, some 500 or 600 years earlier. Specifically, they recall the final nail in Egypt's coffin when the Lord parted the Red Sea for his people to cross over, only to close the waters in on the chasing chariots of Pharaoh.

God reminds them of what he has done in the past, and that seems to be a useful and encouraging thing. After all, might not the miracles of the past engender faith in the present and hope for the future? Surely one of the recurring themes of Moses and the law, of the worship liturgy found in psalms, and of the prescribed holy day celebrations was to encourage the people to remember the past.

If they would just recall what God had said and done in the past, that would inform their faith and guide their future. The great risk to be guarded against was that future generations would forget what God had done in the past. Then they would become easy prey for every sort of sin and temptation, pride and ingratitude, idolatry and doubt.

Then comes the surprising moment when the quarterback throws the trophy into the river. God, who had commanded his people to remember and who had built reminders into their daily lives and annual rituals, now tells them to forget. "Do not remem­ber the former things," he says, "or consider the things of old." Just as the congregation rises to sing, "O God, Our Help In Ages Past," the Lord interrupts. "Stop the music!" he insists. "I want you to forget about the past, and I want you to stop thinking about what I've done for you in the past."

It's unthinkable advice. The past is precious to us. Recalling the past — and, specifically, recalling what God has done for us in the past — brings tears to our eyes. It's our history, and it's our testimony.

Ask an adolescent what his favorite song is, and it will likely be a current hit, a relatively new song. But ask anyone over the age of forty what his favorite song is, and he will likely choose some song from years and years before — a song that represents another time and place. He'll likely choose a blast from the past that evokes sweet memories, nostalgia, and gratitude.

For men and women of faith, that natural human nostalgia has an additional layer: the sweetness of miles traveled and years lived with God. My favorite songs are songs about him and songs that remind me of times and experiences with him. Could it possibly be that he is telling me to forget them? To stop singing them?

"Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old," he says, for "I am about to do a new thing." That's good news. For as unsettling as the instruction to forget may be, the promise of something new is certainly welcome. Then comes the critical question: "Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?" (v. 19).

Ah, there's the rub. There is nothing wrong with the past, un­less it becomes an impediment to the future. There's nothing bad about the old until it blinds us to the new.

I have attended a lot of musical concerts through the years, including a few by singer/songwriters who have been around for a while. In those instances, I have noticed an interesting phenom­enon within the audience. They cheer loudest and longest for the old songs, while they are comparatively impatient with the artist's newer stuff.

Is it that the new songs are inferior? Not necessarily. It's just that we are so sentimentally attached to what is already familiar and loved that we are not interested in hearing anything new.

How frustrating that must be for a musician, and how frustrat­ing that must be for God.

We see the phenomenon manifested in the ministry of Jesus. The people around him were so tied to what they had seen and known in the past that they were unwilling or unable to recognize fully who and what Jesus was.

The people of Nazareth were so locked into Jesus' family of origin that they couldn't receive him as anything more than the ordinary son of Mary and Joseph. Herod was so burdened by the guilty memory of John the Baptist that he could only imagine that Jesus was John come back to haunt him. The speculating crowds could only guess that Jesus was Elijah, Jeremiah, or one of the prophets.

And the artist wanted to call out from on stage, "No, forget about the greatest hits from twenty years ago. Listen to this new song!"

I am very fond of the past. More than that, I am very grateful for the past, and for what God has done in the past. However, you and I serve a God who does not rest on his resume. You and I belong to a God who keeps writing new songs. And you and I follow a Lord who tosses the old trophies away, assuring us, "You ain't seen nothing yet!" Amen.

CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Sermons on the First Readings, by David J. Kalas