Isaiah 50:1-11 · Israel’s Sin and the Servant’s Obedience
Profile Of A Savior
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Sermon
by David J. Kalas
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In the century and a half that cameras have been around, pho­tographers have done us the great favor of capturing moments. Previously, artists could endeavor to recreate great moments on canvas, in wood, or in stone. Photography, however, enables us to capture the actual instant, and to show us certain individuals at significant and telling moments.

In 1945, Alfred Eisenstaedt photographed the celebration of VJ Day in Times Square in New York City. With his camera, he captured the sight of a sailor embracing and kissing a nurse there. The faces are not recognizable, but the passion and the exuberance are. That picture has ever since symbolized the moment and the occasion.

A few months earlier, Joe Rosenthal photographed perhaps the only picture from 1945 that is more famous than Eisenstaedt's "The Kiss." On February 23 of that year, he captured the moment when five Marines were raising the flag of the United States on Iwo Jima. The portrait of that instant was so compelling that it became both the inspiration and the model for the United States Marine Corps War Memorial near ArlingtonCemetery.

Nearly two decades later, photographer George Tames arrived at the White House to take an official photograph of President John F. Kennedy. When he entered the Oval Office, he found President Kennedy standing, facing away from him, stooped over his desk. The from-behind, black-and-white silhouette of a contemplative Kennedy against the Oval Office window makes a poignant me­mento of the man.

We are indebted to the photographers through the years whose eye and whose timing have caught and preserved for us significant moments in history. And, at a somewhat different level, we are similarly indebted to the Old Testament prophet Isaiah.

Isaiah did not have a camera. Still, he gives us a dramatic and personal portrait of an individual and a moment.

The irony is that Isaiah was at such a distance from his subject — over 700 years away, in fact — and that he may not have recog­nized fully just what was he was portraying. That is often the case with inspired prophecy, of course. We sense it in Psalm 22, in Isaiah 53, and in Zechariah 9.

Likewise, we wonder if the ancient biblical authors could have possibly recognized the picture that their dots — spotless lambs and scapegoats, high priests and blood sacrifices, a serpent on a pole and a son carrying up a hill the wood on which he would be sacrificed — would one day connect to make.

We find this particular portrait in chapter 50 of the Old Testa­ment prophet Isaiah. Far ahead of its time, we discover that this portrait is actually more like a film clip — a moving and talking picture. And in it, we hear the subject talk about himself and his situation.

The first thing we discover is that the subject of the portrait is a teacher. "The Lord God has given me the tongue of a teacher," he reports. He is a teacher with a strong sense of divine giftedness.

That detail makes all the difference, of course. For as soon as we recognize that what we are and what we have comes from God, then the orientation of our lives changes. Career becomes voca­tion, and activity becomes stewardship. If what I have is wholly mine, then I suppose I may do with it as I choose. But if what I have has been given to me by someone else — specifically, by God — then there may be a purpose beyond my own personal agenda. I presume that he gave me what he did for a reason, and I must use what he gave me to fulfill that divine will.

The divinely gifted teacher in our portrait has a sense of that purpose: "that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word." What an unexpected and lovely mission statement. We surely know from personal experience the dramatic difference that a word can make. There is the word that deflates and discourages, the word that belittles or condemns. On the other hand, we have known the word that blesses and encourages, the word that refreshes and re­vives. For all of our culture's devaluation of words, they remain a surprisingly potent force. And the subject of this portrait under­stands that he has been gifted with a certain kind of a tongue, and that that tongue was meant to bless and edify, not to curse and destroy.

"Morning by morning," he continues, "he wakens — wakens my ear to listen as those who are taught" (v. 9). We begin to sense the intimacy between this man and his God. It's a close and daily relationship. We sense, too, the sweetness of his spirit. For not only does he see that the Lord has given him a teacher's tongue, but he has also given him a student's ear. His tongue has a sweet and gentle purpose, and he maintains the humility to listen and to learn.

Then, quite suddenly, the lovely tone of the portrait is inter­rupted by a discordant note. "The Lord God has opened my ear, and I was not rebellious," he continues. "I did not turn backward. I gave my back to those who struck me, and my cheeks to those who pulled out the beard; I did not hide my face from insult and spit­ting" (vv. 5-6).

What a strange disconnect. For all of the sweetness and humil­ity of this man, we discover that he is the object of great opposi­tion. No, more than mere opposition: violence and cruelty. It is a grim scene, indeed, that seems to include being whipped on the back and struck on the face. His antagonists mock him and spit at him. He appears to be alone against a crowd — ganged up on by a mob that is out to get him.

Yet he does not seem to be a victim, does he? There is a kind of serenity in his report, as though the turn of events, which surprises us in our reading, does not come as a surprise to him. It's as though he saw them coming down the road, yet he "did not turn back­ward." He did not endeavor to escape either, but rather surren­dered himself willingly to the beating and abuse. And all of this reads like a function of his obedience to God, for he says that he "was not rebellious (and) did not turn backward."

The source of his serenity comes next. "The Lord God helps me," he says. "Therefore I have not been disgraced; therefore I have set my face like flint, and I know that I shall not be put to shame; he who vindicates me is near" (vv. 7-8a). In keeping with the subject's dependence upon God, we see that he is at peace in the face of trouble and suffering because of his confidence in God. Interestingly, though, his expectation is not so much that God will protect him as that God will vindicate him.

Those are quite different things, of course. To be protected is to be kept safe from trouble. To be vindicated, on the other hand, suggests some justice and recompense after the trouble. The sub­ject does not expect to be spared so much as delivered.

Consequently, his attitude seems to be, "Bring it on." "Who will contend with me?" he asks fearlessly. "Let us stand up together. Who are my adversaries? Let them confront me. It is the Lord God who helps me; who will declare me guilty?" (vv. 8b-9a).

That's how Isaiah's portrait concludes. It is a powerful picture of a godly man: a man whose own spirit and purpose are entirely admirable, and who faces undeserved opposition and suffering with faith and confidence in his God.

One detail in the portrait helps us identify the backdrop of the picture: the context of the man and the moment. "I have set my face like flint," he says along the way. We recognize that feature, for eight centuries later the gospel writer uses almost precisely the same language to describe Jesus.

The watershed moment in the gospel comes near the middle of Luke 9. Jesus was alone with his disciples in the northern country when he asked them two questions. First, he asked who the crowds said that he was. Then, as a personal follow-up, Jesus asked who they — his followers themselves — said that he was. It was at that crucial moment that Simon Peter stepped forward to offer his great answer: the Messiah of God (Luke 9:20).

Jesus affirms Peter's answer and confirms his identity. Then, in the next breath, he goes on to explain just what that messiahship will mean, and its startling news. Specifically, Jesus explains to his disciples that he would suffer greatly, be rejected by the leaders of the people, and be put to death (9:21-22).

That occasion marked the first time that Jesus predicted the suffering and death that awaited him in Jerusalem. From that mo­ment on, all of the words and actions begin to move and point toward Jerusalem.

In the very next scene, we witness Jesus' transfiguration. Moses and Elijah appear with him on the mountain. More than that, they talk with Jesus there. Luke does us the great favor of reporting the subject of their conversation. They "were speaking of his depar­ture, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem."

Finally, just a few verses later in the same chapter, Luke re­ports this detail: "When the days drew near for him to be taken up, he set his face to go to Jerusalem" (9:51).

Jesus on his way to Jerusalem — which is to say, Jesus on his way to his passion and death — that is the moment that Isaiah captured in his portrait. He knows what is ahead, and yet he sets his face with determination to encounter, to endure, and to over­come all that awaits him.

Congregational minister and scholar, Samuel Ralph Harlow, put the portrait in poetry: "We marvel at the purpose that held thee to thy course while ever on the hilltop before thee loomed the cross; thy steadfast face set forward where love and duty shown, while we betray so quickly and leave thee there alone."[1]

We owe a great debt to those photographers who have cap­tured significant moments for us. And here we have before us one of the most significant moments of all: the look of Jesus on the way to the cross. In this instance, Isaiah has the kind of high-powered lens available only through the Holy Spirit. Isaiah is at a dis­tance, but he allows us to see Jesus up close. In that picture of that man in that moment, we see the profile of a Savior. Amen.


1. "O Young And Fearless Prophet," words by S. Ralph Harlow, 1931. In the public domain.

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